NEPA Vacation

I've been home for about six days now. It feels like it's been both longer and shorter than that, and I have a lot to say, and I think I'm in one of those moods where I'll actually be able to say the important things in important-sounding ways. We'll see about that, I suppose.
I want to start with some background information. The whole story of my existence is embarrassingly complicated, and although that sounds like a very hipster thing of me to say, I can't very well deny the complexities of this twenty-two year journey into myself. I don't remember a time when my father did not drink a large amount of alcohol every night. That's just the way life was for me, and there were nights without sleep in cars in parking lots in a nearby town. We'd wait for the sun rise to drive back home. We'd check to see if the lights were on. It might have been a school night.
Sometimes the fights would be verbal. They were loud and angry. And it could have been any one of us. I didn't know any better when I was younger. I didn't know when you weren't supposed to argue with a drunk person. The answer I've learned over the years is, of course, NEVER. Sometimes I tried to fight back, but it only made things worse. My brother would never back down. My mom would get between them or between us. Or maybe she'd be the target this time. And sometimes, people got hit. And I didn't think too much of it for the longest time. And I'd believe her when she would say that she was going to leave when we both went away. But now I know better.
I'm leading you down a different road than I thought I would be at this point. My intention is not to garner sympathy or anything of the sort. It's not to worry you at all. These are parts of my past that I acknowledge, still reluctantly, and that is perhaps because I know that no matter how much things change, there is always the potential that it will all come crashing back to this.
Another piece of the puzzle...I come out as trans. My brother has been in prison for over four years at this point. My mom is at her heaviest. My father is getting heavier, and it seems he's getting sicker. My life is an emotional mess. I'm on my way up. I'm on my way out of a lifetime of pain. I'm working through things I'd avoided for years. Meanwhile, things are getting worse for my parents in so many ways, and my coming out didn't do a lot to help. It might have been the breaking point, and the fights on the phone and in the car and almost every time we saw or spoke to one another almost killed me. And probably them too. But maybe that almost was just what needed to happen.
I'll bring you back to the present, where my mom has lost over 100 pounds. She lifts weights, does Zumba, goes to kickboxing. She buys clothes that she likes and has friends. She's happy. She's not just existing. She's living. And it is so amazing to see her like this. I hated to see her cry and torture herself about her weight. I hated watching her sink into depression from afar. I'm crying right now because I'm so proud of her. Because SHE is my inspiration, not some roid monster on the cover of a magazine. When I am feeling lazy or like I don't have to try as hard, I think of my mother and the drive she finally had to get out there and take command of her own body. And I cannot pretend that my coming out and my physical transformation had nothing to do with this. But I think the final straw was when I would no longer engage in the destructive and abusive conversations that were driving me into a state of almost constant helplessness and anxiety. I decided to let go. And we did not speak for 4 months, perhaps longer. And when I did let my family back in to my life, I did it slowly. Coming home this time around is coming full circle, allowing them back into my life fully and completely.
My mom took this time to really look at her own life and what she wanted from it. And every time I saw her, she had lost even more weight. I loved seeing how happy she was. I still do.
Where's the downside? Well, what about my father? My mom is going out more to work out, to be with friends, etc. She's not content to just stay up late with him while he drinks, to make him food at 2 or 3 in the morning just because he wants it. My dad is lonely. Craving social interaction or something that can be his substitute. (I don't think I ever remember my father having friends as long as I've been alive, and that actually doesn't seem to bother him. I suspect he is much like me in more ways than he realizes...)
So his drinking gets worse. And he's getting sick. And the situation almost explodes. I only found out after the fact that my father had atrial fibrillation. And that his heart is still not healthy. He wasn't breathing well and was swelling and couldn't move much. He finally saw the doctor in January. I don't know how, but he talked enough sense into him to get him to stop drinking. And he just did. He quit without hesitation. And he began to drop weight like crazy. He's lost about 60 pounds so far, and I suspect that he will lose a bit more because he also walks for a little over an hour every day. However...
I got some emails from him about a month ago or so. I knew they were composed when he was drunk. And then I got the apology messages the next day. I wrote to my mother. She was so upset. I know there are things about that night that she isn't telling me, but apparently it was at least verbally abusive enough to make her feel that way. He just drank almost a case out of nowhere the one night, and she had to deal with that. I wish I could have come back to get her away from it. But I could only be helpless. The talk went on for a little longer this time about separating. But in the back of my head, I knew it wasn't going to happen. She loves him, and he is a part of her life. I don't know if she would know what to do without him--without having someone need her like that. I kept worrying about this and thinking about it. But things eventually went back to normal, whatever that is.
I came home last weekend. He was drinking. That was his one night. My mother wanted me to stay in her room until he came to bed, just in case. I didn't have a problem with this. But she eventually left. He came in and thought I was her. He touched my shoulder and I jumped back in fear, and when he yelled at me, he still thought I was her. I immediately left the room, still in shock about what happened or what almost happened or whatever. I went downstairs to my room to try to sleep again or at least calm myself. But I was followed. He was still drunk, it was light outside, and I found myself in a position where I could not get away. I didn't want to talk about whatever he was saying. I didn't want to talk at all. I couldn't slow my head down enough to explain, but I do remember saying that I didn't want to talk at the time but that I would be happy to later. But he kept going. And he kept making accusations and just talking at me. Sometimes it got loud. And there were so many, and it was so random that I just couldn't handle it. I remember turning on my side and squeezing up against a wall as tightly as I could while he sat on the corner of my bed. And I know I was making some noises and banging my knees against the wall for almost two hours. It went on for almost two hours. I was in a serious meltdown, and my dad didn't understand that. And he was actually trying to make it worse it seemed. My mom knew that she needed to get me moving. She asked a direct question with a yes or no answer: "Do you want to go for a ride in the car?" I shook my head yes and fumbled around with my shoes, and twenty minutes later or so, I was mostly okay. I wasn't great, but I was okay. And I've been worrying.
It's a week later, and he chose tonight to drink. Today was a strange day for me in general. I've been pretty antisocial all day. I just couldn't get myself to talk to other people without discomfort or irritability. And I knew that that was a bad thing to combine with my father's drinking. So I came down here to my room to be by myself, which I needed anyway. I wanted to avoid a situation. I just don't feel like dealing with that stuff anymore. And it breaks my heart to know that there is now one night a week where my mother potentially has to deal with this shit again. And I won't be here to help. But it's not my life. It's not a choice that I can make for her. And I fear that she will never make that choice. It's still really early, and he may or may not "start something" tonight. That's always how it's been referred to around here. It's funny how things like this become normal.
I'm not really afraid of him. He's much more of a nuisance when drunk than anything, but there were occasions where things did get out of hand. And you never know when that is going to be. Drinking almost killed him in the first place too, and it baffles me that anyone would go back to what has essentially poisoned his body to the point of incapacitation once already.
I think I am most worried about my father messing up what my mother has going for her. I wonder what that says about me.
I want to make something clear, though. I don't hate my father. I actually really love him. He's the one who has been most accepting of the person I really am since coming out the first time. I really do believe he understands a good deal of what I've been trying to explain to him and show him in the past few years. He's seen my performance videos. He's asked questions about what spirit gum is used for and things like that. And he's happy for me when a show goes well. I've been getting closer to him over the past few years. I never really felt close to him when I was younger. I think I really did hate him. There are a lot of things I don't like about him, even now, but I understand him much better these days. He is a genuinely good person at heart, but he is not the same person when he is drunk. I'm sure that's why my mother has a hard time with all of this. I don't know if I can say much more about this right now.
I don't know how I feel about this next part yet. It's confusing to me because of the context. I do remember my father using my name during that two-hour meltdown. He called me Dylan. He talked about me as Dylan several times. And as much as I hated a lot of what he was saying, at least that came through. I'm still turning it over in his head. I keep wondering if he would have said it if he were sober. Maybe it's better not to question.

