Mind, Body, Spirit: Part Two

My friend, Dorge, who urged me to begin this blog, posted about realizing he had become a scrooge.  I commented that he was the person who taught me the meaning of the word "apathy," and my internal dictionary imposes a picture of his smirking face next to the word as a reminder.  I wrote to him, after reading and being moved by his lament, that I would try to move his face to "lament" instead.  I had to look up that word to be sure it fit what I was saying. 

Again, I'm only an English minor.

So I have been thinking along those lines; I need to give more without being a cynical bitch about it. 

When I was younger, I didn't really get to be a kid for long.  Some of it was my parents' fault, some of it was my own.  My mother was diagnosed with bipolar and spent time locked in her room or in hospitals.  My father wasn't around until I expressed interest in meeting him when I was eleven, which I would have done much earlier if I had known.  Add a perverted step-dad, some other perverts, way too much responsibility, and not enough positive attention, BAM!  Steph was a mess.

I gave.  And I gave.  Family, friends, boyfriends, enemies even.  I gave my time, energy, innocence, love, janitorial skills, money, rides, gifts, cooking prowess (ha), my soul!!  Okay, I got to soul and knew I was going a little far.  At least I stopped.

But really.  I gave a lot.  I used to drive friends around all of the time and my mom yelled at me for it.  "You're wasting all that gas and they don't even help you pay for it.  Don't be driving your friends around; they don't drive you around when you need it."  And she was right. 

But later in life I had to drive her around a lot.  I would say I was getting her back for all the times she drove me around, but Mom always acted like I was asking her a ride to the moon if I wanted to go anywhere I couldn't walk to.  I had just become a mother and I wanted my life with my family and I was damn bitter.  I needed to finally really focus on me and even more, my son.  I was tired of doing for other people and not getting anything in return most of the time. 

It took me awhile to learn to take care of myself.  Actually, the more accurate description would be "to become selfish."  I didn't realize that until recently.  I thought I was just thinking about myself, but no.  It was not as healthy as that should be.  So what do I deem healthy?  Glad you asked.

You shouldn't put other people's needs so far above your own that you neglect yourself.
You should care about how you make others feel.
You should communicate with others about how they make you feel.
You should give of yourself freely, but do not allow people to take advantage of you.
The best people to assist are those who are willing to help themselves.
If people can't help themselves, maybe you should help them when you can.
Most of all, help those who help you, and don't be afraid to ask for help when you need it. 

I may be wrong about some of these things being gospel, but I know that I need a little more love in my life.  In the coming year, I vow to do at least 3 charity walks, and not just sign up, but actually walk.  I also want to feed people who are hungry.  I want to show my mom I'm there for her when I can.  I want to volunteer at my son's school and take him to volunteer with me somewhere that helps less fortunate kids.  I will do these things and more.  I will help friends move, I'll babysit, and I'll bake. 

You bet your ass I'll write for every one of you also.  Try and keep up.

Mind, Body, Spirit: Part One

Inhale.  Exhale.  Clean air.  Too clean, even in this valley.  Seems it would be appreciated, but sometimes I forget how to appreciate things.  Now is one of those times.

It feels dark inside.  Lonely.  Where does strength go when I really need it?  I have to make it go away, the feelings of emptiness and uselessness.  I don't want your pity.  I'm not reaching out.  This is merely a request from a dear friend who wanted to read my mind.  I miss you and yours fiercely.  It used to be if I was lost, I could find myself inside your arms.  I need those arms.  These are excerpts from the things I've been writing:

I saw a girl and she was beautiful.  And she knew how to smile.  I'm sure she has known fear, but she has never been alone.  I wish I knew what that felt like--to not know how it feels to be alone.  Because, in life, once you're swept away, no anchor in sight, no land to reach for, it's so hard to ever trust that everything will be okay, to know that love is real, to find a secure place to be yourself.

Depression doesn't tie itself into a neat little box.  It's not just a change in attitude, an easy fix.  Sometimes it grabs me from behind and takes me in the night, gagged and bound.  When the blindfold is removed I still can't see the end.  My eyes strain.  Nothing.

