So, How Was I Different?

The Fractures of Fitting In

< Back to “ & Now: Me ”

Well, after 8th grade, the family and I moved to South Carolina from the San Francisco Bay Area.

Look, I won’t fill you with all the details (there were complications, personal financial decisions, etc.) , but we have now made it to the Low Country in my life’s narrative.

“ Beach sunrise scene “ | by Deb Vincent Studio | Shutterstock

{ See Chromosomal Chapter on “Friendship” for a more thorough analysis of this. Note-Diagnosis Reveal spoiler.}

Prior to the arrival on the East Coast, my mother, long before, knew there was something different in my development. After all, she did have two other boys to examine in comparison.

When my mother approached other doctors in the Bay Area, she was met by many scornful remarks with statements like: “Are you crazy? What — do you want your son to be another Mike Tyson?”

She, with her phenomenal determination (which she held for all of us, and still does) kept on trying to figure out what was wrong. Many Americans spend thousands of dollars and visit a wide myriad of doctors while having to enroll in medical programs/groups to be able to just find proper diagnoses for their children.

ChatGPT and other generators are becoming highly indispensable towards limiting or entirely eliminating these length medical expeditions.

It wasn’t until at the very end of my second spring semester in my freshmen year at a public high school, when in Biology, and while literally studying chromosome disorders (just days before), that I found out about it.

X-hale.

Before we moved there was a red flag.

When I went to a doctor who gave me a thorough examination. My father was there, and the doctor sort of forced a sigh downwards to imply that my development was far from normal.

He even had a few testicle size models, and could not match one with me not even on a simile at least. I think my father thought the doctor was off at that point or this was something pessimistically asexual.

Back to that same freshman biology class, one of the bullies who picked on me because of my more feminine voice and obese appearance, and that I was sort of wimpy (I mean I was scared-to-death to change at P.E. and started skipping those classes), asked me if I was queer.

This was early 2000. I smiled in a goofy way, pulling for attention and poured out, “well, why not?”

I thought it meant viciously evil. The class broke out into laughter: “Adam’s a fag!”

I hadn’t considered dating guys.

ENTER SO-CALLED “ LOVE ” BEFORE DIAGNOSIS

In seventh grade I took the initiative to date a girl who hung out with me and my friends, and completely shocked all of them when I announced her grand invitation for me to go with her to an all-expense paid-trip to watch Titanic.

Adam’s inviting a girl out… what?!

She was concerned (I don’t blame her) and cautiously invited her friend. Nothing romantic happened between us, but I joked when we got in my parent’s car that she forced me to watch the portrait scene with the naked Rose. She slapped my shoulder; she was mortified. My parents chuckled in the cuteness.

To make amends, I decided to get her a heart shaped box of chocolates from the drugstore. Courtesy of my father driving the Pontiac minivan (we called the Star Trek Transporter or the dust buster), I knocked on her door and that annihilated any attempt at further romance. She didn’t open it, and I went back to the van holding in how I felt.

But, what was I? Why wasn’t this as romantic? Why did the others feel like I was maturing on account of this?

It was time for me to realize why love, everything wasn’t piecing together: my voice not cracking, injuries, and not wanting to participate in sports, not metabolising too well, something… something wasn’t clicking…

“ Molecule of DNA forming inside the test tube in the blood test equipment.3d rendering,conceptual image.” | by CConnect world | Shutterstock

Now let’s run through the helix into chromosomes and the wondrous world of biology.

A call came through a few days after that chromo-bio class of which I was called a “fag”. In the doorway to the institutionalized black tabled room, there was a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Jar-Jar Binks (a lot of people really loved Jar-Jar Binks despite how much a racist symbol he became due to social media ( which would come out several years later)). Just two days before the diagnoses, I literally learned about the chromosome disorder I had (without knowing it was exactly what I had) when the teacher was going through her genetics materials and notes. The students reactions were grossed out by the description of the individual who had it.

“ Talk about a weirdo,” I heard one say.

The teacher went on to describe other chromosomal disorders to then draw out similar remarks from the students.

