Everybody thinks it won't be their kid

I've been thinking a lot about bullying lately. Well, the truth is that I think about bullying all the time, but there have been recent internet events that have gotten me remembering back to my middle school days. See, I was bullied in middle school by the "popular kids," the Mean Girls. I won't go into detail but suffice it to say it left an impression on me that took years of therapy as an adult to work through. Lately, though, I've been reminded that people can be really, really horrible to each other, no matter how old they are. It's a shitty reminder, but perhaps necessary at times so that we don't become too complacent.

At any rate, my personal experience with bullying is the main reason why Child 1's enrollment in middle school has filled me with such intense anxiety. There's no question that he will stand out as different, I'm sending him off into this potential cesspool of evil and I'm terrified of what might happen to him there. Something like what happened to me. And I can't protect him, I just have to send him there and hope for the best.

"Hope for the best," meaning I'm hoping that other parents have made an attempt to teach their children not to fear difference, and even if they do feel fear, that they won't react to it by being mean to my kid. But how much control do we actually have, as parents, over what our kids do once we send them off to school? Kids behave differently in groups of their peers, they want to feel accepted, they don't want to be different. So will they just go along with what their friends are doing? Will they participate in the bullying so that it doesn't happen to them?

Last week I went to a PTA meeting where the topic was about the district's Welcoming Schools curriculum. It's an anti-bullying program that focuses on teaching kids about gender difference and family diversity. I think the program is fantastic, it's necessary and awesome and I'm proud of my district for adopting this curriculum; approximately 1 in 38, or more, school age kids have gay parents.* However, if recent CDC numbers are to be believed, 1 in 50 school age kids are autistic and yet... my kid doesn't get a curriculum. They address ability awareness in the Welcoming Schools curriculum, but it is not its main focus. Until there's something specific happening in the schools, we have no choice but to rely on parents like you and me to do the work.

At the meeting last week, the leader (who was awesome) explained the work that they do with kids, about how having these conversations is what leads to acceptance, and I was struck by something she said about bullies: "Everybody thinks it won't be their kid." We all do our best to teach our kids tolerance, and we think that we did a good enough job so that when push comes to shove, it won't be my kid doing the bullying. My kid knows better. My kid wouldn't do that.

But would it be your kid? Will it? Do we really know? As much as I know I've done my best to make sure Child 2 won't be "that kid," I don't really know what he does on the playground with his friends. I have to make sure to have pointed conversations with him about what it means to be a good person and a good friend. So, this post is for the parents of typically developing kids, who are doing their best to make sure it won't be their kid: Please have a conversation with your child about mine. Tell your kid that my kid likes to flap his hands, run back and forth, and talk to himself. Tell your kid that they might see this happening and feel uncomfortable because they don't know what's going on, and tell them that it's okay to feel uncomfortable, and they can ask questions, but it's not okay to make fun of him. It's not okay to call him names, or point and laugh, even if their friends are doing it. Tell your kid that my kid does these things because it makes him feel good, and while that might seem weird, it's totally okay.

And how about your behavior at home, because you know that kids learn by modeling what we do. Do you laugh at people who are different? Do you call people retarded? Do you gossip about other people who aren't able to defend themselves? Your kids are watching you, and while you think it might be perfectly benign: is it? Do you want your kid to do the things that you do? Because they will, and when they do, you don't get to say "but my kid would never do that."

Please talk to your kids; make sure they know. Because I'm about to send my child off to the wolves, and all I can do is hope that you guys have put in even a fraction of the time thinking about this as I have. You can't just assume it won't be "your kid," you have to make sure. Please. Make sure.

If you need any help or any useful resources that might help you have this conversation with your child, please let me know. I'm happy to help. jillsmo at gmail.com

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* "Researchers commonly cite the estimation that one to three million American children are being raised by lesbian, gay male, bisexual, and transexual (LGBT) parents" from Families Like Mine: Children of Gay Parents Tell It Like It Is. (Thanks to Erin from The Gay Dad Project for your help). There are approximately 76 million children living in the US, according to ChildStats.gov therefore 2 million in 76 million = 1 in 38.

