I tried to come out on June 21, 2019.

But I never published this post. I'm so out now, it feels ridiculous that I hesitated. But also, I see you Roni. It was really hard. You were badly hurt. Here it is, what I wish you felt safe posting 7 years ago. Written 6/21/2019 at 5:45pm.

++

I never really had plans of coming out, per se.

As I sit here, trying to word this, thinking about who might read it, thinking about how to explain it, deciding how much to write about, I freeze. The sheer big-ness of it all is too much for me. I hear everyone's opinion at once. I hear all the clicks away, the disgust, the eye rolling, my own self judgement both loudest of all and feeding the rest.

I know how to be official and give a comfortable appearance to everyone. There are many who have done it, I can even cut and paste to a degree, but you know what? Nah. Because the truth is, it's hard. I won't pretend it's not. I worked for over a decade to be accepted by a group of people only to throw it all away. I can do it, though. Because I have a better understanding of how little that acceptance is really worth.

And also, how great are worth the friends that keep me.

I've been divorced for a bit now, and I'm finally trying to clean out the house. I'll be throwing out a ton of stuff, like old toys and things I don't use anymore. It'll be a nice purge, because when I'm done, I'll see just what I'm left with and know just where to start from.

Who am I?

A frum visitor to queer spaces and a queer visitor to frum spaces, fitting in slightly everywhere and mostly nowhere writes about how all this plus 4 young kids make basically everything weird.

30-something and divorced, I write from contradicting perspectives and endeavors to communicate my existence, as well as share my experiences raising a person with a disability.

I'm a mom in NJ and a bachelor in Brooklyn. Well, sorta this kinda that...

May Hashem bless you with perfect abundance in all things,
RDW

Hi, I'm Roni and I'm a love addict. I think. I'm pretty sure. Maybe also a sex addict.

Has it really been 6 years since I typed into my digital journal?

I’m glad to say, at least I wrote - hand wrote - in physical journals. One of which CZ gave me. Classy leather… with my initials.

She had great taste. I ended our relationship in September of 2024. I dated for a while since then - badly. I still am. It’s awful in many ways, and I’m trying to come to terms that I’m a love addict. I’ve gone to meetings for about 2 weeks now… There are so many, each with a different focus, and different demographic as well.

“LAA Daily zoom group for stepwork”

“SLAA LGBTQIA+ group”

“SLAA Women and Nonbinary daily Toplines group”

What the fuck are toplines, I thought.

“LAA Women only whatsapp group” where, in searching for a sponsor, members repeatedly point out they are “heterosexual”, which I can’t help but feel is subtle way of trying to say “no dykes” ← But then - is that just what I think because I’m a love addict?

Everyone keeps wanting everyone to go to meetings. So I go, because I want to be good at this. I want to fix myself. Oh wait - I can’t fix myself. A higher power has to do that.

But It can’t be the same higher power that made sure my son would never walk.

And it can’t be the higher power that waited until I had cancer before giving me some semblance of self emotional awareness.

And it can’t be the higher power that fucks me over with said cancer again, and again, and again.

I know that higher power very well. For 10 plus years, I have prayed to him in open abundance. I have given him my very essence of being. I have turned all will towards him. I have done all that he asked of me through every vessel. I joined positive thinking visualization groups focusing on his presence in our life and the abundance he can - and will, of course - pour into us. I did ALL THE THINGS. I saw his miracles in every breath I took - because there were no open miracles to see. Not even the hidden miracle of being one of the 999 mothers out of 1000 who had a pregnancy without an NTD. That was low hanging fruit, god. Come on.

To be fair, I’m proud of the person I’ve become thanks to my son’s birth. I think more critically now. I see social constructs better now. And part of that is realizing the power that rests in myself - that reliance on god was a fool’s way out and putting my trust in him was a mistake.

I also know my ex very well. For five plus years, I have told her I loved her. I put her first. I did all she asked of me. I gave to her as much as I had. I bought a home for us, believing if I just gave, I’d also receive. I did ALL THE THINGS. But there was nothing to see except my halting faith, stuck in time, frozen right before a precipice like I can’t move; “don’t move, it will happen” stuck on repeat. But she couldn’t even spend summers with me. That was low hanging fruit, CZ. Come on.

How do I have faith in a higher power when he was just one of my exes.

So now. After one decade lost, the next decade in  god-dysfunction, and over 5 years with a breadcrumber, I’m supposed to form a higher power. I feel like others are starting from zero and I’m starting from negative one hundred. I really don’t know what to do.

cuts

I wrote this on Nov 23, 2020. For some reason,  I cut these paragraphs from what I did eventually post. But it's 6 years later and I want to tell my 40 year old self that all of you deserves to be seen. It's ok. Your words are important. I love you.

If you don't want reconstruction, you don't need a plastic surgeon, because obviously you don't care what you look like.