I honestly thought I didn’t have it, I thought I was just late to puberty because of my health problems. I also felt lost due to losing my friends and just felt maybe I needed to adjust to where I was and my life would somehow get together.

Other guys, who felt like they were older by voice would sometimes look at me like the younger one in the group because of my voice, and overweight stature. I remember another guy named Adam, I don’t know his last name, but he had blond highlights in his brown hair and an earring. He was a lot more overweight than me yet much taller. I would sometimes say hi to him because well I didn’t want him to feel out of place like I did.

Similarily in middle school, I would greet a (or the only) Down’s Syndrome student who I believe was named Laura in middle school as she only had the yard duty custodian to talk to her. I was made fun of by my friends for it, but I would sometimes go on the swing next to her to talk about her day. She smiled and laughed, and tried to bring out full sentences. The custodian helped in this shared communication, too.

Who knows maybe there is something about the other chromosome-typed people (like myself) and bonding that is somehow related to special education and mutual compassion.

The local endocrinologist courtesy, of my mother’s persistence then (and all the years before), and that she had to actually bring in my brothers to compare me to them, was ready to report his findings. I had also taken an extensive chromosome test.

The doctor pivoted and lunged himself by his bookcase onto his deskchair, and my mother and I were guided to chairs on the opposite side with his long swaying arm.

This was serious, or I was in the process of making a life-changing decision from the setting’s tone.

I glanced at my mother. She had long waited to hear this for the fiftteen years of my existence; this was what she had been fighting to find out my whole lifetime.

“ Adam, you have Klinefelter’s Syndrome.”

I snapped together from the moment, and turned into a prototype version of ChatGPT. I confidently explained what it was. My mother and the doctor were shocked. I had literally just been introduced to what it was in class as mentioned.

This timing correlation has played a part elsewhere in my life, but let’s continue.

I sat down. The doctor fixed his glasses and examined both of us to see if another outburst would occur. The doctor progressed further.

“ You’re infertile, Adam. You could adopt or your wife, if you go that route, could do in vitro.* ”

In vitro, or intracytoplasmic sperm injection was fairly new as it came out in 1991.

He went on to discuss that I might need to undergo surgery to remove my “breasts” or fattier chest, and that sex would be complicated, and I would have a wide variety of different physical/mental challenges growing up and on the road ahead.

I uncovered later on that there are variations of Klinefelter’s (XXY (47 chromosomes)); some of which can have intercourse normally and some fall into a sort of intersex range.

Much further ahead, on reflection, I feel that generally drug companies love to push that 1 in 500 men have it, but many doctors still don’t know about its ramifications and that it’s more like 1 in 100,000 (as XXY can be mixed with average or severe hypogonadism and other symptoms which may resemble XXY).

Often by this case, this is so such physicians can crank out steroids to readily assist (and profit from) the variations of XXY and boys/men which are made to think that they have it without checking their hormonal imbalances and chromosome count.

I just had a blood test done recently, uploaded the results to ChatGPT and it indicated that I have the hormonal structure of a post-menopausal woman yet I am biologically a man. Results appear later on. So, yay me! Now turn up the thermostat, it’s way too cold in here.

My older brother and my mother decided against the chest surgery. I’m SO glad they did, as the steroid process early on re-shaped my body (my chest, too).

On account of all of this, going forward, I would need to take bi-weekly injections of depo-testosterone to realign with a more normalized and socially accepted human male form, structure, and vocal tone.

We agreed.

Years later did I find out this was part experimental at the time, but the doctor insisted that what I was to embark on was the exact way to work with the syndrome towards proper development.

Had we never moved to South Carolina, and remained in the SF Bay Area, I am not sure the doctors would have ever committed that I had XXY. I may have become a drug addict or just a plain ol’ suicidal lunatic, or been ridiculed for my voice, weight, and health problems, and in dire need of attention.

Adding to the indoctrinated announcement, the doctor referred me to a psychiatrist as I would change in a variety of ways including mentally (confidence, and other factors), a deeper voice, acne (galore), hair all over, with bone and torso widening. Odd situations with recommended psychiatrist visits had become the norm since middle school, this prescription was no different.

