MENTAL HEALTH Number 195 Fall 2023 $11.952RFD 195 Fall 2023 Issue 196 / Winter 2023 QUEER ICONONOGRAPHY/ICONS Submission Deadline: November 15, 2023 www.rfdmag.org/upload What symbols do we use to reference, reflect or find ourselves (and each other)? How do these change over time? When times are more open? When times are more secret? In imagery, in dress, in voice, as coded (or LOUD and obvious) symbols in our artistic expressions…. We’ve had the red ribbons of AIDS, pink triangle reclaimed from Nazis, pink shoe laces on Doc Martins of queer punks. That aunt who only wore pressed black pants and white shirts and lived with another school teacher who wore flowery flowing clothing; the uncle who was always ‘fashionable’ and sported paisley cravats…From ‘friends of Dorothy’ to Queer Nation Kiss-ins… This is an invitation to re-flect, re-call, and re-member; to dig into those shoe boxes of buttons & snapshots from high school (or perhaps do an impromptu dress up or story session with old friends). How does one use imagery to create and connect identities? Going forward how do we create and celebrate our ever-evolving identities, alliances, and differentiations with symbols, be they TikTok videos, bracelets or Instagram posts? How do we dig deep into personal stories and go beyond words. In these times where we have personal ‘brands’ and ‘create content’. As to Queer Icons—many of whom weren’t particularly queer themselves how do/did they enrich our journeys? Some of the old— Sylvester, Liberace, Harry Hay, Madonna— are easy to identify; but who are the new ones? Or do they even matter any more? The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian by Peter Paul Reubens, c. 1618. RFD 195 Fall 2023 1 RoundthebendFreakedoutDippy Vol 50 No 1 #195 Fall 2023 Between the Lines In this issue, we asked our readers to consider how we as LGBTQ+ people contend with the challenge of mental health and wellness in our lives and those around us. We have some wonderful stories of how simple acts of kindness, self-care, and how the effects of a trauma imprint on our lives. We also have poetry which at times delves playfully on the issue of mental health as well as more serious elegies about how our lives have been affected by depression, abuse, and facing our own wellbeing differing from the “typical.” RFD wants to appreciate each voice reflected on these pages as facing challenges in such a public way can be hard but also we hope a liberating act. For the folks who did not make it into the issue, we want you to know we read your word, saw the images you reflected and we appreciate you as well. We also have a review of Tom Daley’s book, Far Cry, that reflects on grief and loss and continued connection. We are pleased to announce that as this issue was laid out and put to press, a book that has been in the works since 2018 is finally coming to press. Michael Mason’s In the Blood of My Ink is now available from RFD Press (https://a.co/d/6J7uoHG). We would like to thank Billy Toth and Michael’s family as well as Charles Simpson for his amazing work making selections and writing an introduction to Michael’s amazing poetry. We also want to thank the multiple hands that helped shape the manu- script to print: Multiforme, Kwai and Matt. Meanwhile, in this world of consistent challenges facing the queer community, we pray everyone is safe, stays connected and organize to shape a better world. With loving hugs from a sunny late, summer in Vermont! —the RFD Collective2RFD 195 Fall 2023 RFD is a reader-written journal for gay people which focuses on coun- try living and encourages alterna- tive lifestyles. We foster community building and networking, explore the diverse expressions of our sexuality, care for the environment, Radical Faerie consciousness, and nature-centered spirituality, and share experiences of our lives. RFD is produced by volunteers. We welcome your participation. The business and general production are coordinated by a collective. Features and entire issues are pre- pared by different groups in various places. RFD (ISSN# 0149-709X) is published quarterly for $25 a year by RFD Press, PMB 329, 351 Pleasant St., Ste B, Northampton, MA 01060-3998. Postmaster: Send address changes to RFD Press, PMB 329, 351 Pleasant St., Ste B, Northampton, MA 01060-3998. Non-profit tax exempt #62- 1723644, a function of RFD Press, Inc., with office of registration at 231 Ten Penny Rd., Woodbury, TN 37190. RFD Cover Price: $11.95. A regular subscription is the least expensive way to receive RFD four times a year. First class mailed issues will be forwarded. Others will not. Send address changes to submissions@rfdmag.org or to our Northampton, MA address. Copy- right © RFD Press, Inc. The records required by Title 18 U.S.D. Section 2257 and associated with respect to this magazine (and all graphic material associated therewith on which this label appears) are kept by the custodian of records at the following location: RFD Press, 85 N Main St, Ste 200, White River Junction, VT 05001. Production Managing Editor: Bambi Gauthier Production Editor: Matt Bucy Submission Deadlines Winter–November 15, 2023 Spring–February 15, 2024 See inside covers for themes and specifics. For advertising, subscriptions, back issues and other information visit www.rfdmag.org. To read online visit www.issuu.com/rfmag . org. Visual Contributors Inside This Issue Artwork not directly associated with an article. Front Cover “in rainbows” by BlackBird. Back Cover Image by Désirée Jung BlackBird ........................Front Cover Irina Tall Novikova. ..........2, 5, 10, 13, 51, 57 Désirée Jung. ....................Back Cover, 19 Duncan Hilton. ............................21 Richard Vyse. ..............................47 Collage on paper by Irina Tall Novikova. RFD 195 Fall 2023 3 CONTENTS Undiagnosed, Untreated ..................Spriggan Radfae .......................4 Meeting Martha Lou: my partner in a very queer kind of psychotherapy ........Franklin Abbott .......................8 Celebrating My Journey ...................Mantis (of the Northwoods Tribe) ......11 Staying Human ...........................Glory Cumbow .......................12 The Practice of Erotic Well-Being: A Radical Way to Love .................Robert Barzan ........................14 How a College Bro Changed My Life ........David Monticalvo ....................18 Two Strikes ..............................Duncan Hilton .......................20 Five Trans Questions to Hurl Into a Dumpster Fire .........................J.D. Gevry ...........................23 My Gay Uncles ...........................Jenks Farmer .........................24 Tom Daley, Far Cry .......................Reviewed by Steven Riel ...............26 “Mr. Fredericks” ..........................Claude Chabot .......................29 Pink ....................................Andre Le Mont Wilson ................45 my marriage .............................Vaishnavi Kolluru ....................50 A Sort of Suicide .........................Ken Anderson ........................52 The Sacred Net ...........................D. Scott Humphries ...................53 At the Ocean’s Edge .......................Spriggan Radfae ......................54 In Love with Tigers .......................Spriggan Radfae ......................55 If I said “yes” more often, what would happen? .Bruce E Whitacre .....................56 Dod yn ôl at Fy Nghoed ...................O. Fawr ..............................58 The Universe Signals Us Forward ...........bb ..................................59 Tropical Depression ......................Steven Cordova ......................60 Untitled .................................Duncan Hilton .......................61 in the university of toronto law library ......Gwen Aube ..........................62 Pagoda ..................................Andre Le Mont Wilson ................634RFD 195 Fall 2023 Hello. I am a highly suicidal person. I frequently fantasize about being dead or dying, and several times a year I think about killing myself and may even make plans or attempts. Everybody feels grief and loss. We are all con- fronted by obstacles, fear and uncertainty in life, but somehow we press on through the most traumatiz- ing experiences. And perhaps we are helped by the assumption that those traumas are temporary or believe, as E. Lynn Harris wrote, And This Too Shall Pass. But what do you do if it doesn’t pass? What if every day is torment? Okay, maybe that sounds a bit histrionic. I mean, it can’t be all that bad. So here’s a quote from a person with a PhD, Marsha Linehan—she’s an authoritative source you can trust. She developed the current treatment for people with borderline personality disorder, and she shares the following in her memoir, Building A Life Worth Living (a book about how she developed dia- lectical behavioral therapy.) She’s told this story to clinicians to help them understand the experience of their suicidal patients: “The suicidal person is like someone trapped in a small room with high walls that are stark white. The room has no lights or windows. The room is hot and humid, and the boiling heat of the floor of hell is excruciatingly painful. The person searches for a door out to a life worth living, but cannot find it. Scratching and clawing on the walls do no good. Screaming and banging bring no help. Falling to the floor and trying