Leaving My Refuge

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I am taking a break from packing up my Bronx apartment, to write down my thoughts. And to cry.

The need to vent my emotions is overpowering.  I do that, as easily as I open the windows, to let in some fresh air, and (hopefully) carry out on the breeze my pain and my sorrow.

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This small space was my refuge.

My first home alone in a new name, at the tail end of an old life.

IMG_0334In May, I moved here with such dreams that I might just one more time rise like the phoenix from the ashes… that’s what I always did back when people called me Don… but it was not to be, not this time.

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This is where I crashed: apartment 806 here in Kingsbridge.

This is the site of a disaster that even the NTSB would walk away from, heads down, saying: it was bound to happen and nothing could have prevented it.

I call that time: my downfall.

Six months…. it’s been six months since I moved here in hopes that moving to New York City might save my job, my career, my reputation, my life of risk and gambles.

Most people won’t tell you that gender dysphoria screws with you in ways that are hard to detect. It tears you out from the inside. Maybe not everybody goes through this; I didn’t last year. I guess it wasn’t my time, because everything about my original transition went so well! And then it ended, involuntarily, abruptly, frighteningly.

When I awoke from my delusion, I found myself trapped. So I made an escape plan, and I gambled one last time, resuming my transition in private and in the company of close friends and roommates, until I was ready to do so — quietly — at work.

But the gamble didn’t pay off.

A year of losses mounted: close friends died… I wound up in emergency rooms every month of this year, from January through June… I crashed a car (or two), and another one vanished… the lease on my room on the beach was terminated and before I could pack-up and leave, a flood struck the condo… the tabloids and gossip pages knocked me down another notch of disgrace… “friendships” ended… job opportunities turned into closed doors, unanswered calls and deleted emails.

Oh, right, and I tried to end my life. Twice. I was a failure at that, too.

And I am so glad I was! It is because of friends and God’s mercy and grace that I did survive.

This is where I survived all of that. This is where I spent the summer of my downfall.

I thought. I prayed. I cried — every night, for months. I wrote. I was plagued by nightmares. I prayed harder. I wrote more. And I begged, and help did come.

Four months into my downfall, right to the day it began… somebody hired me. Then I found a second job a few weeks later. FINALLY: something I accomplished, as me!

But when I did the math — which you all know I hate (because I’m bad at it) — I realized, an apartment like this is for someone who has the kind of job I can’t get.

Moving back home was what I wanted, but without drama, and without forcing a no-win scenario. I had learned from my downfall, that was not a risk worth taking.

I became something over the summer I had never been: pragmatic. Oh, sure, from time to time, I’ll still leap and expect a net to appear, and go where angels (and devils) fear to tread. But hey, I’m Irish, and we do that. Usually after a pint. Or two.

It was without even a sip of wine I realized I had to find a new refuge. And as God works Her or His miracles, I found one outside Atlanta. Thank you, Lord, for sending me my dear friend, Stacey, and for making it possible that I can help her, just as she helps me. By becoming roommates, we are helping each other.

A new life is underway; it is not a rebuilding. I am not bringing that old life with me to Marietta. A lot of it is going in the trash, and the rest is being given away or sold. I have never in my life moved anywhere without a job waiting… except once, when I was a year old and my parents moved from an apartment around the corner to my first house in Bellerose, Queens. Yes, I have been working since I was four years old (see my earlier blog entry HERE for that part of the story), and except for a few months here and there, I’ve never stopped. Even when we moved to Stewart Manor, Long Island, it was because my sister and I were earning enough to make that happen.

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My friend and longtime mentor Steve Majors asked me earlier this summer: have I considered that maybe instead of trying to be the breadwinner I have always been, that perhaps this is the time that I need to heal, to regroup and recover from all that’s happened in the past year? I confessed to him that with a confirmed diagnosis of PTSD, yes: I should. I so desperately wanted to. But I couldn’t. Three children and a spouse depended on me for support. And so, I kept knocking on those doors, in vain.

