Now did not seem like a time we could start over from the beginning. Now did not seem like the time to rise to the occasion, if ever there was one. But the three radio shows with Jay went better than we expected. Neither James, Andrew, nor I wanted to quit. Our booking agent brought us an offer to do a headlining tour, one to finally support White Crosses, which the label had generously given us the rights to in full so we could rerelease it on our own label.
Our schedule was still comparatively light to what it had been in the past, and I wanted to keep it that way. I told our booking agent to keep us busy enough to get the band back on its feet financially, but nothing too heavy.
Personally, I recognized that I needed to make a decision: to commit to gender transition, or not. I wanted time to reflect at home, to be around my wife and daughter, to sit on my back porch, drink beer, smoke weed, and think. If I still felt the same way at year’s end, I was going to accept myself and go ahead with the transition.
10. PARALYTIC STATES OF DEPENDENCY
I was brushing my teeth in the mirror one morning when I noticed the deep wrinkles on my forehead and the dark circles under my eyes. Time had dug itself in over the years. I was bloated, my complexion was bad, and I looked permanently tired. At 30 years old, I had put almost half my life into this band. All the hard living was catching up to me. The nights spent sleeping on dirty floors, the drugs, the week-long benders—all of it was staring right back at me. I wore the face I’d earned.
I opened the cabinet, took out a bottle of Rogaine, and massaged a glob into my scalp with my fingertips. The bright lights of the bathroom exposed patches of white scalp under greasy strands of thinning brown hair. I didn’t know if the hair loss was from testosterone or high stress levels of cortisol. The longer I put off the idea of transitioning, the less realistic the possibility seemed.
That year, 2011, would become the year that I eased myself into the idea of transitioning. The steps would be small and subtle at first, with things like growing out my hair, losing a few pounds, and continuing to laser off the tattoo on my wrist. Each of these little steps was an effort to be happier with the person I saw in the mirror.
January 12, 2011—3:12 AM
I’m adrift out here, lost at sea. There’s no hope, no difference, no point. I’m trying to appreciate that hour and a half on stage and it’s been great, don’t get me wrong, but an hour and a half of living out of 24 in a day doesn’t seem excusable. How quickly we lose faith in ourselves.
No towels to dry my hands or face after washing. A filthy backstage dressing room in a filthy club. I haven’t showered in how many days now?
I’m not feeling the same desperate urge to be feminine as I did a week ago. I just want to feel clean. It doesn’t feel like it could ever be a reality, so really, what’s the point? Jason Thrasher sent a first cut of the video he directed for “Because of the Shame.” There are shots towards the end, live shots when I’m drenched in sweat, where my hair loss is noticeable. I’ve been using Rogaine but realistically what are the best results I can hope for? I can shave my legs and put on a dress, have doctors fill my chest with silicone, I can pay for them to chop my cock off and build me a plastic cunt, but if I’m bald, what’s the point? I don’t want to wait until all of my youth is gone. I don’t want to end up a sad, old tranny.
I feel so much love for my wife. I know how lucky I am to have someone as understanding as she is but would she understand this? Lately all I can think about is how much I want to fuck her. I wish that could be enough for me always.
January 21, 2011—Driving to Huntsville, AL—12:19 PM
Pope was up on a ladder at the Exit/In venue in Nashville, removing gels and focusing lights. A venue stagehand was holding the ladder below and let go for a second, the ladder slipped off the rafter lip it was resting against and Pope fell 20 feet to the venue floor, breaking and dislocating the majority of bones in his right foot and ankle.
I was backstage when it happened. I heard the crash and the screaming that followed. Pope was taken by ambulance to the emergency room. He was back before set time, hobbling into the room on crutches, leg in a cast, fucked up, and in tremendous pain but still keeping a sense of humor about it. That’s just Pope. I joked with him to stop trying to steal the sympathy spotlight away from me and my aching back.
“Fuck my life,” says Pope.
He wants to stay out on the road, he doesn’t have anywhere else to go, no one else to take care of him. I’m not sure this is the best idea. It’d be different if we were in a bus but being in the van is too difficult for him. The band’s insurance is going to cover surgeries and rehabilitation. There’s a place outside Dallas we can get him to in a couple days.
January 28, 2011—Phoenix, AZ
While sound-checking today, Jay looked over his drumkit and asked me to move a few feet to the side. It took me a few seconds to realize why—he wanted to be center-stage. After a show the other day, the venue’s lighting guy came up to me and made a comment that struck me as odd.
“Different lighting setup than the last time you guys were here, huh?”
“I’m sorry?” I asked, confused.
“All the lights on the drummer, that’s new.”
Now that I thought of it, the stage had been much darker than usual. I approached Jay about it later on the bus.
“Did you tell the lighting guy to point all the house lights at you tonight?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he replied in a tone that made the question seem so obvious that it was like I’d asked him if he was the drummer.
February 27, 2011—Chicago, IL
Last night at the bar I outed myself to Brendan. I woke up this morning with disconnected memories of the conversation. “Did I really say what I think I said last night?” I messaged him in the morning to confirm. I really did. It was the end of the night and we were both wasted gone. I told him everything.
