Saturday, December 12, 2020

Why You, & Everyone Else, Should Have a Therapist.

In sixth grade (1996) I asked for a black and white Adidas puffer coat for Christmas not at all expecting that I’d actually get it.  We didn't have money, so when I opened that package Christmas morning I was beyond elated.  I couldn’t wait to wear it to school and finally, just maybe, be cool.  When I decided to write this piece, I asked my mom if she could find the picture of me wearing that coat, she sent it over, and my face is somber and almost sad looking as I posed in front of the tree.  I was perplexed because I remember well how excited and happy I was, so I asked my mom, “Any idea why I look so serious?”  To which she responded, “Welllll……you were serious quite a lot.  This was probably the beginning of the troubled age.” 



After Christmas break that year, I waited for the bus, rode to school, and when I got off and walked to the door, felt like a million bucks strutting down the sidewalk until I heard a seventh grade boy yell,  "Look at Sadie!  Now she really looks like Shamu!"  (Shamu was Sea World’s most famous killer whale at the time.) And this was a nickname that unfortunately stuck for years. In the hallways, on the bus, at recess, I would hear the voices of little shits of all ages shouting it out.  Of course that wasn’t the only name they had for me, and other kids called me straight up fat nearly every day, in addition to “mayonnaise girl” (my personal favorite) and other equally crappy things.

The school I went to was so small, I literally had seven kids in my class, that when we started playing instruments, we had to take a bus to another, larger school to be part of a full band.  In eighth grade after practice, while waiting to head back to our school, a younger kid called me Shamu as we boarded the bus and it was just not the day.  I grabbed him by the collar, slammed him up against the side of the bus, put my face in his face, and snarled, “Don’t. Sayit. Again.”  I will never forget the look in his eyes as he stammered, “O, o, o, okay…”  I got on the bus, he got on behind me, and another kid who had not seen this altercation, looked my direction and said, “Hey Shamu!”  I took three huge steps toward him, pushed him into the bus window, and yelled, “It’s enough! Shut up!” Word must have gotten around because that was the last time anyone called me Shamu, but was unfortunately not the last they called me fat. 

At fourteen, super traumatically for me, we moved from that tiny town in South Dakota, to an even smaller one in Northern Minnesota. Although I was heartbroken, I thought this was finally my chance to rebuild myself as the cool new kid and because my parents felt guilty for ripping me away from my friends, they bought me a whole bunch of new clothes.  I felt like a badass when I started ninth grade, and was surprised how nice people were to me…well most of them.  I made friends easily, although maybe not with the best people, and for the first time in my life, felt like I fit in.  For a while.  After some months though, a few of the older high schoolers started noticing that I was a bit different and didn’t quite mesh with their rural Midwestern crowd.  I called out bully behavior when I saw it and confronted peers when they were being assholes to other people.  I guess that really stuck in the craw of one guy in particular, Bryce, who made a point of saying jerky things to me whenever he had the opportunity.  He knew I was always in the art room, because that was my haven, and would often open the door, stick his head in, say my name until I looked at him, then yell, “Yer fat!” and close the door to take off down the hallway.  One day he did this but, instead of leaving, came into the room.  He muttered something mean as he walked by me, I turned, asked him to repeat it, he did, and I punched him directly in the stomach.  He bent over, let out a breathy, “oof!” and then bent over, pretended to be looking at something on a table while his eyes watered and he tried to catch his breath.  Once he’d mostly recovered, he called across the room to the art teacher, “Mr. Wolf!  Did you see what she did!?”  Mr. Wolf, who had been watching the whole thing, looked at Bryce, looked at me, and said, “Nope, sorry, I didn’t.”  I grinned, Mr. Wolf smirked, and Bryce asked for a pass to the bathroom.  He still said nasty things to me now and then, but nowhere near as often.  Two years later, I was all but engaged to his best friend and boy did he love that.  I wish I could say that was the last time some prick thought they needed to report to me their interpretation of my appearance, but alas it was not. 