to shut down and feel nothing gives no relief. Praying to God and all the saints one knows brings no salvation. The room is so painful that enduring it for even a moment longer appears impossible; any exit will do. The only door out the individual can find is the door of suicide. The urge to open it is great indeed.” Wow. That’s some pretty heavy stuff. I mean, I’d much rather watch some funny pet videos on YouTube or go for a walk outside than think about people suffering mental anguish. But then, it would be a form of unearned privilege to ignore that kind of pain or to disbelieve its exis- tence. So I honor the people that choose to confront it—the counselors, therapists, nurse practitioners and peer recovery specialists brave enough to try and help. *** A few years ago I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder...BPD. If you didn’t already know, BPD is a problematic phrase that has become entrenched in our cultural lexicon. I much prefer alternate terms like “traumatic attachment disorder.” But I’ll use BPD since many folks have already heard of it. Being diagnosed with BPD was, in itself, a long, convoluted journey. My counselors wouldn’t just pointedly share their thoughts and observa- tions about me because nobody wants to be told they have a cluster B personality disorder—there’s no cure. One of my counselors related a graduate school joke he’d heard, “How do you treat somebody with BPD? You refer them to another counselor.” But instead, I had two counselors that were patient and compassionate, and they helped me to eliminate all other diagnoses until I myself could decide on my own that, yes, I have BPD. They helped me educate myself about trauma. They encouraged me to develop emotional skills. For homework, I read Bessel van der Kolk’s seminal book about post-traumatic stress disorder The Body Keeps the Score (Brain, Mind, and Body in the Heal- ing of Trauma.) I also enrolled in a weekly group session, Peace of Mind, to learn some emotional regulation skills based on the skills originally devel- oped in dialectical behavioral therapy. I had never heard of dialectical behavioral therapy (DBT) before. I didn’t even know what “dialectic” meant. But I was curious and researched more about it. I learned that some folks were us- ing the emotional regulation skills incorporated in DBT to help patients with intellectual disabilities. Well, that didn’t describe me, so I questioned my counselor at the time, Gay Gibson, about it. She just remarked that emotional regulation skills are help- ful to everybody. She was right. And I didn’t need to be diagnosed with BPD to learn and use the skills in the Peace of Mind group sessions. But I had a curious experience in those weekly meetings: oddly, I felt like I belonged there. The other folks in the group—BIPOC, white, cis-hetero, trans and nonbinary—they all understood my expe- riences. When I talked about losing control of my emotions and struggling with impulse control, they Undiagnosed, Untreated by Spriggan Radfae RFD 195 Fall 2023 5 nodded in agreement. And when they spoke about lacking self-love or struggling to maintain friend- ships, I could relate. This was a first for me! Part of living my life as undiagnosed was that I constantly felt alienated and misunderstood by others. My emotional experiences just didn’t match up with those of my friends and family—and some of my friends didn’t even believe me (“you must be exaggerating…” “you’re white, so you just choose to be poor.”) It had been so frustrat- ing; but in the Peace of Mind group, people got me. A diagnosis, however, is a label, and in its own way it became confining. I went through months of struggle trying to understand and accept my diagnosis. Did it mean I was disabled? Should I file for disability assistance? Initially, I was ecstatic to learn that other people in the world were like me, but I was afraid that this new label would be used to define me and exclude me from society. It was. I had been convicted of a violent felony at twenty-three, so I was already a second-class citizen in America. I couldn’t vote or run for public office. I couldn’t own a firearm. I couldn’t emigrate to another country. I was told that whenever I moved to a new county or city, I should contact the local sheriff’s department. And I was denied housing, jobs, and even the ability to volunteer at a hospital or participate in organizations like Big Brothers Big Sisters because, in spite of my desire to help others, I was a legal “liability” in the presence of children and vulnerable adults. So after my diagnosis, when I looked at my revised, permanent medical record and saw the words “borderline personality disorder,” I became so