Subsequently, I began having dry skin, in-grown toenails (at 4 or 5 years on the steroid) and odd imbalanced feelings from time-to-time; modified puberty, am I right?

The psychiatrist instantly, out of nowhere prescribed Zoloft as it was fresh off the pharmaceutical line — and BuSpar for possible anxiety that could hypothetically develop on the steroid. Surprisingly less than a year later, a local vet prescribed it for our German Shepherd who wasn’t that extremely aggressive as (like I mentioned) they needed to profit from the research on how she would react over time.

The pharmacy gave my mother a weird look when she added, “it’s for my dog.”

Unsure of this anti-depressant and anxiety medicine combo, and that her mother (who also moved out to SC with us) had also been prescribed Zoloft, too, tried it for a few dosages.

We both ended up dumping both pills earlier on and departing further treatment by my pill-pushing psychiatrist.

Often in the United States, a wide majority of modern doctors run on new-age merchant principles transformed from the days of the Merchant Companies. Despite marketing themselves as pacifying white coats of the community serving patients with a hospitable nourishing nature in line with the Hippocratic Oath, newly manufactured pharmaceutics are pushed out in a sort of promotional distributorship whereas doctors are rewarded for prescribing them.

This is not to suggest new drugs do not assist in the curing of, or treatment of suspected illnesses, it is to inform that previously successful methods and antibodies should still be accessible adjointly with recently implemented forms of developing chemical treatments.

The most famous individual who most likely ( as there has been theorizing) had Klinefelter’s Syndrome was the first President of the United States, General George Washington. I have heard of other historic figures who’ve been speculated as having similar symptoms inclusive of the disorder, but the details about Washington paint a different portrait that closely resembles one in such a genetic stature.

George Washington’s children were not biologically his own (he was believed to be infertile). His teeth were replaced because there were no available forms of depo-testosterone — or if he did have dairy allergies (which may/may not be XXY-specific) — had no available form of calcium to supplement his bone and cavity wear.

Sources have also suggested that the calomel mercury supplement he was given to treat his smallpox could have, in fact, been the jawbreaker.

“ London, UK, October 27, 2007 : George Washington statue erected outside The National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, which was presented by the Commonwealth of Virginia “ | by TTony Baggett | Shutterstock

[embed]“ History Has Its Eyes On You” — Hamilton (2016) — Asakai Takaya YT Channel

Washington ran a tobacco plantation, and like many of the plantation owners of the thirteen colonies he relied heavily on British Merchants and Bankers (like Thomas Barclay: The First American Diplomat) .

This is the side of American history, which Americans never hear of.

The Yankees were considered the merchants, bankers and often Zionists, and the rest of Americans were farmers, fieldworkers, workers, and servants. The Civil War is often traced with the purpose of abolishing slavery, but if you analyze the North ( the “Union of the Merchants Trade & the Northern Federal Government” or, simply, the Union) in comparison to the South, research will convey that merchants, industrialists, mercenaries and “organized” activities were of a major importance in Northern progress; the South (the Confederates) were of labor and reliance of profit through the Merchants.

The Southern Plantations were however raking in more money than the merchants (and like Tulsa, when a non-merchant body is more productive than a set merchant population there is a need to annihilate it by merchant hands).

Both supported slavery, both had racists.

One side managed wealth, the other production. Similar to the delivery of factories to Asia in the late 20th to early 21st century, industry, wealth and production shifted in the U.S. on account of this war.

As history dictates it, the North became victorious and the South was destroyed.

Merchants inherited the nation.

Before the American Day of Independence, Washington wrote **a letter (Founders.gov Link)** on the 20th of September in 1765 to the British merchant company who he sold his stock through, Robert Cary & Company, stating that his sales are (were) low of his Sweet scented tobacco (or tobo) in comparison to the common Aronoko Tobo (Oronoko Tobacco)((also, a popular 1688 fictional “Royal Slave” novel, Ooronoko). He inquires why his tobacco was not being valued like the other “good” tobacco plantations were.