Images courtesy of stockimages / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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Sometimes it just does that

Do you guys remember my toe problem? I thought I had kicked a chair or something when I was drunk and broke my toe? You remember, it looked like this: (or probably you don't remember because who really gives a shit?)

Right? Anyway, it wasn't getting any better, so I got an x-ray and it wasn't actually broken. So, I figured I'd just try to stay off it and it would get better on its own? But then I noticed it was starting to look even worse; like this:

at that point I figured I should go and see a Foot Doctor and see what the hell was actually going on in there.

So, last week I went off to the Foot Guy and he very quickly diagnosed me with having a pinched nerve in the ball of my foot; the technical term is Metatarsalgia. You don't need to know the specifics, it's a pretty boring foot problem. Anyway, he's telling me about it, and I ask what causes it, right? He tells me that there are a number of factors that contribute to this particular foot problem, but the basic cause is "sometimes it just does that."

Sometimes feet just do that, I guess. They get painful and then your toes end up all deformed and freaky looking. That just happens sometimes, he says. The cure for metatarsalgia? Well, that depends on how much you actually want to use your foot. Just plain old regular walking around? Might not even be worth it, because you need to spend $$$$$ on expensive orthotics in order to fix it. See, I tend to use my feet for more than just regular walking; I like to do that fancy walkin. The kind sidewalks aren't made for, so I need to actually spend the $$$$$$ to fix this fucking thing.

It reminded me of Louis CK's bit about getting older. You really need to watch this video, especially if you're over 40, because you will laugh. your. ass. off.

EDIT (fancy walking):

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Somebody needs to help me write this book

Child 2 is getting to that age where he's starting to ask questions about his brother. Up until now, we've been living with "that's just what he likes to do" and similar answers, but regardless of the lack of judgment we put on his brother's behaviors, he's still noticing that he has a brother who isn't exactly the same as the other kids he knows.

Which is fine, of course. Kids are going to notice things like this and it's our responsibility as their grownups to make sure they get the information they need in order to be a good friend/sibling/partner in crime. So it was with this in mind that I went out and bought a book for him, called "Everybody is Different. A book for young people who have brothers or sisters with autism."

I haven't really had a chance to go through it yet, but it seems like a very sweet book, with sections titled "the three characteristics of autism," "odd behaviours" (it's British) and "so how are you feeling?" As I browsed through the chapter titles, thinking about how I was going to be reading this with Child 2 at some point in the near future, I thought: Why isn't there a book I can read to Child 1? Surely Child 1 has, also, noticed his brother's seemingly odd behaviours? How come he doesn't get a book I can read to him, to explain HIS brother?

So I've decided to flesh out an outline of this new book that needs to be written. Maybe somebody with actual writing skills can help me make this thing a reality.

Part 1: What is "being neurotypical"?

a. Why are some people neurotypical?

b. General behaviours

c. Is there a cure for being neurotypical?

Part 2: Odd Behaviours

a. Why doesn't my brother or sister ever stop talking?

b. Why does my brother or sister want to play with other kids?

c. Why doesn't my brother or sister like BART trains?

d. Why does my brother or sister keep asking me questions when I don't want to answer them?

e. How can my brother or sister be in the same room with parmesan cheese and not want to throw up?

f. Why doesn't my brother or sister understand how awesome elevators are?

Part 3: So how are you feeling?

a. What you can do

b. Will my brother or sister always be like this?

c. Does your brother or sister ever embarrass you?

What do you guys think? Can you think of anything I left out?

Here, I got us started with a cover:

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New study shows autism linked to moms who breathe during pregnancy

Is this woman's breathing causing her child's autism?

Submitted by jillsmo, Bullshit Staff Writer, May 24, 2012

Mothers who breathe while pregnant are more likely to have a child diagnosed with autism, according to a new study by the Centers for Disease Control.

Autism, a complex neurological disorder characterized by impaired social interaction and communication, and by restricted and repetitive behavior, is increasing at a rate so alarming, fear has been struck in the hearts of humans across the globe. In this latest study, researchers have discovered that up to 100% of children who are later diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder had mothers who breathed during pregnancy.