In my first year of college which I was extremely not ready for, I was so petrified that someone would point out my weight or be an asshole to me that I rarely left my dorm.  I started using chat rooms online when these things were in their infancy, texting didn’t exist, I didn’t have a cell phone, and my social anxiety was such that it almost completely paralyzed me.  I spent innumerable hours in chat rooms talking with strangers from all over the world.  I was fascinated by everything I was learning from them as well as shocked and flattered by how many thought (or at least told me they thought) I was beautiful.  Eventually, I ended up talking more with one specific guy who was a photographer in the military and stationed in Afghanistan.  Lazaro was so unique, uncommonly intelligent, interesting, surprising, poetic, artistic, and had these dark intense eyes that seemed to gaze into your soul.  When he finished his deployment, he came to meet me in person and we fell into an intense, passionate, and dangerous love.  Because I really wasn’t keen on college at eighteen in the first place, when he suggested I move down to Clarksville, Tennessee to live with him right outside the base where he was stationed (Fort Campbell), I miserably finished the semester, packed up everything I could fit into my Accord, and drove the thirteen hours to Tennessee.  There is a whole lot more to this story, but to make it brief, Lazaro was severely mentally ill and I was so young I didn’t understand what was happening, so thought I could somehow make it better.  I tried my best to help and support him, be an adult, have a job, and live a thousand miles from my wonderfully supportive parents. 

Not long after the move he was discharged from the Army due to his mental instability and we moved back up to Minnesota.  The relationship progressed horribly, as did his at that time undiagnosed Schizophrenia, and turned into a physically, verbally, emotionally, and sexually abusive cluster fuck of huge emotions, manipulation, gaslighting, and cheating.  On more than one occasion he packed all of his belongings into his rucksack and told me he was leaving.  When I begged him to tell me why, to stay, to talk, he would say that if I gave him a BJ, he’d wouldn’t leave.  And because I truly believed I was worth next to nothing and that women were meant to suffer and serve men, I did it.  Afterward he’d force me to unpack his things while berating me.  Saying things like,

“The skin on your stomach is literally ripping apart [stretch marks] and you just keep eating!”

“Why do you stomp around the apartment?! [Me just walking normally.] You know we have downstairs neighbors right, what is wrong with you?!”

“No one could ever love you the way I love you, look at how fat you are.”

And although it hurt to hear, I knew he was right.  Eventually, he decided we were no longer going to eat any animal products and were to be Vegan from then on.  I came home from work to him having thrown all of my recently purchased groceries into the dumpster.  The next morning he woke me up at 6:30 demanding I get dressed and jog around the apartment complex in the frigid December air.  Lazaro jogged behind me yelling various insulting comments about my appearance and pushing me to keep going.  Similar things went on for about two years before a close friend recognized what was happening, came over with her sister’s truck while Lazaro was at work, helped me pack all of his stuff, drove it over to Barnes & Noble where he worked at the time, and stacked it on top of his car.  He came out while we were putting the last items on, held out his hand for me to shake and said, “Nice knowing you.”  I was shattered. 

Despite that coldness, after I kicked him out, he stalked and harassed me; showing up at my job, my apartment, and calling hundreds of times a day.  I tolerated this behavior for about five years before it finally stopped completely.  Several years later, after having had no contact for a long period, I drunk dialed him like a complete and total idiot.  Regrettably, he answered and I chose to share that I no longer dated men and now identified as a lesbian.  He laughed and laughed then told me I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about and, “what a ridiculous thing to say.”  It was then that I hung up and made that the last time we ever spoke.  Needless to say, it has always been difficult for me to stand up for myself, until for one reason or another, it isn’t. 

I think a huge part of why I put up with the asshole kids calling me names, Lazaro treating me so poorly for so long, and all of the other awful relationships I had as a young person, because I had been receiving the message loud and clear from the time I was able to comprehend it, that I deserved it all because I was fat.  While reading Seventeen magazine at fourteen years old, I learned that women must be stick figure thin to be found attractive or ever even have a chance at happiness, and that I should draw as much attention to my mouth as possible when I was around boys.  At the same age, I observed my mother, after having worked at least a nine hour day, cook dinner every night, serve it to my father, more often than not accept his snarky criticism of her food, and then say nothing about it being shitty of him to mention.  She did this because she was constantly sacrificing herself, striving to calm his tumultuous mind, and to keep the peace.  