Not that I enjoy nothing; it just feels like the default is set at "shitty."  Life isn't shitty.  Just me.  Does that mean something is wrong with me?  Do I need medication?  I don't want to be dependent on medication and I really don't think I need it.  It feels like that would just be trading one co-dependency for the next.  I depend on people too much, build my life around them.  Substances, self-medication.  Other bullshit.

Why don't I write more?  Sometimes I hate being a writer.  I try to resist it, even.  As much as it helps me, it's ridiculous how in touch with my emotions I have to be to write.  It seems it makes me vulnerable to this.  To wondering about and obsessing over all the endless possibilities and pieces of life without just enjoying it.  Damn being a woman, too. 

I used to insist I would age gracefully, but I was fucked up a lot back then, maybe delusional.  There's no grace in this fear of everything.  Before I had my child, I didn't really fear death.  In fact, I taunted it almost everyday in some way.  Now it feels like I'm dying, like everyday my cells flake away in the dry heat and it's a part of me that will never return.  But aren't we all dying?  That's why it's most important to enjoy the short time we do have without always worrying about the tomorrow that may or may not come.  Today.  Right now. 

I'm so scared of losing something I've never even had; it's just an idea to me, a happy family of my own.  Time together daily to connect without exhaustion being the cost.  Maybe it's in the future.  Maybe not. 

Change is hard; stagnation is worse. 

Love/Hate=Appreciate

Breasts.  Boobs.  Tits.  Titties.  Cans.  Jugs.  Melons.  Sweater meat.  Air bags.  Fun bags.  Sand bags.  Bouncing Bettys.  A Woman’s Real Eyes.  Conversation Pieces.  Erotic Mountains.  Hooters.  Mammary Glands.  Mosquito Bites.  Penis Pillows.  Dirty Pillows.  Fat Nancies.  Chesticles.  Mammary meat.  Knockers.  Ta-tas.

I wasn’t breastfed as a baby, so that’s not where this obsession is coming from.  Bottle fed, straight up.  I do, however, remember seeing my mother nude as a young child and noticing how large her 38DDs were.  I didn’t really pay attention to other peoples’ breasts, unless they were just shaped weird or extremely huge, so I felt like Mom’s natural chest was what a woman was supposed to look like.  In my evening bath I sucked in my stomach really far to pretend like the bottoms of my ribcage were my nipple-less symbols of womanhood. 

In elementary school kids were already romanticizing a grown-up life and rushing their childhoods.  We wanted to stay up late, earn money, grow body hair, drive, wear deodorant and bras.  As of yet, we had no idea how much most of that stuff sucks.  The girls wanted to start their periods and the guys talked about our bodies like we were merely caterpillars about to turn into butterflies.  We all wanted breasts like they were our beautiful wings.  Beautiful wings made of fat.  And most of us wanted big ones.  These sixth grade boys never spoke of their admiration for small breasts; maybe some of them learned their preference later, after they actually saw or touched a real breast or learned that it’s more about the sum of a woman’s parts that makes her interesting, or maybe they learned how to go against the general peer consensus later. 

So the rumors spread through the school and impressionable young minds.  Eating peanut butter made your boobs grow.  Jumping up and down would make them bigger.  It was time to press your hands together under your chin and work out those muscles behind your pert pre-pubescent nipples.  Of course the peanut butter thing worked if you ate enough of it.  But you never can tell whether all of that fat is going to settle instead in your ass, hips, or thighs, which is more likely since gravity pulls it down.  While we’re on the subject of gravity, the jumping up and down can only make your boobs saggier; believe me, this is the method I chose for my experimentation.  I remember myself in my friend’s bathroom mirror around age ten, considering how it surely couldn’t hurt.  I jumped for several minutes, and I recall my gullibility often enough to wonder if anyone heard me and if they wondered why on earth I was jumping in their bathroom.  I toy with the ideas of what I would have said if they had asked me.  “In girl scouts we visited Cherokee and I learned a pee dance” or “I jump when I’m craving peanut butter.  Do you have any?” 