Breathing is an involuntary movement of the lungs which allows oxygen to circulate through the bloodstream, and has also been linked with other deadly diseases such as asthma, lung cancer and emphysema. The high statistical rate has alarmed researchers at Johns Hopkins University in Maryland: "if every single child with autism was born to a mother who alternatively inhaled and exhaled air in the act of respiration, it stands to reason that there is a connection between the two," says Dr. Jennifer McCarthy, Professor of Hyperbole and Disinformation at Johns Hopkins University, who led the study.

"Nobody actually knows what causes autism," Dr. McCarthy continues, "and no single study can explain its causes, but the data we uncovered through this research should be taken very seriously. We're not suggesting that pregnant women be advised to stop breathing during pregnancy, but this study should create enough solid evidence and kneejerk reaction so that mothers everywhere can finally be convinced that their child's autism is their fault. Oh, and more research is clearly indicated, I guess. We'll get to that later."

Images courtesy of stockimages / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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The Game of Life

Last night Child 2 and I played The Game of Life. You remember this game from your childhood, the one with the cars and the little pink and blue pegs for girls and boys that you cram into your car as you drive around the board having babies and whatnot.

Just in case you don't remember, or haven't played it recently, you drive around this board game, called "Life," and on the way you make choices that determine how much money you make, with the ultimate goal being to "retire" and be worth more money than your opponents. What a perfect game to play with your children, right? Where the goal in life is to make money, occasionally you get to sue each other to get more money, children are expensive and there's no mention whatsoever of happiness or quality of life or early death. It's just plain and simple capitalism.  Just like real life. Awesome.

The game starts out with you in your car, and first you are to choose to either go to college or start a career. They advise you that while the college path requires you to immediately take a $50K loan from the bank, ultimately you will make more money with a college education. So, being the mom, I tell Child 2 that he'd better go to college, even if means a lifetime of student loans. Not because he might learn a lot, have a wonderful experience, see new things or meet new people:, but because eventually he will end up in a higher paying career.

Just like real life.

So, we start out, and I decide to skip college and take the career path, because I don't want to have to extend my debt ceiling. And anyway, I believe in the American Dream; all I have to do is work hard and I will be able to achieve all of my life's goals. Just like real life. Child 2 takes the college path, and off we go!

Right off the bat he gets a job as a veterinarian making $80,000 a year and I get a job as a hairstylist making $30,000. Well, that's okay, because he DID go to college, and he DOES have student loans. We'll see where this takes us.....

We get to the part where you have to get married, and I decide to marry a woman, even though it's not (yet) legal in my state. Funny how they don't actually give you that option, of marrying the same sex as you, but whatever.... technicalities. I'm sure they'll get to that.... Child 2 chooses to marry a woman, and the game continues on.

We buy homes. I get a condominium and he ends up in a trailer park for some reason. I still haven't taken any loans because my wife and I are somehow managing to scrape by on my $30,000 a year salary. I guess she doesn't get to work but that's okay because women belong in the home. Just like real life.

Then I lose my job and take a new one as an "entertainer." You don't need a college education to be an "entertainer," and while the picture on the card shows a woman singing at a microphone, the increased annual salary clearly indicates that "entertainer" is actually just a euphemism for pole dancer. But what else am I going to do? I lost my job as a hairstylist and I have no college education, my only option is to show off my body for money and profit. There's no mention of how much I make in tips. The IRS doesn't need to know about those, though.

Then I get to the part where I'm able to go back to school if I want. Remembering that you will make more money with a college education, my wife and I have an important discussion about the situation and I decide to take a bank loan and go back to school. I guess I'm still working as an "entertainer," because I'm still making my salary, and eventually I graduate (with honors. I'm assuming. Because HELLO.) and am able to go out and get a new job!! YAY!! More money! A bigger house!! Maybe some kids? Just like real life.

But then I go to pick a college career card and what do I get? A teacher! A fucking TEACHER!! Making $40,000 a year AND I now have $50,000 in student loans to pay off! WHAT THE FUCK?? I didn't spend all this time and money to go back to school to end up as a fucking TEACHER! Making less money than when I was on the goddamn pole!