At the same time as literally every Disney movie I loved as a kid was telling me I should be a demure young lady who needed a man to save and take care of me, my mom poked me under the table when I said things she knew would upset papa, shot me the scary severe mom face when she recognized my attitude was irritating him, and consistently demonstrated an overall tense and hushed tolerance of each of his juvenile and intolerant behaviors.  She regularly tip-toed around pa’s fragile identity, sidestepped any subject that would set him off, and strongly encouraged her daughter to do the same.

As I was simultaneously hearing fat jokes on every show in existence and being called fat every day at school, my mother was suggesting I have an Herbalife shake instead of breakfast or lunch and saying things like, “Too much is too much, Sadie.” My nine year old self in turn believed that I was “too much,” and began the inveterate battle of making myself smaller in every way possible.  None of those ways being the one in which she subtly and not so subtly suggested I shrink. 

Flying in the face of her staunch Second Wave Feminist ideals and fierce advocation for her only child, my lovely mama has always been captured by the predominant thought and mainstream notions of weight, health, and appearance.  Although she’s exceedingly kind, loving, thoughtful, and generous, for as long as I can remember she’s made self-deprecating comments about her weight (and that of others), her shape (and those of others), how her clothes were fitting (and those of others), how she knew what it was like to be fat since she weighed one sixty in college… (Mmm hmm, okay, mom.)  She’s been drinking that Kool-Aid for so long, she’s literally blind to how destructive her particular brand of self-ridicule is for herself and for everyone around her.  Pretty sure though, that ninety percent of us do and say similar, if not exactly the same things because we’ve been hearing them all our lives and now believe them reasonable.  (They aren’t.)

Speaking of unreasonable, my father had some influence in my thought processes as well.  He was born with the soul (and talent) of a tortured artist and unfortunately grew up with a rigid father who pushed him to be someone he wasn’t.  His retaliation then, was the decision that he would never change for anybody, not even himself.  He has maintained the emotional intelligence of someone less than half his age and took/takes pride in having never changed.  My mom confirms that he’s been the same since he was about twenty five.  Invariably, papa became the victim in life situations whether or not he actually was.  He was hyperemotional, extremely sensitive, and has never had much control over the expression of intense emotion he seems to nearly always be feeling.  Since mom is not the same way, they would often snip at one another and argue over her lack of passion versus his overabundance of it.  Pa didn’t understand how she could be so contained and stomped around the house yelling and demanding to know why she was never as upset about things as he was.

Since we lived in the middle of nowhere and I was a "gifted" child with no siblings or neighbors who didn’t easily relate to kids my age, my parents were my examples for development of social emotional “skills” and ways in which to relate to myself.  At quite a young age, I was emulating not only my mother’s self-deprecating behavior, but also my father’s fly off the handle emotionality.  I considered my husky frame disgusting because I wasn’t built like the tiny-waisted women in the cartoons I watched or the hot models in Seventeen and YM magazines.  Because they fed off of my substantial overreactions, the kids at school called me names making those awful thoughts about myself worse, and my mother solidified the beliefs with her abundance of negative self-talk, comments or suggestions on my food choices, leaving “Prevention” and “Shape” magazines in my bedroom with articles about exercise/weight loss highlighted, and offering to bring me along to her Weight Watchers meetings.    