Now, here it is a few months later, and I see that God has once again provided the way for me to do just what Steve suggested. My part-time jobs will move along with me, and I pray I find peace in my new home.

II fly south November 1st. Me and all the birds.

As the song goes, the devil went down to Georgia… but my friends, they ain’t seen nothing like Dawn Ennis.

Keep in touch, and as Rick always said: “Be Good!”

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Rejection Dejection

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I found this online and found it to be helpful in processing my thoughts about a recent rejection:

“Viewing rejection as “you’re not good enough” will cause you to try to change in order to become “good enough” for that person or circumstance.

Seeing rejection as “it’s not right for you, but another person happened to recognize it first,” frees you to find something or someone who is right for you instead.

At the heart of this shift in thinking are four very important things:

1. LOVE yourself.

2. ACCEPT yourself.

3. DO YOUR BEST!

4. Have CONFIDENCE in the first three!

– Doe Zantamata

Click HERE for more insight and information.

The Journey of Our Lifetime

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Thirty years ago, I was a junior in college and I rented a car from the airport in Oakland, and after visiting San Francisco, I headed north. No destination in particular, I had no idea where I was going, and yet I didn’t feel lost at all.

I was out west for Columbus Day weekend, taking advantage of a still incredible bargain $99 flight on People Express — the airline where you paid after you boarded and the flight was already en route. It’s no wonder they went out of business.

I had no plans other than to enjoy myself and see what I could see. My drive north led me, inexplicably, to Point Reyes National Seashore, and its historic lighthouse.

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These pictures posted here are from the internet; I don’t have any pictures from that part of my trip, because I wasn’t there to take any. I just wanted to experience this place, and create memories for myself that have stood the test of time… and amnesia. When I reached Point Reyes near sunset, I knew I had traveled where I was supposed to be: my new, all-time and still-forever favorite place on Planet Earth.

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It was 16 years before I returned to California. I took my college sweetheart, now my wife, and our first-born there, to share with them what I had discovered. It wasn’t sunset, and it didn’t make any impression on an 18-month-old baby, but my beloved understood how special this was to me, and that was all that mattered. Now 14 years have elapsed and so much has changed in my life, I have made a promise to myself that I will return sometime in 2015. It’s time.

Why is Point Reyes so special? I don’t know. I have always felt a close connection to water, since my earliest days. Bodies of water, the sounds of waves, the vastness of an ocean in particular, calms my soul. Pretty funny for a kid who grew up so scared of water that I wouldn’t take a bath unless I could sit on a folded towel in the tub and didn’t learn to swim in a pool until I was eight.

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When you climb down the steep stairs to the lighthouse, and venture to the side where it faces the Pacific Ocean, you feel something like the character Kate Winslet played in James Cameron’s “Titanic,” Rose DeWitt, as Jack Dawson (Leonardo DiCaprio) held her aloft at the stem of the mighty ship.

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You look to your left, and to your right, and all around you, all you see is the magnificent Pacific Ocean. It is as if you are, indeed, king or queen of the world. I have never witnessed such a view before or since.

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Every day has the potential to bring you new opportunities as well as obstacles, and that can lead to new perspectives and new feelings.

Even a new outlook. That happened to me recently. I’m still processing the experience and I remain a little tingly, in a good way.

I believe that when you’ve found a special place or a special person, seized an opportunity or overcome an obstacle, real or imagined, I think it is good to take time to consider how you got there, how you accomplished that feat, and what lessons you might draw for the next step on your journey.

That’s where my head has been at today.

And tonight, I am reminded to never miss the chance to tell someone: “I love you,” “I’m sorry, or “I hope you can forgive me,” thinking that it can wait until tomorrow.

The reminder came to me from my old, dormant “Don” Facebook account, where every once in awhile I find a reason to re-activate it for a short time, like just now. And almost always, I stumble upon something unexpected.