“ for where a Person has money in a Merchants hands he shoud doubtless have all the benefits that can result from that money — and in like manner where he pays Interest for the use of the Merchants shoud he be entitled to the same advantages, otherwise it might well be asked for what purpose is it that Interest is paid?”

G.W. weighs his point in the letter to proclaim how harmful British taxation such as the Stamp Act have been for colonists and his company. This quote was a foreshadow to America’s greatest contrast of power, the Merchant to the Planter:

“ and if a stop be put to our Judicial proceedings it may be left to yourselves, who have such large demands upon the Colonies, to determine, who is to suffer most in this event — the Merchant, or the Planter.”

I personally did not know the first President, however a relative did.

Captain Eliakim Littell, who was also a memoir writer. The position of one of such status was called a memorialist (the term became, over time, synonymous with those who create obituaries). His memoirs can be explored in the U.S.’ National Archives: (link)

[embed]Founders Online: Search — Eliakim_Littell_Memoirs Searchfounders.archives.gov

Let’s get Injected.

(embedded video link, if not present below)

[embed]

The outcome:

“ CANNES, FRANCE — MAY 15, 2018: Chewbacca attends the photocall for ‘Solo: A Star Wars Story’ during the 71st annual Cannes Film Festival” | by Denis Makarenko | Shutterstock

Is this what it is like to become a normalized man?

The thought traveled through my mind as if stepping into the booted crunches of stacked Tahoe snow and gazing outward at the ski lift ready to take me up (don’t get me started on how I was terrified of skiing and other things prior; I tried skiing one time and have yet to try it again).

The long needled syringe was drawn with slightly viscous yellowed depo-testosterone, and I was instructed to lower my trousers slightly so that it could be inserted into the fatty area of my butt cheek or outward leg cushion. The steroid would enter. The recollection creeps in with an emergence of oozing warmth in the minutes after the syrupy liquid poured into my internals.

By the second or third shot, I noticed I was developing acne and my depressed mood swings formerly etched with occasional crying, were replaced with a yearning rage that at times would burst out.

Is this what men normally experienced, I considered?

Is this what men normally experienced, I considered?

My almost hairless body of before experienced plumes of hair puffing out from my arms, legs, face, chest, nether regions, and sideburns. I was in open palmed amazement, I had hair on my legs just like my younger and older brother, and my father. It was like I could associate with my gender of lineage, instead of believing I was already a normal male just with socially unacceptable physical developmental defects that society would point and berate me out for.

It was most notable when I suddenly pulled open a locked door when something set me off, and it yanked me out of the moment:

Wait, I am strong?

My older brother brought us into a situation where he would normally display his dominance towards me, and I would shuffle out quickly in submissive agreement — but NO! [BAM!] : not this time.

N O T | T H I S | T I M E |

I stood up in the living room while the television continued airing on schedule. He was like, “Adam, what’s wrong with you?!”

Dr. Hyde was reaching out as I pushed his chest out of the picture. He jostled back startled. He tried to knock me over, but I held my ground.

In seconds, the food dishes had been shuffled off the coffee table, and I was duking it out with a junior Olympian water polo player / multi-skilled athlete.

He lifted up from the Charlie Brown pile of #$@! , and turned to me in terror shaking his index finger, “You animal!” — kidding.

No, but what actually happened was he yelled out for our mother. She came round with a surprised face eying the situation, and me, “Well, it’s about time.”

My older brother departed my first initial fight-back victory refusing to accept this defeat was even real.

“ Monochrome of body of hairy adult man against white wall “ | by WK Lai | Shutterstock

You’re like: Hello! What did I sign up for reading this?

(I did not have the abs, beard or gray hair as depicted above, but I definitely had a coat of human wool.)

I could actually now shave hair off my face puff and not feel like I was pretend-practice shaving. Within several months, in my later year-15, my voice began deepening.