At least I don't have to pay union dues. Not that they mention, anyway. But I'm still happy, because shaping the minds of the next generation is enough for my personal satisfaction. Right? It's not like the whole point in life is to make money and die rich? Right?

Wait, yes it is! Luckily, though, at another point along the way I lose my job as a teacher and become... a DOCTOR! That's right, I've just been fired as a teacher, after having been fired as a hairstylist and then working the pole, which means I'm a doctor now, bitches!! Making $100,000 a year and I get to go golfing whenever I want! Just like real life.

Child 2, meanwhile, has become a lawyer, moved out of the trailer park and into some mansion, and has sued me twice, making me pay him a total of $200,000. I must have botched his wife's boob job or something. I'm sure I deserved it, I mean, I DO have a drinking problem. I guess you don't get malpractice insurance in this game.

We head toward the end and I decide not to have children.  Just like in real life, children are fucking expensive and now that I'm raking it in as a doctor I don't want to have to give any of my money away to any of those little leeches. Child 2 chooses to have kids and ends up with 2 boys (karma). Ultimately he has to pay $100,000 in college tuition for both of them.

HA HA!!!  Just like real life!!!!

The game ends with us both "retiring" at about the same time, and after we've cashed everything in, I end up with $10,000 more than him, which means I win. I think you can see from the choices I made along the way: work the pole for a bit and save some money, never leave your $100,000 condo once you've paid it off, and, most importantly, DO NOT HAVE KIDS, this is the life path one should choose in order to "win" in the end.

I hope he learned a valuable lesson from this experience.  Just like real life.

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Midnight adventures in barfing

One night last week, the kids had gone to bed and I was fucking around on my computer; getting my "me time" (so it was between the hours of 10:45pm and 11:30pm. 45 minutes of "me time" EVERY FUCKING DAY!! YES!!!") when I heard crying coming from Child 2's room. It was soft, it lasted a few seconds, and then it stopped.

I did nothing. In retrospect, I'm a fucking idiot, but you know how much of a bitch that "retrospect" can be. But this kid is a barfer, he randomly barfs at random times, usually in the middle of the night, and it always starts with him making these soft crying sounds. Then it escalates into a big, smelly mess, and it was right then that I should have gotten a bucket and put it next to his bed. But, like I said: Fucking idiot.

A few minutes later it started again. Soft crying, lasted a few seconds, then stopped. Then it started again, a little bit louder, a little bit longer, and stopped again.

I still did nothing. (Fuck off, Retrospect). Then it happened again: louder, longer, etc. Finally I decided to get up and go in there to see what was up. I sat down on Child 2's bed and he immediately sat up and gave me a hug.

"Did you have a bad dream?" I asked him. "No," he cried. "I'm just afraid of the balloons."

Ahhhh, I see. I laid him back down, covered him up and went back to my room. How cute, I thought. He's having a bad dream about balloons! Aren't kids just so cute??? I wish my bad dreams were about fucking balloons.

I went to bed, while he continued to intermittently make soft crying sounds. "Balloons," I thought as I drifted off. SO CUTE!!

Maybe 5 minutes after I fell asleep, suddenly there's a very loud "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" coming from his room. I bolt up, but I had been asleep for just minutes, so my brain didn't really bolt up with me. I was very confused, stuck halfway between sleeping and waking, and I got up out of bed and just stood in the middle of my floor, unsure about what to do, while he yelled stuff.

Then there's another "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" followed by the unmistakable sound of my child barfing. But I was still really confused. What happened to the balloons? And so I just stood there, listening to him yelling and retching, and hearing those horrible splashing sounds. *shudder*

"I should probably be doing something," I thought, and I heard Hubs coming up the stairs. "Oh, good," I thought. "I bet he can figure out what I'm supposed to be doing right now. And then hopefully he'll tell me."

It was right then that Child 2 screamed, at the top of his little lungs: "WOULD SOMEBODY JUST GET ME A FUCKING TOWEL???" and suddenly I snapped out of it! Yes! A towel! I should get him a towel!!! That's what I should be doing right now!! So I ran to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and brought it to him.