There, I happened to notice something I hadn’t seen before tonight: Darryl duPont, a dear friend of mine, posted a beautiful and heartwarming comment on a post about the passing of my pal, Rick Regan, earlier this year.

It stunned me because just a few days later, this friend, too, lost his life, and I failed to acknowledge his kindness. Darryl and I had other conversations, of course, and I know he knew of my fondness for him. This observation struck me as a reminder, there isn’t always time to say what needs to be said, right then and there.

So, covering my bases: I love you all, and for those to whom I owe my apologies, I ask forgiveness, and I am sorry.

Looking forward to another day and more adventures tomorrow and all the days to follow on this journey!

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Our Lifeboat

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I am a cast away.
I am lost and have been for some time now.
Once upon a time, i shared a rocking lifeboat with you.
And then came a day when you told me I needed to get out.
I did so, but felt as it I were tossed out, because you chose to sail on without me, feeling as though I must be lost to you forever, rather than keep your vow to stay by my side and help me through whatever came our way.
You told me you had had enough of sharing that space and need your own.
You said you’d added up the days of sitting by side and decided when it was time for me to go.
And so, I struggled, but I let you know, I’ve never let go.
You only hung on in the one place you would not admit there was still a chance I might find my way back aboard.
And even as I hung on, you encouraged me to let go.
You behaved as if me hanging on was holding you back.
And yet I hung on, clinging, refusing to let go.
And you refused to move even an inch toward me to bring me back in.
I wanted to spend the rest of our lives in our lifeboat.
Sail the high seas with our family until we could sail no more.
I’ve come as far as I can without your help.
I need you to move toward me to get me back aboard.
I cannot do it myself. It takes two.
I wanted nothing more than to forget the choppy sea.
And yet all you threw in my face was more of the same old water.
You doubted I could hang on, and said so.
You didn’t encourage me, and in fact discouraged me.
I let my passions be known, I did not let go of them, nor you.
And yet you refused to yield.
You never took stock of how far we had come together.
You only reminded me how far I had gone outside the lifeboat.
You said it changed me and refused to help me back inside.
Never admitting how much you had changed from someone who shared their seat to someone who saw only room for you and our kids.
You changed from someone who cared about all of us to someone who cared about all of us except for me.
Today I told you, there are other lifeboats out there. Maybe one of them is for me?
I reminded you, I want nothing else but to be beside you, but just like last night and yesterday and all the other yesterdays, you only see the hurt you feel and the old water between us and never consider what I need, just that you are not satisfied.
I thought, will you ever be?
Will you ever see that I have never let go? Despite how being in the water has changed me, right down to my fingers and toes, how the years of piled-up insults and recriminations and reminders of my shortcomings have hurt me, could you ever move just enough to help me back aboard? I know you are hurt, too, and I thought we could help each other heal those wounds.
But I wondered whether you would let that part still clinging to me overtake your own doubts and memories of what’s in our past and give me your hand?
Or will you let me drift here until I finally am unable to hang on for even another day?
You’ve said you need time to think about it.
I’ve said I have needs, too, and it’s time for you to show me that one of your needs is me.
But again, and again, and again, what you show me is that you will sail along without me unless I find my own way back into your lifeboat, on my own.
You feel assured that you’ve done enough, even though we both know, it takes two. And it always has.
I shared with you a story that touches my heart, about how even after a husband goes beyond what it takes to be together, how his love for the woman who refuses to move even an inch costs him everything. How much I feel that this is our story, too. And how the woman in the story saves him by finally seeing him as he is, not as she thinks he is. And how I feel I am losing you because you cannot see beyond your own version of who and what I am.
And you say all you take away from that story is that it’s depressing. You don’t see deeper meaning. It doesn’t affect you deep down like it does me. You only see the surface, like the old water between us.
You don’t even see a lifeboat for all of us, just for you and our children, and you let me go.
So I let go.
Still you make not one move to bring me back in.
I hope perhaps I will find another lifeboat, but all I want is for that vessel to carry me home.
Home, back to you.
But you instead see me as “once again” abandoning you.
As I drift away, alone. Cast away.
If I find another lifeboat, I know you will only see it as further proof of your suffering and what you perceive as my abandonment. You would never see that I came as far as I could without you, and that you made your choice by sitting still, taking time, and leaving me outside.
So what happens next?
If you choose to look away, and not consider what happens to me to be relevant to you, I will drift away toward uncharted waters.
After all, it was you let me go.