“I’m a transsexual. I’ve always been a transsexual. I want to transition genders and I don’t know how to tell Heather. I’m terrified of what this would do to my family and life.”
Brendan had been the first person to read into my lyrics deeply enough to pick up on what they meant and call me on it, very publicly on TV. In between Lawrence Arms tours, he landed a gig hosting a show on a local TV network in Chicago, JBTV, and we were his guests back in September. He had done his research and wasted no time getting into it.
“So, Tom… do you put on panties when you’re at home?” he asked. My face turned hot and red and I started to laugh nervously.
“Ha ha, what?”
“Well, it’s been a pervasive theme throughout your records. You’ve sung about dressing up in women’s clothes, the idea of gender non-conformity.”
“Yeah, gender confusion is a topic that fascinates me, for sure,” I said, hoping we could move on to a new topic which it seemed like we were doing as he turned to James.
“James, can I ask you a question?” Brendan said. Oh thank God. “Did Tom just avoid my question about dressing up in panties?” Fuck! My nervous laughter continued and I blurted out some joke about preferring boxer-briefs.
So last night, I told him. Now he knows everything. Brendan promises me the secret’s safe with him and I naively think I believe him. I’m panicked now but it was such a relief to speak those drunken words last night, to emotionally unload on someone, anyone, relief.
March 4, 2011—Minneapolis, MN
“It’s necessary to lose all hope.”—Jean-Paul Sartre, The War Diaries
I’m working my way through The War Diaries of Jean-Paul Sartre. It’s comforting to hear someone obsess the same way that I do. He makes and breaks promises to himself about not drinking alcohol and following certain diets the same way I do. He obsesses over self-imposed writing routines. He picks apart the people around him.
Sartre’s commitment to journal-keeping has reinvigorated my own. I had previously questioned the purpose behind continuing to keep a journal. I’m not sure it has impr
oved my writing ability and if not what’s the point?
It is not unrealistic to think that within five years’ time I could be a woman. I will be 35 years old, still much youth left to live.
The thought of the surgeries terrifies me. It’s going to hurt a lot more than I think.
Standing onstage last night I could feel the fullness of my inhibition. I have no idea who I am up there. How am I supposed to connect to an audience in such a state? Something needs to break. I can’t keep diffusing with coping mechanisms.
Will all of these thoughts ever not seem totally fucking ridiculous?
There is a change happening in me, the results of which have not even begun to manifest. I want to believe in destiny and I want this to be mine. For what other reason would I be born this way? What an embarrassing truth to know about myself. I’ve never dealt with embarrassment well. I’ve always been sort of a coward.
The drummer insisted that the tour manager call his father. He was demanding Jordan call 911 last night once we had gotten to the hotel because he had twisted his ankle at the show. Jordan refused, saying that it was fucking ridiculous to expect an ambulance to come out for a hurt foot, one that the drummer had been fine to walk on all night until then, and that we’d go to a clinic in the morning. The drummer’s father tells Jordan that his son “is a star and needs to be treated that way.”
“Do your job!” Jordan is scolded.
When we picked the drummer up from an orthopedic center, he came walking out in a comically large, full leg brace. The prognosis? A sprained ankle, like we all guessed. He doesn’t hold much favor with the group right now. Everyone unanimously agrees that a) He’s a pussy and b) He’s a self-entitled spoiled brat.
He tries taking the leg brace off a couple hours later because it’s uncomfortable and I yell at him that after all his bullshit he better fucking keep wearing it.
The drummer thinks we give a shit who his dad is and who his dad knows. We don’t.
Andrew, James, and I compared notes on how much of a brat we think Jay is over dinner at Pizza Luce. We all agree we can make it to the end of the year with him but as for making a record as the four of us, there’s no way it’s ever going to happen.
My wife tells me that her father is pressing for us to visit New Orleans in April. Pope is also possibly getting out of the rehabilitation center he’s in and is saying he might take us up on the offer to come stay in Florida for a couple weeks.
March 10, 2011—Gainesville, FL
Stopped by a group of drunk fans in the lobby while waiting for the elevator.
“What are you doing staying in this dump?!?!?!?” They ask for a picture. Jordan abandons me and continues to his room.
“Cut your hair and move back to Florida!” they tell me after I pose with them for photos.
This hotel room is a prison cell. What am I doing here besides falling apart? Talking to myself in the bathroom vanity mirror. Watching TV and nursing a beer. I can’t help but wonder how different of a person I would have turned out to be had I simply been born her. I would be happy and not manic at all. What if I had come to these conclusions years ago, when I was younger, less attached?
There are moments when I believe it and I can visualize myself as her, fully female, rare moments when life does not seem so daunting. I can imagine an emotional wall coming down and a part of me finally coming to life.