afraid for my future. *** Living life as an untreated and undiagnosed person was especially difficult. In my twenties, I had lots of friends, co-workers, boyfriends and even family describe me as “crazy” or “intense.” It was al- ways a hurtful experience, and I started using those same words to describe myself—both as a warn- ing and as a way to reclaim my power. That’s right, fucker: I’m crazy. Don’t push me! But I didn’t want to be that way. I didn’t want to hurt my family and friends, and I was so ashamed of my destructive behavior. It was particularly difficult "Sirin" by Irina Tall Novikova. Wax crayons, paper.6RFD 195 Fall 2023 for my parents. They already had their hands full trying to accept my queer identity, and then to add my erratic emotional behavior to that... they truly suffered. They never knew when they might receive a phone call from some law enforcement agency. Had they been contacted by me? Did they know where I was? So after a suicide scare when I yelled at my mother over the phone, I decided it was best to hide the truth from them. They didn’t know how to help, and anyway, the truth just made them suffer anxiety and turmoil. But I had an existential crisis: I wanted to be loved and accepted as I was, yet telling peo- ple my truth frightened them; so I became profi- cient at concealing how bad my mental health really was. Linehan refers to that skill as “apparent competence.” Did that work? Nah. I still got fired from jobs and lost romantic partners as soon as I met them, but I kept telling myself it was better than the alternative: going back to a psychiatric hospital... or prison. Once was enough. I never wanted to go back to a hospital. And when I was arrested for armed robbery, I begged a police officer to shoot me. I even escaped my restraints thinking I might be shot… no such luck. That experience alone reveals the stark difference between arrests of white people and Black people in America. From time to time, I would receive short-term crisis counseling and start taking some form of mood-altering medication, but I resented it all: the pills with their side effects, the fruitless counseling and therapy, anxiety attacks at work and the endless list of people I had burned through and exhausted. I hated myself and the fact that I couldn’t function as well as other people. Plus, the added stress of hiding the truth and of suffering alone made my life untenable. Many Friday and Saturday evenings I would lie on the floor of my apartment crying and staring at the ceiling fan spinning above me. There was no point in seeking romantic relationships because I was unable to sustain them. I used to joke that there was a 10-step program for men that had dated me. So I clung stubbornly to the belief that if I just persisted long enough, I could eventually achieve some other dream in life like owning a home or having kids. But it never happened. In November of 2020, I finally faced the facts: after thirty-some years of trying, I had yet to fulfill a single dream in my life. Not one. And I could no longer pretend there were reasonable odds that I ever would. What was left for me to live for? I convinced myself that counseling was a waste of time. I was angry about how much time I had to spend in support groups and counseling just to show up as functional for everybody else, and I was ashamed by the amount of resources I consumed—time, money, medication and treat- ment—just to exist. Those were all resources I couldn’t afford. My subsequent coun- selor, Colin McEntee, tried to dissuade me from ending treatment. He bargained with me and proposed that I schedule an appointment with him in a few weeks, and offered that if I still felt the same, we could end our meetings. If I wanted to resume, he would be ready for me. Meanwhile, I was ready to die, and I truly felt there was nothing left to lose; so I had a releas- ing ritual to let go of everything I was clinging to for meaning in my life. I asked several friends and brothers from my support group to witness the event as I smashed and burned every one of my dreams symbolically in a fire (did I mention I am intense?) Gone: my dream of becoming a father, my dream of finding a husband and my dream of having my own home or some sense of housing security. That night I wept under the stars, yelled at God and railed at a cruel, indifferent universe. I thrashed on the ground and pounded my fists because physi- I asked several friends and brothers from my support group to witness the event as I smashed and burned every one of my dreams symbolically in a fire (did I mention I am intense?) Gone: my dream of becoming a father, my dream of finding a husband and my dream of having my own home