Would I have chosen to try the “transition” approach of today in 2000, had I known that it was an option (or heavily advertised as it has been through our media, and the medical world for research and financial accolade)?

Probably not, as our family tends to adhere to our birth genders as who we are. Sorry: BAM! Smoking gun in my face; I probably am a disservice to other XXYs who want to transition today- WOE ME — but, recall this all happened in the year 2000.

My Disclaimer of Today: you do what you want with your body, okayyyyy? I’m not no Eugenics King, y’all!

Part of being classified as the proud recipient of XXY came with it a dreary depiction of my future outcome based on this syndrome through resource depiction. Klinefelter recipients supposedly weren’t (in the year of our Lord, 2000 A.D.) able to attend college, drive, and do well financially- YET some could, so there was quite some speculation in the specs so-to-speak.

My mother found a highly supportive driving instructor for me after receiving my permit… after five attempts at the written test. It wasn’t that I didn’t study, it was me in a confidence bind.

It was a three-visits thing (twice a DMV visit). The first time I went there, and I felt like I couldn’t succeed and that I shouldn’t be able to drive, I looked down on myself; some of my answers were intentionally wrong, and I just wanted to give up. The next time, I tried again, okay 1 more wrong on both times; and the third I was confident that I could get it right and that I could drive like everyone else: I passed.

The first person who introduced me to controlling a vehicle was my older brother, with my younger brother in the back seat. He was convincing me how safe it was to drive a vehicle, as, despite my achievement, I sort of backed out of wanting to officially take the wh —

“Adam, get into the car, it will be fine.”

At the end of the street, as I was trying to back out of a driveway, I pressed the accelerator and we flew towards a mailbox all reciting in unison, “Oh my God!”; I hit the brakes just in time.

We all burst out laughing. Maybe, I can learn to be what I’m supposed to be and I can make mistakes along the way.

I learned how to drive that year (South Carolina’s permits started at age 15), despite the media telling me what I could and couldn’t do because of this “condition”.

To be a normal male, you got to be a normal male.

It said here (where is it?), in a past resource that my “kind” didn’t do well in school or math, I did fine.

It said, I had a higher chance of being stuck on shy mode, that I would soon become a criminal, depression would take me over, and sadly I (supposedly) couldn’t do a lot of things.

In other words, modern day trolls would have been ideal for writing restrictively enforced condition resources for medical diagnoses back in the day.

Because of the transition (okay, not the right word in our modern times, and ironic for this article, but I will use it because it was a literal transition), and that the current public school did not have a solid counselor program as other students were noticing that I had to be on something… and that the end goal was to enroll in a more supportive school… I left the school at the end of my first sophomore semester and experienced being homeschooled.

Shape Shifting into Life

There weren’t e-courses back then. We had the textbooks, and the correspondence workbooks. My parents paid for further instruction for some teacher-tutor days. The added free time allowed me to, well, work on me while I was changing in my bone structure and layout. By the time my tentacles started exiting my body, and my wings ripped out of my back — got you there!

I was also enrolled in the **Art Instruction Schools correspondence program starting after my Freshman year (I think), of which I hope to get on Medium one day for the world to see (as I still have the booklets)[note, I got in contact with the former president, and he said that this is not an option]**, especially those who always wanted to enter in that newspaper cut-out art contest ad.

Side note, I had wanted to be a Disney animator growing up, was into drawing, art; heck I even said maybe I should become a doctor like my mother’s father to my mother’s father (yes, I told a Littell physician this). I guess those characteristics and want-to-be’s have actually shaped my worldview in ways that aren’t career-specific but applied-interest oriented.

LS: You should get back into drawing, Adam.

I’d like to introduce you to Limerence Sea Star (LS) . He’s based off a younger person who I shared my life’s story with this year inspiring me to put this bio together.

“ Group of happy healthy senior women enjoying sportive lifestyle swimming in the pool — active retirement concept “ | by CroMary | Shutterstock

My mother was vehement that I had to start working and not wait for my body to catch up to becoming a normal teenager. So, I followed in my older brother’s footsteps and became a lifeguard (with a friendly shove from my mother), just not for an exterior pool, though.