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Attention, “Transparent” Fans and Wanna Be Screenwriters

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Before you ask, yes. I’ve already sent in my entry.

But… if you’ve always dreamed of living in Hollywood and writing for a program about a family dealing with a transgender person going through transition, this is for YOU!

THE DEADLINE IS TONIGHT! They are, indeed, looking for a trans woman writer to join the writers’ room.

Official Description:

TRANSPARENT is looking for a trans woman writer to join the writing staff next season. No TV experience necessary, but you should be a self-identified writer. A love of words, comedy, story, drama and performers is a must.

If you don’t live in LA, you’d need to potentially be able to relocate to LA from January to June ish, 2015.

Your first step, if you’re interested, is to write a 2-3 page fictional short story about anything you like. Your story doesn’t need to be about being trans, but it can be. It should feel brutally, beautifully honest, show your sense of humor and feel like a reflection of you. It would be great if there were a protagonist or idea of a protagonist on a journey towards getting something, but not necessary.

If you’re interested, please send your resume and a 3-page short story (double-spaced and as a word doc) to estigiordani@gmail.com by (TONIGHT) October 15th. Please be sure you have a separate cover sheet with your name on it and that your name doesn’t appear in the headers of the story as part of the process will involve blind submissions.

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Betrayed by a Bedpan: the Last Drive of Dawn Ennis

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“What happened to her?”
“She was in the wreck. Very lucky.”
“Did she roll it?”
“I’d say, looking at the damage, at least once.”
“How is she doing? God, she’s got glass all over her.”
“Pulse is strong, but elevated, 132. BP, whoa, 150 over 35, Jesus. Hang in there, miss.”
“What hurts, ma’am?”
“What’s today’s date?”
“How’d you get way over here? Was she thrown?”
“Was anyone else in the car, miss?”
“Lacerations to her arms, looks like her left leg is bleeding someplace. Says her back hurts and she’s foggy.”
“Get a collar on her! Where’s the board?”
“Ma’am, tell me your name. What’s your name? Ma’am, can you hear me?”

Who, me? I thought for a moment about my name… and no, not this time. I remembered.

“I can hear you,” I declared. “I’m Dawn Stacey Ennis.”

The paramedics, cops, firefighters were all around me and a few feet away I could see the car I had been driving which now had no windows, a partially crushed roof and looked like a giant crushed it and tossed it like an empty soda can from about 200 feet in the air. I was able to see the car, but as for the men just inches from my face, not so much.

“I can hear you but it’s a little hard to make out faces right now. It’s like, out of focus, like through a kaleidoscope or a cheap pair of binoculars.”

“Glass. It’s all over her face, too,” said one paramedic to another. “Where do you want to go ma’am?”

“Home,” I said.

“Where’s home?” asked the man who kept calling me “ma’am.” I immediately didn’t like him.

“West Hartford,” I told him. Then the man wearing dark blue spoke up, apparently a police officer. “Says here on your license you’re from Danbury.”

“People do move,” I said, probably a little too sarcastically.

“Not you, you don’t,” said the paramedic who called me ‘Miss.’” I liked him, a lot. “Don’t you move until we get you checked out, we’ll move you. And home is a bit too far so we’ll take you to either Waterbury or St. Mary’s Hospital, which do you prefer?”