At the beginning of the week, I went to Zumba with my mom for the first time. Of course, I am the only boy in the room, and everyone is curious. The instructor knows my mother pretty well now, so she asks who I am. I introduce myself as Dylan, and my mother adds..."My son."
I wanted to cry right there. It was so simple. I mean, you could tell she was a bit uncomfortable. Well, I could. I don't think anyone else noticed in that tiny little interaction. But it made me so happy. I told her about it when we got home that night. I told her that that's all it really is. A few words are different. Our relationship is still the same. I would argue that it's even better now. Her response was mixed. But it is progress. "What else was I going to do?" followed by "I still think it's a mistake, but..."

The only people I've really talked to in person this whole time are my parents. It's been pretty weird. But on Tuesday, I will be seeing my ex-boyfriend from high school and the beginning half of college for the first time in about three or four years. We have a lot to talk about, obviously. I'm nervous. More nervous than I should be. I guess I also still wonder how he explains the whole my-ex-girlfriend-is-a-man thing. And I wonder what he thinks. And I'm also generally curious about what has been going on in his life because we were also best friends.

So much left to talk about. So much already talked about. So much left unsaid.

I talked with both of my parents separately about possibly going back to school for graphic design/advertising or something along those lines. My mother feels that my time at Pitt will have been wasted if I do that. I have two responses to that. First, the skills I have learned in college can be applied to anything that I do. I do not have to be working in the field I studied in undergrad for that to be true. And the most valuable things I have learned did not come from the classroom or a textbook. An education, though, is never wasted. Second, if I do go into a field or a job that I'm not happy doing day in and day out for the rest of my life, the REST OF MY LIFE will be wasted. My father agrees with me on this. I'm still thinking about it. I haven't made a decision yet. There are so many things that I could do, as I've said before. But I've always gotten a ridiculous amount of satisfaction out of completing projects. I love creating things. I feel very powerful after having done so, and I can work on these projects for hours upon hours without wanting to slit my throat. I don't feel drained after working for 3 or 4 hours on a design. That's definitely a plus. This is going to be hard. I'm not sure what to do.

I have a new boyfriend. And I'm so fucking excited about this. He likes to PLAY. He understands what it means to play, and he actually likes the weird things about me. We've been texting back and forth the entire time I've been away from Pittsburgh, and we made it official (on Facebook, of course, because it seems that's the only way anything is real anymore) the other day. I absolutely cannot wait to get back now. He gives me that feeling in my tummy. That lightness. The one where your entire body feels like its melting away. Like its diffusing. It's been so long since I've known that feeling.
I think that the moment I decided to let go of the elements of my past that continued to hurt me, I was able to feel again. Who knew it would take so long to say goodbye and really, really mean it? I guess you really have to know when to stop letting people and things hurt you. And that's not always easy, as I have found. There's a connection here with something I was talking about earlier, and I hope you understand it without my having to explain it.

There are no final words in that situation. The resolution is as simple as the choice not to engage. And I feel like this is where adulthood begins for me.