Those pre-breast years were tough.  I got made fun of for my hairstyles (bad perms, mullets, poof to the max), my clothes, my shoes, not having boobs.  I don’t remember growing boobs.  I just remember having boobs.  Then, the ridiculous attention was something different.  My best friend and I jogged in gym class while the guys sat in the bleachers waging bets on “would Stephanie or Emily get knocked out first.”  It took a bit for me to figure out what they meant.  After it sunk into my blonde head, I don’t remember any feelings of shame.  I had already begun to learn how useful my breasts were as I sat in the bleachers getting shoulder and back massages from the same gambling guys. 

Outside of gym class, guys didn’t harass me anymore.  To be fair, I didn’t get anymore bad perms or anything, I only colored my hair with blue food coloring and ended up turning it green, but when you have boobs your hair just doesn’t matter anymore.  It seemed quite the opposite actually.  I didn’t get asked out a lot, but nearly every day there was a guy knocking on my door to talk to me on my porch.  Were they listening to all my bullshit and poetry just because I had breasts?  I was quickly learning to wield my magical chest powers.

But with great power comes great responsibility.  That means wearing a bra.  I don’t remember my first bra shopping experience, probably because it wasn’t as traumatic as it is now, but we’ll get to that later.  How exciting!  An extra piece of clothing to remember.  And one day, I did forget to put it on.  It wasn’t as horrible as the day I forgot deodorant since my breasts were still reasonably youthful and perky, which didn’t last but a few years thanks to all the jumping up and down.  And at least forgetting a bra doesn’t make you stink.

In ninth grade, my boobs even got me out of gym class.  At the same time, they terrified the ever-living shit out of me, those multi-tasking rascals.  I found a lump while conducting the self breast exam I had just learned.  I took it to my mother (the concern, not just the lump—I’m not surgeon), who also became concerned.  She took me to the doctor, who wasn’t as concerned but told me to keep checking them regularly.  I was put on medication and taken off of physical activity.  So I practically became the gym teacher’s aid for the remainder of the year, getting his tea and fixing it just the way he liked it, which helped prepare me for my fabulous life as an overweight waitress later.

Ever since this run in with fibrous tissue in my breasts, I have been terrified of breast cancer.  Maybe even before then.  When your breasts are obvious and everyone is talking about this obviously horrible thing that could happen inside them, it stands to reason that you should obviously be scared shitless.  It took me a long time to understand that boobs just aren’t smooth and you can’t freak out over every little thing that feels weird.  I still get my annual exams and do my monthly exams, which I urge you to do also.  Yes, even you men.  Your breasts may not be as prominent, but they can still kill you with undetected cancer, just like the rest of your body.

But fear of cancer isn’t the only negative thing that comes with having breasts.  If for a moment I enjoyed the attention they got me, I quickly learned that it wasn’t often a good thing that people paid too much attention to certain body parts.  Some guys hugged me for a little too long, or folded an arm in front of their chest so it would rub against my boobs as we embraced.  I started noticing that some of those massages started going from back to shoulder to collarbone to ummm…that wasn’t part of the deal.  There were times that I sat or laid in silence, pretending to be asleep or not to notice the horny fingertips attempting a sly grope-fest.  Other times I had the pleasure of slapping or punching a guy in the face.  I don’t know what separated these reactions; it wasn’t just the people.  Maybe it was more of the mood I was in or how achy my back was. 

That’s another problem with breasts, especially when they’re large.  They are heavy and your body has to work to hold them up.  You need to be strong, and see, as I mentioned before, I skipped on some gym classes, and I’ve had back problems ever since junior high.  It’s a catch-22 though, isn’t it?  I have large breasts so my back hurts so I want someone to rub it for me so they try to cop a feel so I feel used and shamed and learn that’s what men really like about me.  I sometimes felt like I was whoring myself for massages.  And I think that the guys looked at it as some form of payment.  Just for general information:  that’s not ok. 

Whoring away (I just wanted to see if I could start a paragraph with that, and I did) as I did, I learned how to use my assets.  I didn’t flash or flaunt them much.  Hell, I didn’t need to.  Their presence seemed to get things done.  In high school, I saw a shirt on T-shirt Hell that read, “I’ll be Using These to my Advantage” and “These” was large across the chest.  I wanted that shirt, but never got it.  I guess boobs don’t get you everything.  They did get me a great set of matching dents that press forever into either of my shoulders courtesy of the bra straps.