At this point, I’m beginning to realize I have crashed a car, somehow walked away, and yet I am not exactly well. So why I should be the one to decide which hospital is the one to take the best care of me is incomprehensible. I think back to many visits to the Emergency Rooms at hospitals from here to Florida, for a variety of reasons and not all of them to treat me. One particular memory stands out: my great aunt, lying on a gurney in a hallway at a Brooklyn ER after falling down a flight of stairs at a funeral home of all places.

For hours, she lay there in agony, forgotten and scared, until I suggested we hire a private ambulance to take her out of there. We took her away from the triage for gang-bangers and patients hooked up to IVs and handcuffed to their gurneys, and straight to the hospital on Long Island where my mom was a nurse.

“Which hospital treats the fewest gunshot wounds?” I asked Nice Paramedic.

“St. Mary’s, by far.,” he said.

Didn’t need to ask me twice: “That’s it then.”

While Not As Nice Paramedic drove, Nice Paramedic took off my pants. Don’t go getting any ideas, he was checking out my legs. No, again, you’re missing my point. He needed to see if I was injured where clothing covered my body,

“Hope these weren’t your favorite jeans, miss,” Nice Paramedic said, as he cut them away with a big pair of scissors. They were, but I wasn’t exactly going to argue, and besides, he was cutting them off me whether they were or they were not my favorite.

The paramedics rolled me into the ER at St. Mary’s and then the nurses took over, with more scissors, cutting off my top and my underwear, too. They had been clean, before whatever happened in the car. I had no memory whatsoever of anything except seeing a black SUV or pickup type truck pull out fast in front of me on a two-lane road, right in my path, as the driver exited a shopping center parking lot, no doubt with the accelerator floored.

I was going maybe 40 as I maneuvered to avoid him and that’s when a man opened my car door and said “Let’s get you out of here, come on, before the car explodes!”

I can’t explain why I don’t remember the crash; a doctor told me later I may recall the details in a few days or a week, or longer, or never. My brain once again hitting rewind and erase to protect me from – I don’t know. At least, this time, it was seconds of memory instead of 14 years.

So, the ER nurses successfully cut away my bra and everything else and I was being checked for bumps, bruises and lacerations – a fancy word for cuts. I’d say if there was any doubt about my gender, it probably would have been resolved right there in room 18, as I was stripped nude and then covered in a typically flimsy hospital gown.

“It’s going to be okay, Miss Ennis, don’t you worry.”

I guess there was no question, then, about my gender; one less thing to worry about.

Doctors kept coming and looking me over, nurses set up an IV, took blood, and changed my neck brace from the one the paramedics put me in, to what must be the model now in vogue. Of course, the newer one was even more annoying.

I was scheduled for X-Rays of my chest, my leg and my wrist and CT-scans of my head and my pelvis.

But first: I had to pee.

Well, actually, no, as I told the nurse with the pink plastic bedpan in her hands, “I already did that at the scene, wasn’t exactly planned.”

She laughed and said, “well, be that as it may, we need a urine sample. Gotta check on whether you’re preggers,” she said with a smile.

Yeah, no. “I’m not. Definitely not,” I told her. It didn’t seem to matter.

Unfortunately, because it might disrupt their tests, I could not eat or drink anything; apparently that would affect their investigation into whether I was bleeding internally.

So Nurse Bedpan then started to cram that shallow tray under my crotch, and I asked, could she just give me a urine sample jar and I’d fill it the old fashioned way.

“No, you can’t move, we’re going to have to do this another way.” And so I tried to play it her way but asked just one more request. “If you could swap that out for a urinal I’m pretty sure that will work best,” I asked and politely suggested.

“Of course not!” she scoffed, and off she went.

Well as new experiences go, I was as willing as anyone to go where no man has gone before. But there was going to be a problem, of this I was sure.

