What number are you?

The Klein Sexual Orientation Grid differs from the Kinsey Scale in:

"that it focuses on the person’s sexual experiences and fantasies up to that time. So to develop and hope for a better understanding of an individual’s sexuality throughout their lives, the Klein scale investigates sexual experience and fantasies in three times: the present (the most recent 12 months), the past (up to 12 months ago) and the ideal (which is as close as one can get to intention and prediction of future behaviour)." -- via Wikipedia

Here's an online version of the test, to see where you fall on the grid.

I am buying this book

"...blind allegiance to the Republican Party has distorted the faith of politically active evangelicals, leading them to misguided positions on issues such as abortion and homosexuality.

"They have taken something that is lovely and redemptive and turned it into something that is ugly and retributive," Balmer says."

I believe I could sit down over a cuppa and have good conversation with this man about political issues and religion.

This comes as no surprise...

A strong-willed herald of causes against injustice, you passionately strive to right the wrongs around you.

Somebody has to save our skins!

I must be a bad blogger

Because I post so rarely. Sorry to the two of you who read this.

I think the problem with my blogging is that I want to have something witty or meaningful to say each time I post. I don't always have anything meaningful or witty to say. Lots of times it's just wonder at why life is the way it is. Maybe that's meaningful enough, I don't know.

My stepdaugher has been diagnosed with schizo-effective disorder. This is her fifth hospitalization in eight months. I think, there's nothing quite like mental illness to tear through the heart of a family.

I remember her as a 13 year-old girl, eating peanutbutter and marshmallow fluff sandwiches with me, watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. How we both thought Spike was delicious, and how we both couldn't believe he was older than her dad.

I remember her at 14, all dressed up for her first highschool dance. She asked me to do her hair and makeup. I was honored and so proud of her.

At 15, came her first suicide attempt. I remember how we were wracked with guilt and anguish; how could we have not seen this coming? I remembered my first suicide attempt at 13 and tried to open up to her about depression, about her changing family, about how much we supported her.

I remember her picking fights with me and her dad, at 17. I remember her telling me she hated me and that I wasn't part of her family. I was hurt, but I weathered it.

I remember at 18, doing her hair and nails for her graduation. I remember telling her how proud I was of her; I remember secretly hoping that she would make it through her Freshman year.

And now the schizophrenia component has blossomed in her mind.

My heart grieves for her.

I know that her life is not over, I know that she is intelligent. But she is not in school and has no health insurance. Getting medicaid isn't easy if you're not pregnant. I fear that she won't be able to get the right medications. She already wants to leave the hospital; there is going to be a hearing tomorrow regarding her status. Hopefully the judge will move to commit her. What will I tell her brother if she becomes one of those people, talking to themselves, hitting themselves, on the street? Why does our medical system fail us, so?

I Am...

[Props to Purple for sharing it and to Cold Poet. You may re-post as much as you please.]

I am the guy who came out to the entire school in his senior speech and got a standing ovation for his courage.

I am the girl who kisses her girlfriend on the sidewalk and laughs at those who glare.

We are the couple who planned and studied and got a damn good lawyer and BEAT the state that wanted to take our child away.

We are the ones who took martial arts classes and carry pepper spray and are just too dangerous to gay bash.

I am the transgender person who uses the bathroom that suits me, and demands that any complaining staff explain their complaint to my face in front of the entire restaurant -- and shares with my other trans friends which restaurants don't raise a stink.

I am the mother who told her lesbian daughter to invite her girlfriend over for dinner.

I am the father who punished his son for calling you a fag.

I am the preacher who told my congregation that love, not hate, is the definition of a true follower of God.

I am the girl who did not learn the meaning of "homosexual" until high school but never thought to question why two men might be kissing.

I am the woman who argues (quite loudly and vehemently) with the bigots who insist that you do not have the right to marry or raise children.

I am the girl kicked out of her home because I confided in my mother that I am a lesbian.

I am the prostitute working the streets because nobody will hire a transsexual woman.

I am the sister who holds her gay brother tight through the painful, tear-filled nights.

We are the parents who buried our daughter long before her time.

I am the man who died alone in the hospital because they would not let my partner of twenty-seven years into the room.

I am the foster child who wakes up with nightmares of being taken away from the two fathers who are the only loving family I have ever had. I wish they could adopt me.

I am one of the lucky ones, I guess. I survived the attack that left me in a coma for three weeks, and in another year I will probably be able to walk again.