Despite their obliviousness for how negatively I was affected by their shortcomings (which could have been greatly reduced with some self-awareness and therapy), I am supremely fortunate to have had the love and unconditional support of my amazing parents all my life, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.  They are wonderful people and taught me so many invaluable things, but neither of them realized that their behavior, the way they navigated their relationship, and my father’s volatility were not only affecting me hugely, but were building a scaffolding it would take several years to identify and a lifetime to dismantle.  They didn’t realize that when Lucinda invited everyone but me to her Halloween party in sixth grade, that it wasn’t because I was in a “troubled age” and had something wrong with me, but that I was behaving just as my father did which made other kids uncomfortable and not want me around.  My emotional outbursts, inability to express or manage my feelings safely or rationally, hyper defensiveness, and a propensity for self-victimization, were all things I had learned from observing my father.  I had also gleaned from watching my mom, that my job as a lady and partner was to comfort, pacify, and care for men.  So later on, when I began dating, that belief and the deep-seated conclusion that being chubby made me worthless, assured that every relationship I had as a young person was unhealthy and ultimately, traumatizing. 

My mother wasn’t (and still isn’t) able to see, that when I was a child I never felt comfortable or safe because of papa’s unpredictable explosions of emotion and her insistence upon normalizing and glossing over them.  I was perpetually anxious and anticipating his next detonation, so comforted myself the only way I knew how: with food. Instead, they identified me as the problem and put me in therapy, having never attended themselves.  They had no comprehension of the message that would send to my impressionable adolescent mind, and never considered that I’d have a genetic predisposition for depression due to papa’s brain chemistry. They didn’t realize that I would deal with many unnecessary challenges in my youth as a direct result of my emulating the ways in which they had conducted themselves all my life.  They still don’t see that their behavior, action, inaction, word choices, language, and lack of reliable self-awareness molded who I was and paved the way for most of the painful and traumatic situations and relationships I got myself into.  I know that I sought out and stayed in terrible relationships and sexual circumstances because my misled, abused, and bullied mind convinced me I couldn’t do any better and probably deserved to be treated so poorly.  I know that I absorbed my parents’ marriage dynamics and adopted them as my own which led me into codependent relationships with severely mentally ill people.  People who were not self-aware, weren’t working on themselves and weren’t participating in therapy with a professional…people who shared some of the same negative traits as my parents.  I know that I equated my value as a human to how much others wanted to have sex with me because society and media strongly suggested I do so, and I know the things my parents did and said only made that worse.  To this day, they don’t look inward, they don’t seek therapy, and they don’t see how their poor mental health formed who I was and am.  Which, I can only speculate is why two days after Christmas last year (my 35th), my mother chose to write a secret e-mail to my therapist (Amy).  Mom expressed her concern over some comments Amy had made that I’d shared with her.  The context is irrelevant so I’ll spare you the details, but Amy is amazing and this is what she said,

“Direct them [my thoughts] towards self-acceptance and love.  Your body and self is an illusion.  And all the bullshit is just that, bullshit.  You have no problems.  There’s nothing wrong with you.  There’s that shit that happened to you, effects of that, but you are perfect and lovable and worthy and all ten things right now, just as you are.  I mean, there’re problems…don’t get me wrong, but you are not one of them!  That bullshit has to go.  It’s the only thing in your way.  Your belly, your weight, your sweaty nervousness, none of that is the problem.  It’s how you are relating to them influenced by the problems, namely shame and stuck trauma.  Time to fuck that shit hard and get it gone.”

This apparently triggered my mom because she is so “under the influence,” (as Amy puts it) of our culture’s garbage.  She wrote to Amy that she appreciated her encouragement for loving myself as I am, “…but it seems treating the eating disorder should also have top billing.”  She went on to list all the reasons why she believes it necessary that I lose weight, from medical issues not even related to my size to her constantly worrying about me being unhealthy because I’m fat.  She mentioned more than once how she should probably “keep her nose out of it,” and should, “maybe not be writing this at all,” before she ended the note with a, “P.S. I ask that this communication is just between you and me. (smiley face & peace sign emojis)” 

