What I didn’t have the words to express at the time is that I wanted to know where to go to find the resources. What path does one take? Where does one turn? What does one ask?

These questions have continued to be central in my life. And as I do ground-breaking work, I leave mental bread crumbs. I keep track of the steps I took, so that if someday someone asks me how I got from A to Z, I will be able to tell them, very concretely, and I will be able to help them find their own path by sharing my own journey identifying, pursuing, and implementing resources.

As I grew up, I came to understand what my mom was talking about: Things happen. You learn stuff. Life is a classroom. Something that often frustrated me was the randomness of life: I’d ask people how they achieved x, y, and z, and so often it seemed to be coincidence: They happened to be in place A, when person B showed up, then C happened, and ten years later, all these people and factors collided into something splendid.

That’s the kind of shit you just can’t plan. And that’s why I like growing up. Which is a whole other topic I’d like to explore as I pursue this stream of consciousness writing. We’re supposed to hate growing up – women especially. We’re supposed to fear it – the wrinkles, the grey hair, the sagging boobs, all of it. But I think it’s the coolest thing ever to be able to say, “We have been best friends for 20 years.” That’s fucking awesome shit.

I love that I have built a life. I love that I have a herstory. I love that I have a track record. I love that I stand on my own shoulders, that I built my own foundation. Growing up rocks. Plus all kinds of cool random shit can happen, all kinds of serendipity, with one thing leading to another. So much cool stuff in my life just could not have been planned or foreseen or mapped out.

Still, I do think that intellectual maps are awesome. I still think it’s really smart to know who, what, where, when, as much of that stuff in advance, and to pursue it all in pursuit of our dreams.

A couple of days ago I met a guy at an event, and we talked for a couple of hours after. “You have a lot of great stories,” he said. “You should write them down.”

I actually feel that my stories are slipping away. Time is passing, I’m not writing them down, and I am forgetting details.

Memory was one of the most important things to me in my life. I remember when I was six years old, I was standing in the doorway of my sister’s side of the room, facing the hallway, concerned about the fact that people seemed to forget things as they got older.

What if I forget things? I asked myself. I will remember remembering, I answered.

I just read Peter Knobel’s essay, “An Expanded Approach to Jewish Bioethics,” in the book, Healing and the Jewish Imagination. I found it comforting. I often feel adrift at sea in the Jewish world, because there are so many ways the Jewish community neither reflects me nor rises to my expectations of how it should operate. This chapter outlined some words that really resonated with me – virtue, values, respect, and merit, to name a few. And the chapter laid out issues in a way that made me really happy, because it rang my Jewish bell.

I am Super Jew. A flaming Heeb. My thinking, my personality, my essence is fundamentally in alignment with the Jewish way. And yet what is that Jewish way? There are so many distortions of the Jewish way as I understand it. These distortions are rampant in our community – leading to my constant state of distress. I see hypocrisy everywhere, which confuses me and hurts me and isolates me.

When I grow up with Jewish values of accountability — of taking the time each year to reflect on whom we have harmed and to humble ourselves before those people and ask forgiveness; and when my orthodox Jewish father, my primary Jewish teacher, refuses to do that reflection and take that accountability in the most intimate setting – his family, with regards to the most egregious of crimes – the violation of a child’s emotional, physical, and sexual boundaries; and when a purportedly egalitarian Mizrahi rabbi to whom I turned for help chose to cut off communication with me, effectively punishing me, instead of rising to the occasion of my trust and fulfilling his responsibility as community spiritual leader, I feel utterly lost, confused, and bewildered.

When I align myself with the Jewish world against the anti-Jewish hostility rampant in the rest of the world; when the Jewish world then rejects, invalidates, demeans, and renders invisible all Jewish identity except that from Central and Eastern Europe; and when the non-European Jewish community then dismisses and degrades me as an irrelevant or worthless female, except in relation and service to men, I feel utterly lost, confused, and bewildered.