And oh, the bras.  Shopping for them quickly became one of the worst parts.  It was an annual excursion that has pained me since I surpassed the D-cup, and even more when I outgrew my DD bras.  First, I’d look for the plainest, ugliest sons-of-bitches on the racks, because they don’t make larger bras sexy.  They come in three colors:  white, black, and nude (which is the color I affectionately refer to as “Grandma”).  They don’t have patterns, lace, less than three or four crazy sets of hooks.  Many of the ones that actually offer good support and coverage would never allow you to show some cleavage in the turtlenecks you have to wear to cover the damn things.  And to keep them from getting chafed and smelling like sweaty testicles, Gold Bond Medicated Body Powder, which really just leaves them smelling like old man balls after an entire day of activity.

But sometimes a little powder and push-up just isn’t enough.  I was dying for a breast reduction by the time I was old enough to drink.  In a bar once, I was wearing the Playtex 18-hour bra that I’ve been purchasing over and over for more than a decade.  I don’t know what Playtex calls it, but I call it Alcatraz.  Anyway, I had a tight shirt on over it, and I was heading toward the bathroom.  A woman exited the bathroom, saw my breasts, and did a double-take.  I don’t remember which of us was more drunk as we argued over whether or not my breasts were real.  I do know for a fact that I was right, as usual.  I didn’t show her, but I think she wanted me to.  I told her my bellybutton would tell her that they were definitely real.  You know, because they talk since they’re so close and all. 

In another bar at another time, I told one of my mom’s friends that I wanted a reduction and she and her huge natural breasts were appalled.  She asked me why.  I told her because they hurt and I hate wearing bras and I want them to look nice.  She said natural was way better and not to wear a bra.  “What if you lost feeling in your nipples?” she screeched in horror.  I only shrugged.  Glare.  I do take her advice more often about not wearing a bra.  I hardly ever wear one inside my house, which may put off a couple of my friends, but if you can’t handle it, then you shouldn’t be in my house.  Those who live in my house (mainly my boyfriend), however, only get irritated that they find bras all around the house because I just take them off as soon as I stop and throw it in a “get thee hence, demon” style.  Although my mom’s friend changed my mind about the constant necessity of bras, she didn’t change my mind about the reduction. 

That change of mind came much later.  After I had my son, precisely.  While I was pregnant, I decided to breastfeed.  I read books about the subject and I couldn’t think of anything negative about the process.  I was ready for these things to finally be put to their intended use.  I finally got to feed my son for the first time, I think.  I wasn’t really sure who it was because the little parasite just clutched alternating sides of my bosom for the weeks to come.  I got intimate with his cheek and ear and one eye, when it was open.  Every now and then I saw his milk-soaked face come up for a good breath or nap, but I didn’t see it long because I had to run to the bathroom and relieve myself or to the kitchen to replenish some of the vitamins he was mining from my body. 

As he matured into infancy, my son and I settled into our brilliantly symbiotic relationship with the breastfeeding.  He was an extremely healthy kid and I decreased my risk of breast and ovarian cancer.  I didn’t have to sell my soul to buy formula and I lost thirty pounds in three months.  I didn’t have to get up and make bottles and he didn’t have to wait for them.  I remember these things rather than the nipple leakage and engorgement.  Call me an optimist.

Neither the size of my breasts nor the shape mattered here, and it was wonderful.  Well, except for the fact that I could lie on my side and flop my nipple into my son’s mouth as he lay beside me on the bed.  Or that he could lie in my lap and eat without mommy having to strain her back.  I’m reminded of women in Africa who stretch their breasts to feed their babies on their backs as they work the fields.  Anyway, the point is that sometimes breast reductions interfere with milk production and flow, so I knew if there was any chance of having another child, then I couldn’t sever those lines of healthy living.