That was all it took, I guess. Just an angelic 7 year old shouting obscenities at the top of his lungs to snap me out of my disorientation. Oh, and in related news, this weekend Hubs went to Costco and bought a carpet spot cleaner. Only $80! Such a deal!!!

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Another bane of my existence. I have two banes

Here's Bane #1

Here's Bane #2:

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Don't blame me, blame the cat parasites!

I had some blood work done by my doctor last week. Since my cousin died, I've been paranoid that there's something wrong with me that has just yet to be diagnosed, so I went in there and said "Take ALL THE FLUIDS!" It turns out that she can test me for stuff but it's more likely, given my family history, that I'll be taken down by breast cancer or heart disease, and these things aren't likely to turn up in a regular old "take my fluids" type test, but whatever. I have insurance, let's do it.

Not surprisingly, there is nothing wrong with me. Psychologically, yes, but nothing of importance showed up on the blood work, anyway.

Nothing, except.... I tested very high for having antibodies to Toxoplasma gondii, which is a parasite normally found in cats.

"Cats?" you say. "Why would you have a parasite normally found in cats?" "Oh, you must be new here," I answer. Here. Read these:

• I hate cats.
• More about cats
• Hey, Jill.... whatever happened to that cat?
• Things I Find In My House 9

Apparently up to a third of the population has this parasite, but it mostly just sits there doing nothing (as far as you know) and is only really dangerous to your physical health if you're pregnant or if you have a weakened immune system. You get it from emptying the litter box, or I guess when your cat shoves his asshole in your face for you to closely inspect. You know... like they do.

Artwork by Allie Brosh. OF COURSE.

Typically, the parasite is shit out by the cat and then rodents scavenge around (ew) and pick it up from there. Once inside the mouse, the parasite needs to return to the cat in order to complete its life cycle, so it fucks with the mouse brain and makes it think that the cat isn't really as scary as it actually is. So the dumbass parasite-infected mouse gets closer to the cat, thinking it's his new cat buddy, but man is he wrong, and BOOM! He's cat dinner, and the parasite get to go back home.

And that's how Toxoplasma gondii is supposed to work. But what happens when it gets into the human brain? Well, scientists don't really know, actually, but they have done studies and they've found that "males who had the parasite were more introverted, suspicious, oblivious to other people’s opinions of them, and inclined to disregard rules. Infected women, on the other hand, presented in exactly the opposite way: they were more outgoing, trusting, image-conscious, and rule-abiding than uninfected women." Other studies have shown an increased risk of suicide and, um... neuroticism.

Dude, I've been neurotic my whole fucking life, I don't need a cat parasite to make that happen. In the meantime, however, I've decided to play the "Toxo Card" whenever I can. What's that, kids? Did I forget to make you dinner? Well, it's not my fault; I have cat parasites!!! And oh I'm sorry, officer. Was I dancing in the street, naked, singing Rolling in the Deep at the top of my lungs? That wasn't me singing, that was the Toxoplasma talking! I can't be held responsible for my actions, man, after all.... MOTHERFUCKING CAT PARASITES!

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I am a feminist

I am a woman, but I am not a victim.

Society may think that I need its protection, but society is wrong.  I don't need your laws protecting my vanity; protecting my womanhood. I can protect myself. Your well crafted, media tested talking points do not speak for me; I can speak for myself.

I am responsible for the choices that I make and the things that I say and do. I will choose what I eat and drink and what medications I take. I am in charge of what I look like, what I wear, how I act, and in the end, I take ownership of the consequences of all of my actions.

I will raise my children as I see fit, and I will own my body in all of its fleshy glory, and I will fuck my husband, while using birth control, and not be ashamed of any of it.

I don't care if you call me a slut, a bitch, a whore, or a cunt. Saying those words might make you an asshole, but they don't affect me in the slightest. Those are just words and your words don't define me: I define myself.

I am a woman, and I am not a victim of men. I am responsible for myself; for my own feelings, for my own sense of self worth. For my own life.