“Jewish ethics begins with an assumption that there is a duty to Gd,” says one of my favorite passages in the chapter I read today, “Jewish life is centered on the performance of commandments…deeds that are obligatory in nature. We are asked to imagine that we will be called to account for what we do. Therefore it ultimately matters what choices we make, because our choices have an effect on our destiny and on the destiny of the human race. We seek a just society through these [commandments]. Therefore a pure autonomy…is modified by the harness of obligation…

“[O]urs is an embedded or relational autonomy. In Judaism, while individuals are of inestimable value, our range of choices is harnessed by the fact that we are embedded in community and family and that we are governed and limited by our obligations both to the self and to others.”  

I love this shit. I believe whole-heartedly in it. I spent my life devoted to and loyal in my pursuit of it. So where the fuck is it.

I have expectations. Standards. From infancy, I have cherished and pursued that which is great, lofty, and noble. People might like to claim it is not possible, especially in a child so young. But to quote to the best of my memory a poem I wrote many years ago, “You live in murky waters, so you see me through the filter of your dirt.”

It is possible. And true. There exist in this world people who are genuine through and through, whose core value from a young age has been pursuing heart-felt connections, freedom, authentic love, and understanding. Nobody is perfect, but there does exist in the world those who prioritize and invest their energies into questioning, self-reflection, and improvement of the individual and collective selves. I am one of these people.

When I revolve my life around what this essay refers to as “’virtue’ – that is, the explicit seeking of good and noble behavior in every ethnical decision we make,” that antiquated value that has fallen by the wayside in favor of shiny BMWs and cosmetic surgery, and when the people and communities I love and cherish instead choose denial, ego, dominance, convenience, and that which is superficial, I feel utterly lost, confused, and bewildered.

Where am I. Who am I.

And here is where the struggle is lifting: I am recognizing that I am really, really different. And that there are others out there who are also really, really different and feeling equally alienated from their families, communities, and society at large. I am recognizing that I will always stand out against the backdrop of any crowd, like it or not. That just by the nature of being myself, I will always be the pot-stirrer, shit-kicker, trouble-maker. That I will get the strange looks. That what I say will usually be coming out of left field from most people’s point of reference. That most people may not see me when I am standing eye to eye with them.

And that it is OK.

In my sexual behavior, my behavior as a patient in the medical system, my behavior as a daughter in a traditional family, in whatever I do, there will be a tension between my desire to be an intimate part of that which is established and my refusal to take part in that which feels ingenuine or toxic.

I think what is shifting is that I am letting go of the struggle. I am accepting things as they are and actively seeking out my tribe wherever I find them. Perhaps the shift can be explained this way: I am letting go of my expectations, without lowering my standards. For example, I do not expect most men to get me or be able to sustain a relationship with my bodacious being. But I do not accept in my life anything less than a man who gets me and is thrilled to rise to the occasion of a genuine relationship with me over the years.

And so I was able to go to a party last night wearing exactly what I was wearing, without trying to “dress up” – a motley crew of a pin-striped white-and-blue Oxford shirt, funky white pants with a silver-studded peace sign on my ass, white jogging socks with white–and-blue sneakers, an orangey-red wool cape, a multi-colored wool purse from South America, and red glasses with a twist on the Cat’s eye look. I went up to random people and introduced myself, but I wouldn’t shake their hands, and I usually didn’t say why.

The reactions to me were varied. I won’t say I didn’t care when people seemed particularly uninterested in talking with me, but it also didn’t bother me all that much. My focus was on getting back out into the world, exactly as I was, without any attempt whatsoever to reconcile who I am and what is socially expected of me.

Perhaps my new serenity can be thought of as a truce: I am no longer expecting society to play by my rules (even though I whole-heartedly believe those rules are in society’s interest and even though society may in fact purport to play by those rules but fall short). But I still am not playing by society’s rules. Instead, I am putting forth my vision and thinking to all those who care to hear it and see it and join me in my path – whether through the way I physically walk through the world or talk among groups or put my thoughts into writing.