My mother obviously assumed that Amy and I have less trust and respect for one another than we do, and clearly had no concept of how far this would set me back mentally.  I’ve been working with Amy for just over five years, have been in therapy for about twenty years all totaled, and still have yet to overcome the self-loathing and insecurity that permeate every aspect of my life.  Over the last year or so I’d been feeling an internal shift and thought maybe all the really challenging work we’ve been doing for so long was finally permitting my mind some divergence from those negative beliefs that have traveled for thirty years down, now deeply entrenched, neural pathways.  It’s as though, since learning of my mother’s letter, my brain reverted back to old patterns and thought processes because regardless of her assurance that she hadn’t silently judged me (I’d always suspected she did) the same way she openly judged herself and others, I now know she did/does.  I feel betrayed by the one person whom I believed I could always trust, and also feel as though she’s been lying to me about how she really sees me for decades.  Which are probably some of my biggest fears realized. 

When I look back on the threads of my life, my childhood, the people who hurt me, what they said and did, how they made me feel, what American media taught me to believe, and how my parents handled it all, I realize that those traumatic experiences have been tightly woven together into a tapestry of lifelong insecurity, low self-esteem, self-injurious behavior, codependency, depression, and anxiety. And I can’t help but wonder, had my parents cared for their own mental health with the help of a qualified professional, would this tapestry exist at all?  Would it be so impenetrable if the kids who bullied and put me down had gotten the love and help they needed?  Would my adolescence and young adulthood have been so tumultuous and painful?  Would I have experienced all the trauma that daily incapacitates and keeps me working jobs that undervalue me and waste my mind and talent?  The answers to those questions are unknown, but what I do know is that I’m better off now than any of the people who contributed to my trauma. 

Most of the kids who called me Shamu have significant Googleable arrest records, the one who harassed me in high school (Bryce) literally shot and killed multiple people, a cop, then himself, Lazaro is unable to function on his own and lives in an inpatient treatment center on the East coast, my father still maintains that never changing is a positive thing- not seeing how his insistence upon this has had a hugely negative effect on his (and his wife’s) life, and my mother has been in an emotionally abusive, codependent relationship for fifty years.  This is not to say that any of them necessarily deserve the negative things in their lives, but had any or all of them had some sort of intervention by a qualified mental health professional, maybe it would have been different for each of us.  If only someone had helped them recognize that their trauma was suggesting all sorts of shitty behavior to compensate for the shitty things they’d experienced as young people.  If only someone had told them they weren’t the problem, that trauma was the problem, and then helped them work through it.

I think part of why I’ve survived so much in my short life, found the strength to do the hard work on myself, and continue to struggle with healing, is to be here to share that regardless of any of the incoming garbage suggesting otherwise, you are not the problem.  As Amy reminds me weekly, “people are not problems, people have problems.”  Untreated and unacknowledged trauma and its effects lead people to create new trauma for themselves and for others; whether or not they realize this is what’s happening.  It is very much a vicious cycle that must be consciously confronted, interrupted, and (in the case of my mother’s internalized fat-phobia) must also be actively resisted. 

So then, how in the fuck does one actively resist the predominant view of fatness and fear of being fat or in the proximity of fatness?  Let me offer some (semi) simple suggestions:

1.     Pay attention to the language you use both internally and externally and actively change it. 

When your mind offers up completely unprompted comments like, “you’re fat and gross,” literally tell yourself to “STOP.”  Saying it aloud can help a lot to redirect the neurons in your brain traveling down well-worn pathways.  It takes practice!

When criticizing someone else’s body shape or how their clothes fit seems like something you should do, remind yourself that you don’t have to be part of that negativity and tell yourself to “STOP.”

2.     Call other people out on their fat-phobic (& racist, sexist, homophobic, ignorant, etc.) language. 

Let them know it’s hurtful, anti-feminist bullshit, that you won’t tolerate it, and let them know why.  Even when you hear that stuff in shows or movies, call it out to yourself internally.  Remind yourself that it’s bullshit even if you can’t say it aloud. 

3.     Surround yourself with people who share your values and will help you resist the garbage.

If you have friends who still make comments that perpetuate stereotypes and straight up lies about fat people (or anyone else for that matter), have a chat with them about this.  If they make no effort to change and/or can’t understand why this is important, maybe move on from that person. 