If you can't work, you can't pay your insurance premium, and if you can't offer us money, there's no point to you anyway.

If you have cancer, a nice popular one, you can sign up to be a cog in our medical machine - as we need cogs like you, and we will use you, for research, until you die.

I hate that I let it happen and I hate that there was no one around me to teach me otherwise. I hate that I was alone for so long with feelings I couldn't name, so couldn't recognize, that my path is paved in loneliness, and it will be with me, no matter where I walk.

Even still, I'm never seen. Only this shell is seen, as a tool to function in society and navigate its expectations. I estimate 90% of my resources going into this shell: My presentation. My image, and "the life I live to present to the world." I am very angry about wasting so much of me. My life, my youth, my relationships, focused on this idol worship. 

My Breasts and the World Around Them

"If you're not getting reconstruction, then you don't need a plastic surgeon," my surgeon said.

"Alright, but let me be clear," I said*, "deciding to 'stay flat' does not mean I don't care what my chest looks like. And if a plastic surgeon has something to offer in this regard, I would like to have them involved."

Ultimately, it doesn't seem like I'll need one. But I wanted to make sure my surgeon understood that by not wanting implants or reconstruction, I wasn't "giving up" on myself. I was giving up on the patriarchy. I loathe to think I'd deal with the pain of "expanders," and surgery to implant some saline filled sacks into my chest so I could look a certain way - for whom exactly?

If it were for me, if it were my "confidence," why would I need tits like that to feel good about myself?

I admit that my reaction to these ideas of reconstruction is such a visceral repulsion, that I feel compelled to examine my response.

I spent over 30 years of my life trying to meet other people's standards of success and beauty. I have a lot of anger around that lost time. I have a lot of hate towards the world that tried to bury everything about me that was perfect and precious, in the name of what they decided was so. Society, media, relatives. The shits they gave about me were completely self serving: Consumerism, appearances, having a scapegoat.

Society, media, relatives. I was able to serve them all well because I was pretty enough, compliant enough. I did my part in service of all those things, and the pain of it all was easy to ignore because I was just so good at it. The smallest steps in other directions were met with consequences that told me clearly to go back where I belong, and I regret that I was never strong enough to move forward anyway. I regret it with every part of me.

The idea of implants or reconstruction represents, for me, doubling down on a commitment to the lies of those things. And I have some fear, that if I do not comply, I'll be left to die, as useless to the powers I've served for so long.

Four years ago marked the beginning of the end of this time in my life, when I came out to myself about my sexuality, and as my last vestige of "normal" melted away, I realized that I can never win that game I was playing. I quit. And all this time, I've tried to learn about the person I am, if only I can peel away over 30 years of compulsive conformity, loneliness, and fear.

To build breasts onto my body for the sole purpose of appearances are based on values that are the antithesis to mine. I can say that now. Thank God I can say that now.

*I do actually talk to doctors that way. I recommend it.

Sensation, paralysis, mastectomies.

When my disabled son was born, and for many years afterwards, I would massage his legs and feet. I still do, sometimes.

He has no movement or sensation there. His sensation is spotty in his thighs, and decreases to nothing from his knees downward. But I massaged anyway, tenderly, with so much love and intention, as though telling his legs how much I love them, and, more than a little bit, hoping I could will some life into them.

But he never felt that. He couldn't feel it, and also, I was doing something he couldn't feel. I realize more recently that I was doing it for myself. All my tenderness and comfort was all about making myself feel better. There was not much giving going on there. I should have hugged him more, or massaged his back. But instead I focussed on my loss instead of his needs.

For three weeks now I've been living with the reality of an impending mastectomy. I knew there was no surgery that could make it look "right," but also, I've been thinking through ideas of body image, society's "normal, and my own relationship my body, gender, and society, for so many years now. If there was every a good time in my life to deal with such a drastic change in my body, it's now. I can do that.

When I thought about the impending loss, although I won't pretend I'm too body-positive and don't-give-a-shit what society thinks to have any insecurities about my appearance (98% about being naked around my partner), the majority of my grief over it is around my sensation.

I knew it would not be normal and there would be a major loss there. The doctor I spoke to yesterday confirmed, and was very clear about the different reactions some women have; the different ways they describe this loss. Like a gap in their torso.

So I think about hugging my children close to me and what that might be like soon. I think about how much I enjoy it now. And the feel of fabric and warmth. I think about this much more than how I'll look in clothes.

Bodies touching each other, skin to skin, is one of my favorite parts of sex-slash-cuddling. I've described this closeness as though one's soul pushes out through their pores to the other, and wraps around them. It's part of reaching out for this closeness that, actually, you can't have in this world, with physical bodies in the way. But using your body to get so close - that's what we have while we're here.

Will I know if she puts her hand on my heart? Will it comfort me if she does?

Cafe Therapy

Oh, hello here! Why, I believe it's been over 2 years! Am I even talking to anyone? Hello?  So.. I'm about to change this blog around irreparably, and I was flipping through my old drafts, and here's a little gem I never published. There's a surprise at the bottom.