Even if I don’t have another child, healthy living is still the way to go.  Although I sometimes felt like my breasts prevented me from working out, or making a successful shot at the game of pool, I can make them smaller with a healthy diet and exercise, which my life needs for every part of me.  My mom always said the boobs were the first thing to go when you lost weight.  When I’m at a healthy weight, my breasts are also at a healthier weight; if I get really healthy I may even be able to fit into some of those pretty D-cup bras and have the core muscles to support it well.  That sounds hot.  Has to be a lifestyle change because it’s too easy to look down and just see breast and not think about the spare tire underneath.  Sometimes I lift them up and peer around and go “oh shit!”  I think I need more mirrors.

We all have love/hate relationships with our bodies in one way or another.  Struggles with health, beauty, ability, bowel control.  I acknowledge that many women wish they could endure my struggle, and maybe I’ve convinced them otherwise.  I must say I am rather pleased with my body in general.  In fact, these 29-year-old breasts have grown on me.  They’ve obviously helped shape who I am.  I can be proud of that.

Technology frustrates me

I was just logging in to write a blog and trying to figure out what I wanted to talk about besides the fact that it's been too damned long, when I was notified that I had to change my Google account because the one I was using was owned by WVSU.  Apparently I'm not the only one with access to my private emails.  This is what I get for not reading the fine print of privacy policies.

Now, I did decide to use my school email address when I signed up for Blogger because my old email address is mostly spam and I hardly use it.  I have others but I'm not really one who cares to keep up with several different accounts.  I have enough to do, really.  And I do still like to have a life.  This is why I cancelled my Myspace, and now everyone is moving along to other social networking bit by bit.  Well, I'm not a social media gypsy, people.  So I figured, I use this email the most and check it regularly, why not keep this simple. 

Well that's what I get for not knowing what I'm doing.  I don't know how exactly the split happened when I was forced to change it, but I did just notice that the blogs I've been following are not there.  I'm sure there are other unpleasant surprises lurking somewhere.  I'll bet it changed my YouTube too.  Grrrr.

Explain it if you want, friend.  You know who you are.  No need to.  I truly don't care.

Except that it pisses me off.

Other things with technology make me angry too.  It's all related to how little I know, but hear me out.  Yes, I admit it's my own fucking fault.  I'm still not going to learn it and I'm going to keep complaining about it.  What are you going to do about it?

That's what I thought.

Now I just got Spotify because I don't have any music on this computer and, again, I know nothing.  Not saying anything bad.  I'm liking it for now.  I got a Dave song first, so I'm good.  And then I just realized I can still get that Pandora radio station.

You know what else?  My favorite technology is truly still fire, paper, the printing press, inkpens, music, medicine, the fermenting process, and some video games.  And HVAC.  So I'm a diva.

A diva who is going to go do what my friend Roger suggested when I told him I really want to clean up a bit, lie on the couch and eat and watch Cheers.  He told me to lie lengthwise with my feet up, no pants on, with a bag of Doritos.  Yes.  I only have 1/4 Doritos in the Munchies, but it'll do.

I said I feel like I have to produce.  I don't have to, but I hope this has been somewhat entertaining.

The rest of this was going to be complaining about how little I know of video and audio technology, but I figure I've been learning enough shit to say I'm just getting pissed and learning more.

End rant :) with <3

What is your first memory?

This was our first writing prompt in my Creative Nonfiction Workshop.  We have been reading about memory in Tell it Slant:  Writing and Shaping Creative Nonfiction, our text.  I like what's coming to mind lately regarding memory and how I can take a subject and trace it through the years.  This is unfinished, but I wanted to share and get any thoughts, if there are any.

Again, I appreciate each of you, sweet readers.  And I always welcome an argument or compliment if you have either ;) And even more wonderful, a conversation (which is what "argument" nearly means to me anyway). What is your earliest memory?

     What does it take for a memory to qualify as one’s first memory?  I hardly feel like some of the dazzling fragments I remember would pass.  This feels incomplete, as most memory actually is, but I want to tell it anyway because I believe I can place myself inside a home from my early childhood.  There are bits and pieces in my mind of my Granny’s old home on Thompson Street in Oak Hill where my mother and I lived with her for awhile when I was a toddler.

