Showing all posts tagged feelings:

Responsibility and guilt on the high holy days

Content warnings: self-hate, bad feelings, mentions of suicidal thoughts and intrusive thoughts

This is the first year I have been able to attend Yom Kippur services and avoid suicidal thoughts. I even managed to stay away from more pedestrian intrusive thoughts of self-harm. I am being blatant and specific about this because I have not read other people doing so. I have wanted to read these words, or words like them, and I have needed to feel less alone in a sea of "Yom Kippur is hard for everybody" and "at least you don’t have to fast" (because of my physical medical problems) and "Really? I love Yom Kippur."

This year, for the first time in my life, I actually felt a sense of closure with Neilah services. What I usually feel is continued guilt over my "sins", lasting through the evening and the year. Other people feel relief, an end to the closer-than-usual consideration of their own negative actions, but I (and people like me) can’t really stop just because we’re supposed to. I fall into guilt not only for the bad things I’ve done, but into a cognitive distortion spiral of depression, feeding what I call my jerkbrain (so named because it is a lying jerk).

I am immensely pleased I’m not dealing with a depression spiral this year. I’m not sure exactly what to credit with this change, but there are three main differences from previous Yom Kippurs: I have been seeing a therapist consistently and we’ve made real progress; I went to both Kol Nidre and Neilah services, but skipped the daytime prayers and rested at home instead; and I went to a service that did not use the full traditional liturgy, specifically using an altered (though no less harsh) vidui.

Jews do vidui (confession) in first person plural. We have done [insert list of bad things here], because we as a community contain people who might’ve done any of those things. If you personally have not done a given bad thing in the list, you still say it along with everyone else. We as a community are responsible for each other, is the message, while also reinforcing that we do need to consider a little closer what sins we’ve actually done. The bulk of vidui consists of two acrostics: a longer (Al Chet) and a shorter (Ashamnu).

Pieces of the original Al Chet text chafe for me. It includes 'perversion’ and ‘lewdness’ when I see queer sexuality as a source of holiness and joy, ‘frivolity’ when I do not see seriousness as a virtue. It forces us to apologize for ‘a confused heart’ when doubt and questioning are jewish values, and decries 'pride and stubbornness' when I have been working hard to inhabit these as strengths when appropriate.

The version of Al Chet that I experienced at Kadima this year was more fitting and better suited to introspection that answers the questions I actually need to answer: For what are we collectively and individually at fault? Where should we step further into repair work? It was divided into four levels: self, family, community, society, being pointed in the questions of our time politically and interpersonally, about forgiving the self and building community we all need. Each section was still punctuated with the traditional refrain: V’al kulam elohai slichot, slach lanu mchal lanu kaper lanu. For all these, G-d of pardon, pardon us, forgive us, atone for us. And an English addition: For all of these we ask for forgiveness. For each one of these misdeeds, we forgive.

Vidui has a worthy purpose, but it is designed for brains that are not depressed. It is for people that start out assuming they have not sinned. It is designed to take people from a place of "I’m probably doing fine" to "oh shit, I am complicit in bad things; let’s look into some specifics and do better next year." For people who start from a place of assuming they are wrong, whether this is a result of faulty brain chemistry or a reaction to past abuse, reading a list of things bad things ‘we' have done is the opposite of helpful. We start at a place of ’this is bad, I am saying I have done this, therefore I am bad’ and arrive at 'I am unforgivable and unrecoverable’, which is not actually an accurate view of any person.

When I discuss this issue with people, the first advice I get about this is to be kinder to myself. It’s a good goal, but only half the puzzle. My aim for the self-reflection and internal accounting in the days of awe is not necessarily a less negative result, but a more accurate and less distorted one. I don’t want to change vidui to make it easy. I honestly believe everyone could use the self-reflection involved, if we can manage to think about where we’ve actually missed the mark rather than how we are, individually, The Worst.

I have, for my entire life, experienced Yom Kippur and teshuvah in general through the lens of guilt. It would be better to approach them through the lens of responsibility. We have all done things we need to atone for. By situating these harms in guilt we focus on ourselves, our feelings and (if your brain works like mine) Intrinsic Badness instead of centering those harmed. Responsibility is a better frame. Responsibility centers the problem or the restorative action necessary. It contains potential for teshuvah, while still being clear and honest about ownership of righting the wrong.

The traditional shorter acrostic, ashamnu, uses each letter of the alphabet once, with one exception. It ends with two lines for the last letter of the Hebrew alphabet: we have gone astray and, separately, we have led others astray. We have all done bad things, and been complicit in bad things happening. The optimal reaction to this is not avoidance or focusing on self-centered guilt; it is owning our responsibility and working towards teshuvah on personal, interpersonal, community, societal levels. We need to do work to forgive ourselves as much as we need to collectively act towards tikkun olam, whether that takes the form of climate justice work, activist art, everyday mutual aid, or something else entirely.