Communicating allows the chance for transformation. To be heard, seen, understood, recognized. To grow. Communicating, sharing our innermost thoughts and feelings, allows magic to happen. As the ring on the finger of a guy I dated said, “Obstacles are opportunities for transformation.”

Of course that guy disappeared on me without communicating. So much for the ring. And the guy. But I firmly believe in that message, and I have lived it out in my life.

The problem for me is, most people don’t seem to be into that way of operating. Most people seem to be into shutting people out and caving in to fears and not risking authentic expression.

The deepest way someone can hurt me is by disappearing on me. Not only does it feel disrespectful to our friendship and to me, but it doesn’t allow either of us the opportunity to learn, to grow, to reach that transcendent nirvana state that lies on the other side of conflict.

I recently had a situation where a gal pal pulled some bullshit on me. Rather than being the one to communicate about it, I just said something along the lines of, “OK fine,” with an irritated tone. Not only was I half-asleep at the time, but I just didn’t feel like yet again being the one to do the communicating, certainly not in that moment. I’ll leave it up to her to raise the issue, I decided. Besides, I knew I always could discuss it down the line if and when I felt like it.

I’ve been in this place where I’m experimenting with treating relationships the way I treat my business, which is very pragmatic. In my professional life, I accept things the way they are and think how I can work a situation to my advantage, instead of crying about stuff that isn’t going the way I want it to. I move fast and furiously, like in some jacked up video game or military action, where you just go go go.

It’s too soon to tell if the gal pal has bailed ship, or if she just hasn’t come around to talking yet, but I was discussing the situation with my 12 step sponsor this afternoon. I expressed my frustration at my friend’s lack of communication initiative thus far. “But she is communicating,” my sponsor said.

Good point.

It’s true, and I’ll be the first to admit it: I think my ideas about communication are superior. I think that everyone will get along a whole lot better and be a whole lot happier if they do it my way. It’s basic. It’s simple. And it can save a whole lot of heartache and who knows, even wars:

1. Be honest with yourself.
2. Do your work to ensure that you can communicate clearly, effectively, and lovingly.
3. Express your authentic feelings, even when it’s scary.
4. Listen with genuine care to other people’s experiences.
5. Stick with the conversation process, even when it gets hard.
6. Acknowledge your part in a fucked up dynamic, apologize where it is appropriate, and do your work to clean up your side of the street.
7. Acknowledge your limitations, and state your boundaries clearly yet compassionately.
8. If you need to walk away, do so in a way that is clear and respectful.

I get it that I have expectations in relationships that other people did not necessarily sign up for. I get it that in a way, my being judgmental of other people’s styles of communicating (but seriously, slamming a door out of anger and saying everything’s fine? Are we really going to call that communicating?) is being disrespectful of their choices on some level.

But how about standards.

I’m thinking of it similarly to the whole fascism/democracy thing: In a fascist state, people with democratic ideas are not allowed to express those ideas. In a democracy, however, people with fascist ideas are free to express them (as long as doing so is not life-threatening, of course — the line of which is ripe with controversy).

 If you don’t want to communicate with me, fine. But can’t you just tell me that? And while you’re at it, can’t you just explain to me why?

I come from a long line of Iraqi Jews who do everything by subtle hints. When my seven Iraqi Jewish aunts did not want my mom running around barefoot, they all bought her shoes. My mom, a European-American mutt from the Midwest and South, thought they had some kind of shoe fetish. She kept thanking them for the shoes and continuing to run around barefoot.

I get the grace and sensitivity that can go hand in hand with more subtle forms of communication. You don’t burn bridges, you don’t out-and-out offend people, you don’t risk changing a dynamic, yada yada yada. But you also can confuse the hell out of people, create tons of misunderstandings, and lose opportunities for connection, growth, and the ecstasy that come with them.