     I had a playroom off the kitchen at the rear of the house that served as my personal heaven, where I played with my See-N-Say and red and blue shape-sorter before I placed them in my Strawberry Shortcake toy box constructed of what felt like particle board.  In fact, the whole house seems heavenly in my memory.  Why wouldn’t it when I was the first grandchild of the family living with her Granny?  She took a ton of pictures, but I don’t recognize this particular home in many of them, so I can assume these memories are genuine as they can be when resurrected from the deep recesses of my mind. 

     I felt loved and safe in the home on Thompson Street.  I was always surrounded by people who adored me, which is something I still long for today.  My mother, Granny, and my aunts never minded when I slid my body down to their laps and silently begged for a good back-tickling.  Granny was always ready with a grilled cheese sandwich and pickles.

     The house was large compared with the apartments and trailers I had been used to and those I lived in afterwards.  There was a piano in the living room and saloon-style doors leading to the hall.  Someone used to play bass notes on the piano while another person sauntered comically down the stairs or through the saloon doors.  This reminds me of a wolf for some reason.  Maybe they were acting out a scene from a cartoon.

     In one of the bedrooms I busted my head on a wooden potty chair and went to the hospital for my first of three sets of stitches in my face.  The second set occurred years later on a curb outside that very house when I fell from my older friend’s too-large bicycle.  I don’t remember the first set of stitches or that particular bedroom.  I do remember a small bedroom upstairs where I slept on my bed under a bottomless Smurf tent made of plastic and vinyl.  The only other bedroom I recall was my uncle’s because it was the strange space belonging to of a young man.  It was dark and intriguing.  It had a sloped ceiling and a dart board and other things I wasn’t allowed to touch. 

     The front sitting room had a picture window where I could see the tree in the front yard which boasted a rickety tree house I was also not allowed to explore.  I associated most of the things I wasn’t allowed to touch with my uncle, so this was his tree house also.  The backyard had a clothes line that looked like antennae and pebbles that I was delighted to explore while the adults did laundry.

     I deduced that these were some of my earliest memories that seemed my own after trying for days to think of one particular time or event that happened earliest of those I recall.  Even today when I go to Oak Hill I try to drive past the house when it’s convenient.  Although I’m not even sure how long I lived there (and I’m sure it wasn’t long), I have just realized that was definitely the very first place I can call home.

J-O-B

I've been blogging and worrying lately about jobs and where my life will go once school is over.  And rightfully so; this is my final semester.  What do I want to do when I grow up?

I just wanted to take a moment to tell everyone something that is on my mind.

I miss staying at home with my son.

He's starting Pre-K this week and I'm so happy for him.  He loves going to daycare (we call it "school") and he has benefited greatly from his interactions with other kids and teachers without my interference. 

I'm happy to be making a little money and going to school.  Well, I've really been going to school most of his life, although in the beginning I was a stay-at-home mom only.  I think it's the most under-rated job in the world.  Not to mention the benefits are few and far between.  But when they come, they are better than money or not having a ton of horrendous medical bills.  Shaping a life is pretty cool.

When we were at home together more often, we had all the time in the world.  There was so much to do and so much time to do it in.  We had alone time, family time, friend time and he also had time to go stay with family.  It's become difficult and hard to bear since I left his father's house since we split his time.  Add working and school to that and I'm lucky he remembers my name is "mom" half the time.

I miss him so much.  Now that he has to be in school everyday and I'm either working or in school everyday, we have three or four evenings a week.  Hopefully one of those will be Sunday; I'm supposed to be off on Sundays and that's the day I've reserved for him.  I know it's only going to get harder when he begins sports and full days of school with homework and the like.

I am scared, but I know he will do well, therefore, so must I.  I want to take care of him and give him a happy mom.  So I do what I can for myself and keep my head up.

His grandmother tells me that it's not the quantity of time, but the quality.  I'll remember that.

To all you working moms--you're amazing and doing some of the hardest things known to woman.

To all you stay-at-home moms--you're amazing and doing some of the hardest things known to woman.

We really aren't that different.  I believe I'm lucky to get to do something else that I love so that when Fisher is too busy for me I'll not freak out.  But I think the luckiest ones get to be with their babies everyday until their kid mashes them in the face for trying to kiss him in front of his friends. 