I am a feminist and I am proud to call myself one, because this is what feminism means to me.

It means that I am not weak.

It means that I am not a victim.

It means that I am a woman.

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Autism Parents: Common Myths and Misconceptions about Moms and Dads Raising Kids on the Spectrum

I'm proud to say that I contributed to this post, written by my friend Jo Ashline, on the various myths and misconceptions about parents who have autistic kids.

Go! Visit! Say hello from me!

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The Dive Bar Welcomes: Anna DePlume

Just a reminder that I don't write Dive Bar posts. People tend to get confused by that. For more information about this series, click here.

Today's contributor asked to be identified only as Anna DePlume. Please show her some love!!!

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Loving (and hating) Ed

I have a friend named Ed.  He is, by far, the most compelling entity I’ve ever encountered. Ed believes that purity is perfection and deprivation is honor. He has this philosophy about control of mind and body. It's a dogma really. One that is very enticing for those of us who crave predictability and results.

We've been friends for almost twenty-two years, nearly two-thirds of my lifetime. Our relationship is complicated to define, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit that I have always carried insatiable infatuation with him.  Maybe it’s not love in the traditional sense, but in many ways the feelings I have for him are as intense if not more. Ed can make me feel like I am the most special girl in the world or most worthless creature to walk the earth. His mind changes on a whim, me at his mercy as to which way it goes.

I want to be special. I want Ed to approve.  

I know it's not a healthy relationship, but it is vital nonetheless. Without Ed I cannot imagine how I would've survived the sudden loss of my father at the obscenely impressionable age of 13, or holding my first born child lifeless in my arms, or miscarriage, or five years of brutal emotional and physical violence, estrangement from my family and friends and divorce.  I have no idea how I would’ve found the determination, energy, or presence of mind to reconcile my son’s Autism diagnosis.

In those “What the Fuck, Universe?” times I crave an absolute power over anything that can be manipulated.  I try to stop mind from spiraling through the how and why of such things.  The search is fruitless and exhausting. Besides, Ed taught me that there are variables which are out of my control and that I can only be responsible for myself and my actions.

He also taught me that my actions have the power to provide the control I seek, in a tangible way that makes all that other stuff almost not matter.  Because if I focus enough on what I can control; eventually nothing else will matter.  Time will pass while I am consumed internally and time heals all wounds, or at the very least numbs the sharpness of the memory, if not the pain.

Through it all Ed has been consistent if not loyal. 

Four years ago today, as I sat in the neurosciences building of our local hospital shaking and crying and signing stacks of paperwork, Ed was with me.  As I begged the Resident doctor to just let me go to my car for one last cigarette, Ed reminded me that I was in control here.  I could leave.  I could do what I wanted.

I went to the car and had that cigarette.  As I paced the garage on that freezing winters’ day, outwardly assessing my options, Ed and I had a terrible fight.  I believed that I needed to stay but Ed told me that if I did I would lose control and there was no shame worse that losing control.  I remember screaming at him through tears, “I am scared and I am sick. God dammit, Ed, I just need to stay for a few days.  I need to get better because I have a child. He is everything to me.”

And in an instant, in that parking garage, Ed abandoned me and I was alone.

I smoked another cigarette and returned to the staging area. I was devastated that Ed left me, after getting me into this mess.  I have never felt so alone. I hated Ed that day and for many days after.

I signed the papers, defeated, and followed the nurse through a maze of elevators and stairs.  When I arrived the door buzzed and locked behind me. The staff rifled through my bags, took the drawstring from my pants and my cell phone, gave me some grippy socks and offered me dinner.  I didn't want dinner.  I wanted to call Ed and tell him I'd made a horrible mistake, that he was right, and beg him to come rescue me from that place. I didn't perhaps out of fear, or spite.  

I hid away in the bed that first night frightened to step outside of my room.  I woke up with my roommate standing over me, staring, in the middle of the night until at last the nurse came and put her back to bed.  I couldn’t go back to sleep and I couldn’t leave the room either. The whole common area was filled with the kind of kids (all grown up) that would've kicked my ass in high school.  There were board games, and IV's, and group, and nutrition counseling. 