“ Hands, lifeguard and whistle by swimming pool for water safety, security or ready for rescue indoors. Hand of expert swimmer holding signal tool for warning, safe swim or responsibility for awareness “ | by PeopleImages | Shutterstock

I took the American Red Cross program and guarded at an indoor swimming pool in Bluffton, South Carolina. I had about a 20–25-minute commute. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, and XXY resource manuals of the time, I got my driver’s license.

I was becoming braver after tackling the obstacles going forward onto a so-called normalcy.

I didn’t have a cellular phone back then, so when I did a shift on the lifeguard chair I kept my eyes in the moment combined with my proactive attention, with hints of daydreaming.

There was a lot to think about as the senior synchronized swim team rehearsed every so often to “God Bless America” for their September 11th memorial show about a month in a half after the horrific and infamous events of 9–11 occurred.

“ New York, USA — September 2001: International Newspapers headlines about 9–11 2001 attack “ | by Walter Cicchetti | Shutterstock

It was the start of my junior year at my new supportive private school I was abled to successfully apply into (my younger brother was also enrolled there). My homeschool semester involved me doing errands driving, the job and finding how behind I was due to my mixed public school education. It took work, but with my newly gained confidence and the realization I could drive, and start to become more like guys around me: I wanted to make the difference count (as did my parents and the tutors).

It was just into my Junior year (school started in August and ended in May in South Carolina) as we were having school anouncements in the gym, (which I didn’t particularily enjoy because of the zero-back comfort risers) when I heard the news.

Back problems, like osteoporosis and spine curvature reconfiguration(s), are developed through not having enough calcium (lack of dairy) and my waning levels of testosterone (which occurred on and off the week before the next dosage). But, no, not a problem — I could take it, I had to be a man. This is what I am, I have the ingredients and know that I have to fit. This is who I have to be.*

I was shocked at first as one of the educational clubs was going to New York city that week, and so when they announced “ the plane hit one of the Twin Towers in New York City”, I searched around to see if everyone was there.

Members of the class had relatives in New York.

One of my cousins, tragically lost the woman he was planning to proposed to, who worked at one of the towers of the World Trade Center.

Devastation swept the country.

My younger brother was out sick, and was greeted by our mother who was in tears. Confused and groggy, he thought that one of the dogs had passed away.

I recall Bank Of America’s transparent “United We Stand” window stickers, and the sudden deployment of troops from South Carolina.

The day of September 11th hit in such a way that nothing else mattered. All of the classes unanimously had the television sets running the story. Some students were crying as they had family members in the area who they couldn’t get in contact with. Several students were being picked up all throughout the day.

The false search of the War for the Weapons of Mass Destruction began in Afghanistan with the search for Osama Bin Laden, and the eventual detour war to kill Saddam Hussein.

I was alone for a good majority of the pool job. There were other people, on occasion, and pool customers, but it was at times just me there.

Didn’t have to worry about looters or gun violence (as much). It was surprisingly a different time —

“ A car parked, with door open, on the side of the road, underneath a street light. On a foggy winters night “ | by Raggedstone | Shutterstock

Until one night, when a man jumped in my (family’s) green Mercury Villager van front passenger seat when I was enroute back home.

If I had not been on the bi-weekly injections, I don’t know if I would have been brave enough to mutter out a lie to convince the person to leave the vehicle. I never once looked down to see what he was packing, and it could have been much worse had I angrily forced him to just leave.

With the fluctuations of my testosterone levels every week ( the energetic first week, the mood swings and tiring/sometimes depressing end of the second week) I would have rage moments. Both my younger brother and mother were cautious about this after my banging on doors, objects and yelling off the wall during my “ anger episodes” early on. On account of this, my mother administered the injection to me at night when the time came round and I locked myself in my room for their safety. I also had to take sleep medication to assist in balanced slumber.

One such episode occurred on the job. A fellow lifeguard who, right off the bat, indicated I was weird, would do subtle things to get me agitated to excite me towards a fight; or maybe, it was just his nature.