Good luck and love to us all <3

Goodbye summer :(

Where did time go?  I haven't posted in awhile because I've been very busy.  And lazy.  But don't give up on me just yet.  I have plenty more to share in due time.  And as always, I extend my promise that better things are coming...

But Hello Final Semester of my Undergrad!  Yes, that deserved capital letters.  If you think otherwise then promptly blow a donkey.  I've been waiting for this for ten years!

School starts Monday.  I should soon have some more interesting things to post since a couple of people will be prodding me along with sticks and the promises of grades that shall see me finishing with honors. 

My son is about to begin Pre-K.  So, as I finish a chapter in my life, he begins one.  It feels good to be doing it together.  He has been my motivation to get my degree after all.  I hope I can motivate him to find his passions, continue his education as far as he can, and love learning as much as I do.

On a completely different note...

There is something I want to mention.  I'm sure this can be debated, and I am sure this won't be the last time I bring it up.

I passed a billboard today that read: "1 in 10 children are diagnosed with autism."  OK.  It reminded me of when my family thought my son may be autistic because he wasn't speaking much yet and he was two years old.  Keep in mind that if my son ever is diagnosed with anything whatsoever I will be loving and supportive while trying to learn everything I can about how I can help him.

However, I was sure that he wasn't autistic.  My son wasn't talking (and still has trouble with articulation) because he sucks his thumb.  Honestly that's a subject I get a little angry about...the thumb sucking.  I need to save this for a later post because it's huge to me.  In short, I feel like I was conned into not giving my child a pacifier and his subsequent thumb-sucking has had a major effect on our lives.  That sounds dramatic, but I promise to explain later.  This is important for prospective parents and grandparents.  And friends.  And babies.  So, listen up, babies, for when I tell that story later.  For now, back to this...*focus*

I listened to my family's concerns and I researched autism spectrum disorder.  I was positive that Fisher didn't fit any of the descriptions I could find.  Not yet, anyway.  Maybe he will someday, I don't know.  All I know is that I was getting frustrated because they must have seen a special on autism on Oprah or 20/20 and they were convinced that was his problem.  And I don't blame them for that.  I tend to obsess after I view a well-done documentary.  Media is influential.

However, it brings up my problem with the numbers and the labeling.  Humans have an obsession with labeling EVERYTHING!  I am not a fan.  The distinction between one thing and another is inevitable.  A person defines oneself by what he/she is not as often as by what he/she is.  I still don't have to like it.

Well, I don't mind that it happens in general or as a means to communicate with others.  It's just the level we have taken it to...it goes too far.  Does any kid in school not have a disorder or something that makes them special?  It can be medical, mental, emotional, biological, physical, attentional, behavioral, societal...I don't really give a shit.  Why can't they just be kids who are learning important lessons including how not to be assholes?

I'm not saying that any disorders don't exist or anything.  I'm just saying that we've lived for so long without many of these problems and yet, here they are to fuck with us.  And often, we're causing our own problems, labeling them, making money from them, drugging the people.  What else has labels?  Pill bottles.  And guess what, they can define a person.  I have seen it over and over.  

Some people need medication.  Even some kids.  I'm sure that too many of both are actually medicated.  And over-medicated.

I don't want my son to think of his friends like this one has this disorder and this one has this.  Just like I don't want him to define people by their skin color or the amount of money they have. Their attitudes and actions should define them and first come to mind when he wants to describe them.  I'm not saying those things are taboo, because I think it's important to discuss them and how they effect their life experience so we can learn.  And there's nothing wrong with sharing information about oneself, either.  I'm not saying anyone should ever hide who they are or the struggles they have; on the contrary I believe those things are best shared with friends and family.

But when we see another human being who is different than the others, we continue to shave off the bits of sameness that tie us together.  We are struggling to set everyone apart.  A slippery slope.  I really hate that expression, even now that I understand it.

When I was a kid, autistic kids were just kids.  I knew they were different just like I knew I was different. 

They still haven't found a label for me.

I intend to make my own.