April 14, 2011—Saint Augustine, FL
Pope was only 26 years old and now he’s dead and there’s nothing any of us can do about it. All he did was break his fucking foot, he wasn’t supposed to die when we left him in Dallas. He was supposed to have surgery, get a cast, and be back out on the road with us by summer.
It was the insurance-provided assisted living doctors that killed him. They told him he was schizophrenic. Started feeding him psychiatric drugs. They over-medicated him. Too many pills. His body couldn’t take it. He wasn’t crazy. He just wasn’t meant for Texas.
They won’t release any of his records to us, only to family. Pope didn’t have much family left, just his older brother and grandmother. He told us all his parents were dead. It wasn’t until after Pope died we found out his father was still alive. None of them are going to chase this.
I feel responsible. We left him. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. It was just a broken foot, a busted ankle. Heather had been talking to him while he was in the hospital. We told him to come stay with us.
He was incoherent whenever I’d hear from him. It was like you could tell the drugs were kicking in. I was too self-obsessed to care, too focused on my failing career. Too busy being full of shit and uninspired. So fucking original. So fucking wasted. It’s a rare thing to meet someone out on the road that you connect with. It’s such a rare and beautiful thing to find a true friend out there on the road. I failed him.
Pope, I’m sorry, so very sorry.
April 18, 2011—Saint Augustine, FL
Rough, nightmare-filled sleep last night. Evelyn and I took our usual walk in the morning before breakfast. I can’t focus. I need to start working on something, anything to be productive. That’s how I grieve, I need distraction while my subconscious works my feelings out.
Heather and I have been fighting. I don’t understand how she’s taking Pope’s death harder than me. She never toured with Pope. I know they talked on the phone in the weeks prior to his death but other than that they had been physically in each other’s presence maybe five or six times and only for a couple hours. She’s taken to calling him “Popey,” a nickname none of us ever knew him by. It almost feels exploitative or payback for the way I processed C.C.’s death.
Pope’s funeral is Friday in Oklahoma City. I’ve suggested to Heather that we find a friend we can bring along to watch Evelyn while we’re at the services. I think Evelyn is too young to go to the funeral, both for her sake and ours. Heather disagrees.
I’m trying to stay as sober as possible. I know I’ll just get more angry if I’m drunk. We’re out of weed. There’s no buffer between us, everything seems amplified, too loud. I’m emotionally spent. I can’t remember the last time I felt truly inspired, when the words came to me faster than my pen could write them, the feeling I live for.
Goddamn, I miss my dead friend.
April 23, 2011—Oklahoma City, OK
It’s fitting that we’ve had to come and go to Oklahoma City by way of connection in Dallas. Pope had to do the same. Texas is the reason… that Pope’s dead.
Visitation with Pope was from 8 to 12 before the 2 PM service. Heather and I went with Evelyn down to the Eisenhour Funeral Home in Blanchard, OK but not before fighting for a half-hour in the hotel parking lot. I didn’t want to take Evelyn. I didn’t want her to see his body. I didn’t want her to see me break down.
I was silent the whole drive there. I was angry and I wasn’t prepared mentally to see Pope. Holding onto Evelyn as we walked through the funeral home doors I was already crying. As I walked up to Pope laying in his flat black casket Evelyn started screaming “NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!” Heather took her outside.
Pope was dressed in his black pea coat, the coat he was wearing when I met him. He was wearing a priest collar. His nails were painted black, his face white with powder, still wearing his lip ring. The only thing out of the ordinary about him was that his hair had been washed. I touched his hand and it was cold and hard like marble.
I kept staring at his chest, thinking that I could see it rising and falling with breath. I kept staring at his face, waiting for the life to return to it, waiting for his lips to part into a smile. Waiting for the joke to end.
Heather and I took turns with Pope while the other stayed outside with Evelyn. I don’t know why but the thought occurred to me that Heather may have kissed Pope, there alone in the viewing room. Considering how emotional she was I could see her needing some kind of closure or significance to the moment.
When visitation hours ended, before the funeral service started, we came back to the hotel to
meet up with the rest of the band. Heather put Evelyn down for a nap while the Jameson bottle and Valium pills started getting passed around. I had James pick me up a pack of Camel Lights when he stopped for the whiskey.
At the funeral home, friends were seated first on the left side of the room, with the right reserved for family. There were more friends than family in attendance and once the left side was full, the ushers began filling up the right.
Pope’s friend Jeremy officiated the funeral service. He told the story of how he met Pope. His band Shiny Toy Guns was going on tour and they needed an LD. He had gotten a hold of Pope’s old boss Robin saying that he needed someone who was both “completely out of their mind” and “willing to work for nothing.” Robin said he knew just the guy.
Jeremy talked about the first impression Pope made upon meeting him, the feeling of immediate connection, which I too felt the first time I met Pope. The tattoos, the voice, the personality, Pope was one of a kind.
He joked about Pope’s smell, a mix of body odor and Old Spice and how he could never keep his shoes tied, his pants always either falling down or full of holes. One time Pope left on a tour of Europe with Shiny Toy Guns with nothing but a Blockbuster Video card in his wallet.
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