I am not one of the lucky ones. I killed myself just weeks before graduating high school. It was simply too much to bear.

We are the couple who had the realtor hang up on us when she found out we wanted to rent a one-bedroom for two men.

I am the person who never knows which bathroom I should use if I want to avoid getting the management called on me.

I am the mother who is not allowed to even visit the children I bore, nursed, and raised. The court says I am an unfit mother because I now live with another woman.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who found the support system grow suddenly cold and distant when they found out my abusive partner is also a woman.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who has no support system to turn to because I am male.

I am the father who has never hugged his son because I grew up afraid to show affection to other men.

I am the home-economics teacher who always wanted to teach gym until someone told me that only lesbians do that.

I am the man who died when the paramedics stopped treating me as soon as they realized I was transsexual.

I am the person who feels guilty because I think I could be a much better person if I didn’t have to always deal with society hating me.

I am the man who stopped attending church, not because I don't believe, but because they closed their doors to my kind.

I am the person who has to hide what this world needs most, love

I am the person who believes that love should be all that matters.

I am making a difference. Hate will not win.

So, this is Christmas... and what have you done?

Watch this and think about what you can do with your money this holiday season, if you want it bad enough. I'll wager that the folks who read my blog probably don't have $150,000 to spend. But I bet we'll spend a fraction of that amount this season on gifts for our friends and loved ones.

I am choosing to spend my money here. There are vegetarian and vegan options, as well: look here, here and here.

May you have a blessed season, filled with light and love and goodwill toward the Earth and her children.

Peace.

Los Muertos Hablar

Ok, so I have neglected all of you again. Mea maxima culpa.

But, today was an interesting day and I want to share it all with you. I bitch about my town a lot. If you have ever been here, you know what I mean. The stench of enormous corporate dairy farms, the air you can see, oil refineries in the most inconvenient of places, that pesky valley fever...

However, I had a grand time exploring my town today. I was on the hunt for these little darlings. I have been too busy with emergency dental work and toddler birthday parties to do the actual sculpting myself. Sadly, no calaveras azucar for church tomorrow. BUT! I found a delightful Mexican bakery that made a goregeous pan de la muertos. I will snap a photo tomorrow and post it in the blog. I also got to have freshly fried churros. It's ok, you can smell my fingers.

In my travels today, I happened upon a story in a new ethnic/alternative weekly by a certain n.l. belardes. Without delving into areas that I don't usually explore on my blog, I am an acquaintance of this guy. But I didn't know about this guy. Poke around that site a bit! It's a fascinating and macabre telling about this town of mine. His is a novel based on grisly events that took place, here, in this dusty oil town of mine. Google this and you'll see what I mean.

This is indeed, a strange place.

Looking back

I promise, I haven't forgotten how to blog. :0)

There is so much to talk about though, I am going to break it up into sections, though, so please bear with me.

The Bipolar
My husband was formally diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder, two months ago. No more ruling out the diagnosis, it's the real deal. Which is both a relief and a terror, since his mania seems to be irresponsive to the depakote, so far.

I have begun attending National Alliance for the Mentally Ill meetings, for support. The people there have been wonderful. I am very thankful that a group like this exists for individuals who love people with chronic mental illness.

That said, I am emotionally and mentally exhausted. "Riding a rollercoaster" and "walking on eggshells" are two common turns of phrase associated with families whose loved ones include an individual with bipolar that's not under control. I am doing both.

And I still love him, terribly, even though his disorder hurts us all sometimes.

Which leads into the next segue...

The Strattera
I was diagnosed with ADHD when I was 19 years old. I was single, I was mostly ok, and could deal with the disorder. My life has gotten to the point now, ten years later, where I need to be able to function without the constant background noise and stress. I need to be able to focus on my son, myself and my relationships without (what had become) an herculean effort to concentrate.

A little over a week and a half ago, I saw the same psychiatrist who treats my husband and was given Strattera to try for a month. I spent the first week, blissed out on the utter quiet in my mind. For the first time in my memory, I felt truly relaxed. My brain hurts thinking about how much energy I spent on compensating for the ADHD. I have given myself a huge gift and the ones I love will benefit from it.

The Girlfriend
Amdist this tumult, I have met someone truly wonderful. She is beautiful, a good friend, is just as silly as I am and we connect. I am proud to say she's my girlfriend and am very glad this happened. (To stop any confusion before it starts, please read about polyamory.)

So that's that. Thanks for sticking around.

Peace