Sex/Drugs And disco
Life at this time consisted of important rituals and
concerns. The responsibility I had to my colleagues, peers, and fellow cohorts
was overwhelming. I needed a specific outfit to wear each night. Not having a
tremendous income it was taxing trying to come up with a fab outfit each and
every night. I needed something that could travel since I might not go home for
a few days. I needed something that would bring attention to my elongated
skeleton. I needed something that would get me drugs and get me laid. This was
a highly stressful position and I was grateful to the downers and the uppers to
help me through these trying times. There was a girl by the name of Taxi, see
‘Pink Ladies’, who was the queen, well queen of queens in NYC. She could make a
rope look like a fashion statement. She later hung herself which was
photographed and placed in Fashion Wear Weekly. I am kidding, but she could’ve.
She had the amazing talent of taking nothing and making it look like something.
In reality she had nothing but she definitely looked like she had everything. I
guess that was the point. It didn’t matter what you had, what you were, your
morals, values, education, or spirituality. None of that mattered in the
Discos. It just mattered what you looked like (this kind of reminds me of where
I live now in Los Angeles).
My responsibilities to life and my fellow hombres
was that I looked a certain way (I never looked the way I wanted anyway so I
guess I wasn’t a success). I needed
to be available sexually and I needed to take the right amount of substances so
that I could function e.g. dance the hustle, give good head, get laid, and make
it home and go back out the next evening. These were some trying times and at
eighteen years old I don’t think it was fair that I had to juggle so much
responsibility.
Suicide I
This first
suicide attempt is vague. I don’t remember what occurred that made me react so
impulsively. However, the things I do remember I will share with you. These
issues I will bring up are important for many reasons. They symbolize and
reinstate the power of addiction and how it plays out in a person’s life in
addition to how it directly affects the family system. These issues touch upon
my internal racism that one must work on, on a daily basis to heal from it as
well as to help others heal that are affected by its ignorance. This also
touches upon how societal transphobia plays out in one’s (a person of TS
experience) life and how as a society we have work to do.
My first suicide attempt took place in my dad’s
apartment in Midwood Brooklyn. I moved back to his house after running out of
my bat/bar mitzvah money. I think I spent all the money in six
months. I am not totally sure of the time frame. My dad had a one bedroom and I
was living in the living room. Or should I say existing, or taking up space in
that apartment. I used a lot of uppers. I snorted coke when people offered it
to me, and took tuinals often. I needed to control my emotions and these drugs
helped. You see, life on the streets, the death of my mom, my irresponsible
behaviors and actions to myself, my family, my inability to focus, my
transexual identity, the issues a youngster faces who is trans, and a world
full of misunderstanding, ignorance and hatred towards the trans experience led
me down this path. I am not a victim but at this point in my life I needed
direction. I needed therapy, support, guidance, and lots of loving. Drugs did
all that and more. That was the positive side effect of drugs. They kept me
going and they kept my overwhelming sadness dormant. However, sometimes the
drugs just didn’t work and this is when the suicide attempts would emerge.
I am telling
this part of my story for these reasons. My priority is that it might help the
reader who is depressed and does not see the light. Somehow I am hoping this
book gets into your hands and mind and you will see that there is ‘a light at
the end of the tunnel’. I aspire to see that your impulsivity does not have to
be exploited and you can ride the depression through. Exactly what I am trying
to do again in my life at the age of 43 and what I should’ve known at the ages
of 19, 23, 26, and many other times.
It was nighttime and I made a decision. I was going
to take all my pills because there was no hope. I knew I wanted to die a pretty
corpse so I made myself up. I put on my best bra and panties. I heard somewhere
that if one has injected silicone anywhere in their body that it would shift
when you die. So I put this bra on so that I would keep the new bozangas in
place. I wrote a note to my dad, my poor dad (how dare I do this to him again.
He had lived through this with his wife and now his youngest kid was going to
put him through this torture).
I told him I was sorry but my life was wrong. I couldn’t
get past what had happened to me with my mom, trans stuff, and my self-hate. I
didn’t realize it then but my depression had a lot to do with my drug intake
and how the drugs magnified everything.
I believe I
will die with a depressive personality but it is manageable if it is not
magnified by substances.
I wrote this note and left it next to my bed. I took
the pills with a glass of milk because milk is good for your bones. No you
asshole!
I took it because I didn’t want to throw up all
those pills. You ask, “What was she thinking?” Did I think I was going to die
before anyone found me? Was I screaming out for help? Did I need more attention
like the fainting spell at summer camp?
I did think I was going to die and I wanted to die.
I didn’t have the luxury of a car like my mom so I had to stay home (they found
my mom in her car in Seaview Park).
How selfish to leave the remains of me for my dad to
pick up!
In defense of me I think it had to do with the drugs
and the lifestyle, not just that I was totally self-centered and didn’t care
about my dad. I don’t think I thought it through. And I don’t think many people
who attempt suicide think it through. We just want the pain to end. We just
want it to stop.