I was cleaning up the restrooms before closing up and the guy flash-bombed some insults close by to get me annoyed. I turned back to him, and he said, “what’re you looking at, faggot?”

The term was really in style back then.

I took a towel from the bathroom, doused it in the pool to put on some water weight. I went up to him and launch-whipped him onto the cement.

He got up, and punched at my chest (fortunately, I was still flabby) and threatened to report me to the police. He didn’t. I think he quit, too; never saw him afterwards.

I was so angry yet humiliated.

“Adam, you just have to keep it in, you have to be normal”- I breathed in as I continued to rinse off the cement floors in the restroom in silence. I vowed to control myself with these intervals.

Adam, you just have to keep it in, you have to be normal

With this role and having learned about pitching into volunteering from both of my parents who together have a noticeable (understatement) track record of volunteering alongside their work experiences, and other instances of reaching out to help beforehand, I jumped at the chance to help customers.

That is the key feature which made this first job experience so rewarding, it promoted my need to be proactive and purposefully helpful.

Time went on, and my school experience began shaping me for the better.

“ waving colorful national flag of great britain. macro shot “ | by Eesfera | Shutterstock

But the moment where I found myself, in a transitioning light (LS: hey, don’t use my terminology) was during a trip to the United Kingdom as my younger brother was invited into a summer program at Cambridge ( — which was just two months after *Spider-Man’s epic 2002 release, a few days after [Men In Black II](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1RVRCd6J2NA&list=RD1RVRCd6J2NA&start_radio=1)*’s release).

It was during a tour in Ireland, when all of the sudden I experienced an epiphany with confidence that I could exit the tour wagon and take the initiative to walk the rest of the way.

I had no idea how long the rest of the way was. I never felt that prior, due to being sick and without consistent testosterone or any (as the endocrinologist put it).

And from this one walk, grew many.

[embed]- I WAS RUNNING — “ Forrest Gump (1994) — Run, Forrest, Run! Scene | Movieclips — Rotten Tomatoes YT Channel

(embedded link for video above)

I lost weight, and for the first time in my life at 17, I felt like I could fit in with boys my age.

Some of the other athletic individuals in my senior class came over to talk to me… but unlike the movies, I was terrified and uncomfortable with this.

I started backing away, and was puzzled as to what they wanted with me. I kept trying to avoid further conversation. So, whenever I saw them with their smiling faces, I would go out of my way to walk around them. Thus, I began eating my lunch during the first break instead. I looked back one time, and one wondered: “Is it me?”

“ Cheerleader, woman jump to sky for sports performance or celebration with energy outdoor. Cheerleading person dance in nature with space for training, exercise and sport competition to celebrate goal ” | by PeopleImages | Shutterstock

In a way, I did try football team. In my Junior year, while I was still panda-chubby and not as athletic, I wanted to approach this school differently as I entered from homeschooling and with a wheel burrow of catching up. I asked how I could help the team. Long-story short, as I failed the who-was-what-where test, I was selected to film a game. I mentioned I had some experience when making movies with a friend from California.

They invited me into a bus, after school, and we headed out to Columbia, South Carolina.

This is what I’m supposed to do, be with the guys — be a part of the athlete scene. But I also sort of cornered myself from completely socializing. Just laugh with them, maybe get into “awe mode” when they talk about girls at the school or female models.

The coach and the players shuffled off into the locker room, and I didn’t desire to go in there (we’ll get to why). Despite acting to fit in on the bus, this was where I drew the line. I said, I should practice getting a feel for the camera again, and the coach handed me the case.

I saw the bleacher seats beginning to fill up on the high school field, and viewed and studied the opposing high school’s team scrimmage and drill runs.

One part of me told myself you brought yourself here to be with the guys, you should try — no, I can’t, it would be awkward, I couldn’t do this. They don’t know me and I can be safe out here.

The team jogged out with the coach enthused about the plays discussed in the locker room.

One of the players tapped my shoulder, “ maybe, you can practice with us next time for your part on the team.”