Anyhow. I do see a place I can grow here: Recognize non-communication as a form of communication. Stop feeling mad at people for communicating in ways that in my book are dysfunctional and ineffective. Recognize their way as the way that works for them. Respect it, even if I think it’s idiotic. (Wait, am I respecting it, if I think it’s dumb?) And either stay the hell away from those people, or connect with them in a way that is cautious and, in my book, superficial.

Of course, I think that cautious and superficial connections are sad and boring and cheating everyone out of an amazing connection to Divinity. Which, seriously? Just feeds my recent hermit tendencies.

But my soul is tired. Because it’s all flowing like colorful ribbons threads connecting one to another. I don’t want to explain anymore. I DON’T WANT TO EXPLAIN ANYMORE. I want to express and let them be confused let them judge let them MISUNDERSTAND.

I started writing because it was that or suicide. Witness chronicle process call out enact or die. I started writing because I became aware of how different I was. And I thought, “Uh oh.”

And I figured that if I kept going the way I was going and nobody understood shit about where I was coming from, I might end up in some straight jacket somewhere at some time. I see how they treat people who see.

So I had to rise to the top. I had to come down from the mountain. I had to translate. I had to find the language crossing between the creative life force of knowing, of just being and doing, and the ordinary mind. Explain my actions and behaviors that seemed so odd to so many. Tracing the threads through all their complexities and tangles and interwoven madness.

Fuck it. Fuck it. I feel fear writing raw. Fuck it.

Then a lot of things happened. Loneliness. Missing people I had to cut out for my healing and sanity. Chronic pain and the chaos and life-stifling that comes along with it. Confusion. Depression. Isolation. Loss of self.

And then I became a professional writer and got really big bylines and had all kinds of excitement and subversive giggles and triumphs. And my life got really big in front of my computer screen.

And then I discovered dance to heal myself. And then I had crazy journeys bouncing against the health care system and finally cutting off and following my own healing path. And then I started a company built around the method. And then I became an activist again.

And now I am totally confused. I tried reconnecting with family members who are just poison to my soul. And that got me depressed. A lot. And I started coming out of isolation, but found myself in a half-place – not quite up to engaging 100%, but well enough to poke my head back out in the world.

And I started wondering about what I’d lost. And where I’d turned. And where my life had gone. And I felt angry. But I couldn’t feel angry because I was supposed to be happy because I did something positive with my pain, and then would people think one contradicted the other, and would the dominos come crashing down.

And now here I am. Again. Not really caring. Which is a positive thing. Because I am tuning “them” out. Because they are a distraction. And I am an artist again. And I am wondering what happened to my music. And my singing. When did I stop writing songs. When did I stop wearing expressive clothes and makeup. When did I start judging myself by images of plastic effeminated women whose orientation I outright rejected long ago.

When did I get so concerned about how many Twitter followers I have.

Business. Success. Survival. Can I be the avant-garde spirit I am and still have food on the table. Do I need an apartment this big in this nice of a neighborhood. Do I need all my storage. My storage is my life. Journals, tapes, articles, photos scattered haphazard. Some stolen. Some lost. Some still here. My life. Scattered.

And what do I make of the fact that my entire life and orientation has been dedicated to family. 1-2-3-4. We’re all here. Smile. Devote myself to healing. To cleaning my side of the street, their side of the street, hell even their neighbor’s property. But they do not care if my house is on fire. Sure they will dance around in gestures of angst and cluck in sympathy and so forth. But they will not cross the fucking street.

So who am I. Who am I without them. Without Judaism. Without the community that has failed me and flogged me repeatedly. I see the pointlessness and put down my tired tools and take off the work clothes and walk naked toward the water, toward the cool soothing mist of fog, immersing myself in the silence and relief of darkness. I step into the beam of light and dance in the sunshine, free at last, free at last.

But if I am free who am I. If they do not see me why am I part of them. And what does it all mean.