"You are not the bad thing," says my therapist, "even if you did a bad thing." I am working on believing her. Hearing this from a trusted person who knows me helps the pieces slide into place. I have responsibility for my mistakes and bad actions, but thinking about them should not poison my thoughts for all eternity or be tools for my brain to convince me to harm myself.

May all of us be sealed into the book of life for the next year.

TransJewCon and an abundance of disability feelings

I’d heard of Rabbi Emet Tauber zt’’l before my New York trip, and very much wanted to meet him at the Trans Jews Are Here event (or elsewhere, I’m not picky). Because I didn’t know him, because our social connections remained indirect, maybe because he didn’t know either, I had no idea he was so close to death. Even though I don’t know him, R’ Emet’s death is fucking with me, emotionally. I forget sometimes that EDS is terminal, not just inconvenient and disabling. At least one of my favorite people has EDS, as does their kid; my old doctors thought i might too.

I know I’m not supposed to want a cure, or feel sad about disability, but the abundance of people like me in communities like mine is rough. How many people die young, and how many of us are suffering? The number of disabled folks at Trans Jews Are Here was both fulfilling and difficult for me. Disability and impairment rob us of productivity, not just in the shitty capitalistic way but creatively, spiritually, interpersonally, religiously. It’s at best a tax paid in money or time we could be spending elsewhere, whether due to demanding access in a world built for other people or pushing back against a body behaving poorly or both. How much time that could be spent creating trans jewish art and spaces and community is spent waiting at the pharmacy? We are suffering, and some of the best of us are dying young. How many Jewish trans folks are destined to become rabbis but can’t? How many trans disabled people are destined to become Jewish but can’t?

It’s frustrating existing in a world not built for you, and it’s lonely as hell having to build so many spaces, to put time into projects that might disappear, even just as an attendee to balance complaints and criticisms with worries about whether they'll be seen as an excuse to cancel the next one. Disability is alienating. Transness can be too, depending on where you are; same with Judaism. It is hard to be like this and find community, even temporary, even in miniature talmud retreats and friend of friend connections, in chavurahs that make a minyan maybe once a year, in I-see-you nods across a crowded shul to the other GNC mobility device user, in sitting on the sidelines with a nice lesbian couple at the yiddish socialist concert where your chevruta’s in the opening band and you were worried about there not being a place to sit but wanted so badly to go anyway.

It feels so good and beautiful and necessary to make these spaces, and it is so tiring, and much harder if you’re disabled. My favorite part of this weekend was that I didn’t have to plan it, that I was around so many trans jews and I didn’t have to pinch-hit read torah or set myself a reminder to ping the email list or see if my friend is out of the hospital or give people rides or check on the organizers. I’m burning out, and I don’t work, and I have a secure living situation, and I don’t do this full time or for a living, and if I stop, maybe the next Emet will die before he finds any of us, so I can’t stop.

I can’t stop thinking about how I don’t have the mental energy to lead two seders this year, so I won’t be doing another internet seder when the one last year made me friends and was the only one at least two people could attend and the only one more people wanted to go to.

I can’t stop thinking about the many, many, many trans jews by choice I know, so many also disabled, continuing to struggle to find a class and rabbi that doesn’t deny their existence, that doesn’t take transness or queerness or nonbinariness as a reason to reject someone, when they deserve a community that will truly bring them into the fold and love them fully as trans jews.
I can’t stop thinking about the Kaddish podcast episode about trans tahara. What happens when nonbinary Jews die? Who performs tahara? Do I need to up my observance levels and go birth stealth and be trained so there is somebody here? Can I even do that, physically? What if I die, what if my friends die, what happens?

I want the world to be better than it is, for us and for them and for future generations, and I constantly run into inaccessibility struggles for myself while trying to bring the world into a position closer to the next, tiny increments closer to wholeness, repair, moshiach. I’m holding fragments. We are all holding fragments. What now?

All the wrong people hate themselves

There’s a meme, an adage for the modern age, that states: all the wrong people hate themselves, except me. I deserve it.

It’s a self-mocking thing borne of whole social groups of depressed nobodies trying to do well. We love each other, and don’t understand why our friends don’t like themselves! Until we realize, one by one: oh. Same jerkbrain.

For some of us, it gets channeled into betterment of ourselves or of the wider world. Some of my favorite people hate themselves, and channel it into activism or art or other tikkun olam work. And some of us stare at the wall and read half a book and feel sad about it.

I just want to know things, and make yarn, and turn yarn into fabric, and watch the trees bloom. I want fewer people to die before their time, whether that’s due to natural disasters or unaffordable medications or interpersonal violence at any scale.

I want a lot of things, and I want to be a better person, and I have a sneaking suspicion that some people I think of as "better people" hate themselves too, that their admirable acts are fueled by "maybe this will make up for my inadequacy" or "my mistakes" or "my past".

You don’t have to make up for anything. I do, though, of course. All the wrong people hate themselves except me.