At some point I requested the Chaplain, a middle-aged unassuming woman.  I told her I didn't believe in her god but I wanted to talk to her anyway.  She didn't care whether I believed in her god.  She listened.  I told her about the loves and losses of my life. How the one thing I craved was control and achieving perfection and that Ed and I had fought.

At some point in this conversation I became very angry with Ed, for abandoning me when I needed him the most. I broke and I confided in this stranger what she, and seemingly everyone else but me, knew. I told her that I was anorexic.  That I had starved my body and soul by taking up with an Eating Disorder (my cherished Ed) for some 18 years on and off in feeble attempts to numb the pain of loss and disappointment.  She told me Ed wasn't a good friend, but I knew that.  She told me I was going to die if I didn't get control.  “Control, I scoffed. That's what this is all about!  Don't you see that?”

Everything shattered the moment I realized that she was right.  I imagine this is what it feels like to be in a cult and then leave.  To have your whole belief system challenged and obliterated and to know that you were wrong for so very long.

I was disoriented.  I felt horrified with myself. Somewhere along the way, probably very early on, the control I perceived I had was not my own.  It was Ed's.  My liberation was through oppression. Ed had lied to me. 

For days after I was vacant.

I spent five days in a locked psychiatric ward.  Every bite of food I took was chronicled.  I could not use the bathroom or shower alone.  I was weighed backwards.  The number I craved so badly I could only imagine growing bigger and bigger and out of my control.

I was not special. I was just another girl who’d been played by Ed.

Here I am, four years after rock bottom. I wish I could tell you that I never talk to Ed anymore.  You'd think, after nearly losing my life and my family (more than once), I'd find it in me to tell him to Fuck Off.  I would be lying if I told you he was gone.  He will never be gone. 

For the most part I’ve kept him quiet.  Gaining an obscene amount of weight helped.  He was so disgusted with my sloth that he took leave for a while.  There are times when I see what so called recovery has done to my body and hate those people who told me this was the right thing, the only thing, to do. 

He’s there, alright, telling me how special I can be if I just gave it the old college try.  Tsk-tsking at what a shame it is that I’m not everything I could be.

It doesn’t take much for me to let Ed back into my life again.  I promise my infatuation with him is as real as ever.  When heartbreak and misfortune begin to pile up, there is comfort in making the numbers on the scale fall.  There is pride in reaching the point where your stomach gives up and no longer asks for nourishment.

I can't party with Ed like I used to, it's hard on an aging body.

Besides, I’ve seen the light.  I know that Ed’s philosophy is wrong.  I know that worth is tied to so much more than beauty. I know he is disgusted by the curves and rolls I now carry, all of them scars of my attempts at recovery. 

His disdain for my weakness and my failed perfection continues to grow.

I have no doubt, that given the chance, he will kill me some day.

Thirty pounds ago I flirted with Ed.  I was overweight and unhappy with myself.  He promised me I’d get here, and reminded me that here was only the beginning.  He delivered.  On days that I eat more than a protein bar my body promptly rejects sustenance.  Its’ a little quality check Ed puts in place to help me stay on track.  I like the accountability. I see glimpses of the beautiful girl I was.  I know I am nowhere near my goal.  Ed reminds me of that constantly.  I want to tell him I can take it from here.  I can do it without him.  I have a nutritionist and a therapist.  I want to tell him I can’t let this happen again, that I can’t die – I have a child, but there are moments that I believe that pleasing him is worth the risk. 

After all, I just want to be special and I’m almost there.

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How you can help #TeamIssy

A while back I posted a link to my friend Kelli's blog about the situation with her autistic daughter, Issy, and her aggressive behaviors.

Since then they've received thousands in donations that have made it possible for Issy to stay in the residential program for another 23 days!!!

But there's still more you can do to help support Kelli and Issy:

Follow them on twitter at TeamIssy

Like their Facebook page at TeamIssy

But right now we're trying to get The Ellen Show to take notice.

Please consider clicking here to go to Ellen's nomination page and nominating Kelli to be on the show.