I nodded with a slight grin.

*C’mon, Adam, they want you to be a part of the group *with the guys **— I told myself.

“ Adam, take the camera case up on top of the bleachers. Tape the game. We’re counting on you.”

I nodded. I didn’t know if I really wanted to be a part of the group. I honestly felt like pouring out tears and running to the payphone to call someone to pick me up.

No, Adam, just keep it in — you’re not wimpy anymore. Just be like them. In all of the films, this is what guys do… be a part of the wolf pack… like your older brother in all his sports teams…

I… I… couldn’t.

My mind was reeling. The game began.

Okay, I’ve seen enough SuperBowl games to know where I had to film. I took a breath and smiled back at the coach. I kept holding back tears. They’re all having fun. I was hit with a lot of emotions. I wanted to run away from that field but I couldn’t.

Just hold it in. I’m not a fucking baby. I pressed “record”.

I couldn’t take it, and panned back to the cheerleaders, and then back at the game, then the cheerleaders.

What am I doing here? — my body screamed. Just be silly with this; I’m not going to be a part of this team. I don’t belong here. I never belonged here. I. I got silly and kept zooming in and out, while catching my breath.

The game ended.

We lost… I mean they lost… the team that was representing the school I attended.

There was no “we”, I didn’t want to be a part of it.

The coach thanked me, and the team rushed into the locker room. I said I had to go get snacks from the other side of the field, mentioning my parents gave me a few dollars.

Part of me now wonders if it was because of AWC’s betrayal, mixed with other things I was feeling on the testosterone.

The team’s reaction to me the next week, though, was priceless.

“ You filmed the cheerleader’s cartwheels while we performed a solid block: hilarious, Adam!”

The coach wasn’t amused. I was kicked off the team.

I exhaled, relieved and I walked away from the high school field. It was for the best.

Maybe, I was just distracted, that’s all.

[embed]“ Hey Baby”, No Doubt — No Doubt YT Channel (2002)

But now, a year later, I had lost weight, gained muscle and an English teacher innapropriately commented that I was “looking fit” as I adjusted my shorts near the back white board.

One of the jocks who had a well-funded backing, and who showcased his bright yellow H2 Hummer (which was all the rage back then) later in 2003, attempted to tackle me.

I tripped back, but got up. I laughed. The guy I was the last year would have sulked off.

That same Hummer guy was also the first person to show up on campus with an Apple iPod (and I didn’t know what the big deal was until he explained what it was capable of).

I was actually happy about fitting in this manner. However, I wasn’t really drawn to fitting into the overall hierarchy.

I wasn’t really drawn to fitting into the hierarchy.

A Covered Look Back

Years before, after kindergarten at the private religious school, I recall teachers getting involved because I would often want to be alone near the school’s electric shed. I felt compelled to play with plants or use the play structure… or solely wander alone.

You have to socialize with them, they would tell me. So, I did through going to people’s homes, having hang out-days at my family’s; sleepovers and birthdays, you know?

But sometimes, I would get uptight when kids from school would say “hello” outside of school, or would want me to talk during lunch period. I stuck to small talk in public spaces.

From third (grade) through middle school, while still goofy, many students suggested/predicted I would get into comedy, something creative or something media-specific.

Outside of that student zone, when exterior to that of a school function or waiting for the bus I sort of wanted to be me, but not adhere to being part of the social swing of things: what they wanted me to be.

Sometimes I would cover my face with my hand (as if prepping myself for COVID-19 decades in advance), or I would hide in the bushes away from people walking by.

I’d sit alone on the bus and reflect with the 90s pop music on the radio, watching the patterns of stops pass and the thankfulness to be heading home for the day.

I also did this hand gesture called the “Maggie” symbol after our German Shepherd of the same namesake: thumb to middle and ring, index and pinky up.

I encouraged others in my other classes to follow my gestured lead.

Actually, the push to start a cult following and to go against the “normal” that they want you to be (for others) happened or initialized in third grade…

CONTINUATION: ATTACK OF THE UNDERWEAR