or some sense of housing security. RFD 195 Fall 2023 7 cal pain was something I could tolerate. I knew from experience that self-inflicted pain dissipated in time, but there seemed to be no end to my emotional pain. You think I’m exaggerating? Here’s what Line- han has to say in her memoir: “I know what hell feels like, but even now I can’t find words to describe it. Every word that comes to mind is so utterly inadequate to describe how ter- rible hell is. Even saying it is terrible communicates nothing about the experience. When I reflect on my life, I often realize that there is no amount of hap- piness in the universe that could ever balance the searing, excruciating emotional pain I experienced those many years ago.” *** A few weeks later, I went back to Colin and said I was willing to give counseling another go. I ex- plained that since I had nothing left to lose, I might as well try acting in completely different ways from the past. I wasn’t going to hide my suffering any longer; why should I pretend I’m fine just to make other people feel comfortable? Fuck that: no more lies of convenience. “Did you find everything you were looking for at Wal-Mart today?” “NO!” “And how are you this afternoon, sir?” “I’m angry!” I know that those sales associates were just trying to fulfill a role of being helpful or friendly, but for my sanity I couldn’t tell them another lie. And what, I should apologize for having emotions? So my treatment resumed, and I needed it more than ever to help me process the changes I was cre- ating in my life. Nobody could convincingly promise me “it gets better” (an LGBTQ youth ad campaign) and nobody could assure me that in a year I would want to stay alive. I’ve always had an exit plan, but now I needed some sort of survival strategy that actually worked for people like me (hot tip: “Jesus loves you” doesn’t cut it.) That’s why I’m so grateful for DBT. It’s helped me tolerate the pain and stress of my everyday life and simultaneously empowered me to create some sort of life that feels like it’s worth living. Now, I keep a written list of things I enjoy about life. Most of the entries on that list are favorite foods, but some are experiential like feeling awe in nature or watching my cat purr as she kneads and suckles my blanket. And I really enjoy the sound and warmth of steam hissing from freshly-popped pop- corn kernels in a bowl. Also, the four years of weekly Peace of Mind meetings have paid off. Finally, I am able to use the skills I’ve learned to avert an emotional crisis on my own. Pinch me, I can hardly believe it. I’m making better decisions and am less prone to behaving in impulsive, destructive ways, and that has generated some much-needed self-trust. I now have the vocabulary to explain to people what makes me different, and I’m less concerned whether they believe me or not because I’ve grown my own self-awareness. Also, at fifty years of age, I was finally able to experience my first ever long-term relationship. My boyfriend, Dave, also had borderline traits— though I didn’t know that at first. So when I felt the time was right to tell him the truth about myself (I decided to avoid labels and instead related my symptoms: enduring, intense emotions; rejection sensitivity; poor impulse control), I was stunned to hear him say he felt the same. Of course I panicked, and I asked Colin if two people with BPD could even be in a relationship. My counselor thought for a mo- ment, and then carefully replied that yes, they could, if they were both receiving treatment. Dave wasn’t in treatment. It turns out it didn’t matter to me all that much. I enjoyed my relationship and the affection I experi- enced with him, but I also learned so much about myself in the space of just one year! Now, I know how to talk about my past trauma and my mental health with a partner. I know how to advocate for my needs and create safety plans, and I don’t feel a scrap of shame in saying, “I’m going to step away for a moment to take care of myself” even if it is the most inconvenient time to do so. I am happy with my hobbies and my friend- ships—they sustain me day to day. I have my writing and my artwork to express myself, and I can take comfort in knowing that something I’m proud to have created will actually outlive me. And I’ve spent so much time educating myself about BPD that I’ve decided to take some training to become a peer re- covery support specialist. I’ve always wanted to help people, but I’ve been so absorbed in attending to my own care that I’ve been largely ineffectual up til now. And the fact that I might earn a wage just sharing my life experiences and using what I’ve learned to help others? Gravy on top.Next >