When you go to the page I've linked above, put your info on the form and talk about Kelli and Issy in the message.

You can say something like: I would like to nominate Kelli Stapleton and her family. This is a really great family who has tried to do everything for their daughter. Issy has autism and is trapped by her aggression. Her mother has had several serious injuries from Issy. Currently Issy has a brief stay in a treatment center but insurance and the department of health is denying to pay for full treatment. If you could just bring attention to this problem I know it would help Issy and many other good families falling through the cracks in the system. They are 'Team Issy' on Facebook or @teamissy on twitter.

For a picture, use the one at the top of this page.

Thank you!!!

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I... am not smart

It's raining today. Raining pretty hard, actually. This morning I was at work, waiting for my client, who was late. She owns an art studio for kids, it's really cool, actually. Anyway, she was late, and I decided to dash out to grab some coffee while I waited; the coffee place is right across the street from her studio.

As I was headed out the door, I saw her pulling up, so I went into "hurry up" mode. I ran across the street, got my coffee, and then went back to cross the street again. But there were cars coming from both directions and I was impatient to get back. I stood there for about half a minute, yelling at cars inside my head, and getting totally soaked and annoyed.

It wasn't until I opened up her studio door and went inside that I realized why I had gotten so wet while waiting for cars to pass: I was holding my soaking wet umbrella under my arm.

But at least I remembered my coffee. And, in the end, that's what's important.

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Minecraft playdates

This is the cake I made him for Child 2's birthday last year. I swear I had blogged about it but I can't find it now.

Child 2 is a Minecraft fan. This weekend he asked me if he could move from playing on the iPod to playing on a server on the Xbox. I'm a little nervous about that, because he's only 7, and online gaming can be pretty brutal. He's very likely to have somebody tell him his mother sucks cocks or something, and really, he's just too young to be hearing about what his mother does in the privacy of her own bedroom. The cock sucking discussion can wait until he's at least in high school, don't you think?

But then I remembered that I have lots of online friends whose kids play Minecraft, and I bet some of them play on the Xbox, too. Hey, if I know their mothers, I'm sure their kids are cool. And knowing the kind of moms that I meet online, there's no way in hell any of them would let their kids tell another player that their mom sucks cock. I know I sure wouldn't!

So, I went onto Facebook and posted a message that we were looking for friends, and I immediately heard from a few with their gamertags. Friend requests were exchanged and new worlds were created! Soon they were blowing up zombies and finding diamonds and pumpkins in no time. He was THRILLED.

Sunday, however, was the funniest day. He had made a friend of creeperboi whose mother, Jennifer, is a Facebook friend. Jennifer has the setup with a microphone, so on our end of the TV we could hear them talking, but they couldn't hear us because we have a different setup. Jennifer and I were chatting on Facebook while the kids played and we worked out this system where creeperboi would say something, Child 2 would respond, I would type his response into my FB chat window and Jennifer would relay the message.

Things got confusing, though, and both kids would forget about the nuances of our fancy communication system. They were both constantly talking, but only we could hear them, and I kept having to remind Child 2 that creeperboi couldn't actually hear him. He kept yelling things at the TV, to no avail. And I think creeperboi forgot, too, and started talking into Jennifer's iPad, thinking he could speak directly to Child 2 that way. And Child 2 kept dictating things to me: "Tell creeperboi's mom to tell creeperboi that I was underground near the lava but I didn't find the diamond. Sad face." (He actually said "sad face" to indicate that I should make a frowny guy). I would also relay messages like "tell creeperboi we have his bread!!" and "I have to go pee now." That last one did not happen inside the game.

The part I found the most funny, though, was that I could also hear everything that was going on in Jennifer's house. Her 4 other kids, playing their own games and music.... asking what was for dinner.... I would type something into the FB chat and then I could hear her laugh on my TV.... it was really funny. The whole thing was like this great big playdate, only in 2 different time zones.

It was awesome. The kids had a blast and Jennifer and I laughed our asses off. We'll definitely be doing it again!

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Why do I constantly have Taylor Swift stuck in my head?

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