--Start--

I can't afford therapy. Between #2's art classes, #1's play therapy, and #3's extra pair of leg braces, it's just not happening. Oh yes and the $20+ THOUSAND dollars we need to pay in tuition this year. Can't afford much.

But there's one thing I can afford.

I can afford to buy a cappucino and sit in a cafe for hours, listening to trendy music and looking like I'm doing something very important on my computer.

As a harried mother constantly on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I value the time I can spend in a place that is...

... clean...

... calm...

... where there are grown-ups...

Add something just a little sweet and adult-tasting, and that's it. I am relaxed.

Whenever friends and acquaintances of mine begin to speak about moving out of town, I can fantasize for a few minutes of endless space, grass, and a bigger house. But of course, I have to ask: Are there any kosher cafes in this out of town place? I don't know if I demote myself to cholov stamm and Starbucks...

So I take cafes very seriously.

--End--

And apparently I took living IN town pretty seriously because of them. But in the interim, I actually have moved out of town. And to be sure, I miss my cafes terribly. But since Odradeks closed, I guess life was just meant to change...

I would like to write more about where this blog is going, but it's so severe, I'll be putting it up in another post... Hopefully in a few minutes.

About Having a Child with a Handicap

First a tour. Just up above this line you have the post title and blog name. To the left is some white space. And to the right - oh look! You can now follow this blog by email!

Bad Cripple blog poster Dr. William Peace wrote the saddest, saddest post. And then he wrote another sad post, and I'll link it here. (Warning: His posts contain a small amount of explicit content and language. You don't have to read it. I'll quote some below.)

Initially, after reading it, my thoughts go to my 3 1/2 yo son with Spina Bifida. How do we give him what he needs to avoid this bitterness?

And for the record, Dr. Peace's bitterness is completely justified. And honestly, the entire oilam owes him an apology.

But practical front aside: As Jews, we know Who is Ultimately responsible for hardships and trials. We also know He loves us more than we can understand. But it's hard to have the presence of mind when faced with difficult situations.

Parking my car and getting my wheelchair assembled is as astounding as the Grand Canyon. I am regularly stared at. When I bike some people have stopped on a dime as I passed them on my hand cycle and yell at me to stop. In the distance I hear "I want to look at the bike". Some bikers have followed me for miles keeping a running commentary about how amazing I am. I now have a trainer and bike in my house. I do not want to be a stranger's super cripple. I am in reality an ordinary person. Yet I am barred from being ordinary.

Emphasis mine.

I remember when my son was first born. I remember reading a phrase from some article by or about a person going through another intense nisayon: "I had lost my badge of normalcy." Those who know me might argue that I was never normal, but I even lost my badge of "quirkiness." People placed me elsewhere.

I had been told, and am still told, that I'm an inspiration.

When my son was first born, and I was called an inspiration, my reaction was simply that I didn't want to be anyone's inspiration. I needed a normal life, where I could be inspired by other amazing people to see what a petty ingrate I was, and plug along trying to improve - and even succeeding to some small extent. THAT's me. But to be the one doing the inspiring? And how? By virtue of having this child? You would think I donated a kidney or fostered a delinquent, but my situation was thrust upon me, unwillingly. It's like being kidnapped, and dragged kicking and screaming onto a stage, take the black bag off my head, and walk away. The spotlight is on me. And there is a large crowd watching, waiting to see my performance.

But time passes. I've had some time to rehearse. I remember a Shavuos shiur by Rabbi Orlofsky. Something like:

In Judaism, there is no "commemorating" in our holidays. Rather, we relive the event every year. Not literally or practically in this plane of existence, but the energy and spiritual reality of the event comes around each year. And Shavuos is the day we choose to receive the Torah from Hashem. And every Shavuos, we're choosing the Torah again and again.

So one might ask, "Well, what if I decide that this year, I don't want it?"

And the answer would be, "Too bad."

As Rabbi Orlofsky explained*, it's yours. This is your mission, whether you like it or not. You can choose to ignore it, but the consequences of that decision will chase you down.

People expect me to be an inspiration because they are taking their cues from Gd. If He put me in an extraordinary circumstance, it must be because He expects me to be extraordinary. So why shouldn't His people have the same expectations? On a second look, it's really not so unfair.

I also have the choice to wallow in despair.

But whatever I do, it doesn't change the mission Hashem gave me: To raise this child b'simcha, b'ahava, and with tremendous Hakaras Hatov to HKBH. It is my most fervent wish that I can merit to see my son as an adult who is filled with love of life and Torah.

There's more to say about Dr. Peace's post which I'll write another day.

Wishing you all of Hashem's open brachas in perfect abundance,
Rivka Devora

*The Rabbi's explanation actually involved a Harry Potter reference which I am not cool enough to remember.