Now, I must insist, my unusual arrangement between my legs is my business, and if you don’t already know, I see no point in piquing your curiosity about what’s down there, and what is not; however, as this is relevant to this particular story, I don’t see a way to avoid this delicate topic. Suffice to say, it’s not an outie, although it used to be. And it’s not that with which women are equipped, either, by nature or through surgical means. My usual method of relieving myself is to sit, and I do what everyone else does on a toilet.

Laying on my back, however, meant I did not have the proper trajectory nor the target required for such an activity as urination.

The nurse in charge of bedpan duty (now there’s a career aspiration) returned to find that for the second time today I had peed all over myself. “Oh, goodness!” she said, exasperated.

And as she pulled back my gown, expecting to see a vagina amongst my pubic hair – or maybe she was expecting to see a penis, I don’t know – she gasped, as her gaze seemed locked on something she had never seen with her own eyes, and quickly covered up so as not to look further.

I wasn’t sure what to say at this point, so I said nothing; I’m guessing that the sight of my unusual lady parts was just not in keeping with the job of someone who goes around collecting pee.

She washed me off and changed the sheets without me having to leave the bed, since I was not allowed to move, and left without saying another word. But in seconds, she was back in my room.

Nurse Bedpan placed a blue urinal next to my left hand, then walked away.

I don’t know or care if she went around the entire hospital relaying details of my unusual anatomy. Whatever is different on the outside can’t change what’s on the inside, which I’m sure the radiologist and doctor examining the results of the CT scan on my pelvis concluded is a normal, typical and undamaged male reproductive system, absent its usual external aspects.

But what matters is that I wasn’t treated any different; the staff at this Catholic hospital respected my identity and treated me consistently with respect and kindness.

Even the doctor himself never said a word, and treated me as everyone else had. “Miss Ennis,” he told me, crouching by my bedside, “You are alive today because of seat belts and airbags. And you’re incredibly fortunate. We found no internal damage, no broken bones. I’m going to recommend you be released, go home, take some extra strength pain reliever and rest.

“Oh, and make sure whoever is coming to get you brings you some clothes,” he said, smiling.

A nurse finally brought me water, and a ham and cheese sandwich. It was 5:30 in the evening and six hours in the ER was not at all how I expected to spend that day. But the doctor was right: I was lucky. I realized that almost immediately when that Good Samaritan opened my car door and put out his hand to help me. Maybe he was a tad overdramatic since the car never did blow up.

But before I could even thank him, he was gone, and I was left by the curb where I considered what might have happened, not really knowing. All I knew for sure, was that I was glad to be alive, and to not be dead.

Given how I felt four short months ago about the end of my career, the implosion of my marriage and the dashing of all my hopes and dreams for the future, being glad to be alive was what my best friend Susan called a miraculous turnaround. I had been in yet another car crash, and survived with scratches, cuts and bruises. I decided that day it was time to stop risking my life driving, something that, even when it’s not my fault, brought me as close to losing my life as I ever want to be.

My crash and the lessons I learned from it brought happy tears to both our eyes as we considered the way the universe had unfolded for me that day.

Miracles
By Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;

These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,

Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves— the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

My Friend

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Who can lift my fallen spirit with just a story
What turns my sad heart glad is her smile.
When I need her, she is but a keystroke away with kindness
Where my soul lives, she’s willing to walk the mile.

Why would I turn to anyone else when I’m in trouble
Because no one knows me as she does.
Because she is my friend, and I am hers
And I wish that would be how it always was.

In days gone by we had different names;
Perhaps time is what made us who we are.
I can’t say for certain what it is that connects us,
But my friend is my friend no matter how far.

We say good night, and we part with a joke
Something of a smile to carry us on our way
The worries will fade, along with my sadness
Tomorrow, she reminds me, is another day.

To live.
To pray.
To laugh.
To love.
To forgive.
To forget.
To start.
To end.
To take.
And to give.

I’ll begin by giving thanks to God, for my friend, Janine D’Alessandro Ferren. <3

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