This includes TV and social media!  Don’t follow celebrities who are drunk on the toxic messages of society and choosing to use their platforms to perpetuate those messages.  (Ahem, Kardashians.)  Do follow those who are working to invalidate untrue and harmful perceptions and introduce positive and factual thought processes (Jameela Jamil). 

Here are some Twitter & Instagram accounts to follow (some handles are only one or the other, some are both): @yrfatfriend, Michelle Allison- @fatnutritionist, @bodyposipanda, @KivanBay, Michelle Elman- @ScarredNtScared, @Lizzo, Jameela Jamil- @jameelajamil, @i_weigh, @Ok2BeFat, @Artists_Ali, Cake Plus-Sized Resale- @cakeplussize, Cat Polivoda- @CatPolivoda, fiercefatfemme, rachel.cargle, simonemariposa, chikalogy, mattzhaig, brenebrown

(some of these people are local and host in-person events!)

4.     Remind yourself often, that you and others are not the problem, but that those messages and the trauma they cause are the problem. 

You are only human and have absorbed these ideas via the social environment in which we all developed.  None of us, “licked it off the ground,” (another therapist Amy saying) and we will have to work hard to change it.  Although it may feel Sisyphean, observing the changes that have already happened show us that it’s possible! 





Monday, October 12, 2020

Change Must Come

 A few weeks back I had convinced myself to finally start meditating again and chose to do so in a cemetery about four blocks from our home.  Enormous trees stand there which help me to feel at peace, and so I sat by my favorite one and closed my eyes.  Maybe two minutes in, I heard what sounded like a nail gun very close by, followed by many sirens for an extended period.  I tried to keep myself in a peaceful state of mind, but found it impossible being unable to dismiss whether or not gunshots were what I had just heard.  My thoughts became hazy and anxious as my body started to tremble, so I headed home and on my way saw that police and ambulances had surrounded the corner store two blocks from our house.  A teenage boy had been shot and killed in broad daylight.  

Just weeks later, I learned of three North Minneapolis teens dying in a car rollover after a high speed chase with police. This was the same day the cop who murdered George Floyd was bailed out of jail for a million dollars and allowed to leave the state.  People were rightfully protesting his release, two people were shot, one killed, and then  right as my partner and I started trying to watch the Vice Presidential debate, we heard maybe forty gunshots coming from different areas close by, cars racing and squealing past our house, some screaming, and then sirens.  My body’s immediate reaction was a surge of adrenaline, cold clammy hands, shaking, and feeling that sadly familiar and primal fight or flight response.  

Because I’m allowed the privilege of having an incredible therapist, I was able to think about what she would say in that moment, closed my eyes, and reminded myself that no one was coming after me.  Because I’m a white woman in a country where my appearance does not pose a direct threat to my physical safety.  After I was able to calm my body some, my partner and I processed things together and I became more and more angry because it occurred to me how so many People of Color live every day in fear with these feelings, no therapy to help them process, and that this tragedy and the dozens of gunshots we heard later the same day would be portrayed by the media as what happens without enough police- taking no other factors into account.  

 

Since the beginning of the summer I’ve seen at least six articles, from both local and national news sources, describing Minneapolis as a lawless city where criminals run unchecked and where citizens (of North Minneapolis in particular) are being “terrorized” and are “under siege.”  Each of these articles have stated that the reason for the increased crime is lack of police and defunding of their resources.  None of these “news” pieces mentioned that a lot of this crime involves children who have been out of school for months due to a worldwide pandemic.  They didn’t mention that many of these kids don’t have secure homes or dependable adults in their lives, so are either unable to stay at home, or a home doesn’t necessarily exist for them at all.  These kids quite literally have nowhere to be and not only that, but they are also absorbing the tension, anger, and outrage of those around them regarding the continued police murders of people who look like they do while society refuses to hold those cops accountable.  Not to mention, the amounts of unemployment caused by the pandemic which has added another level of desperation and wretchedness (also unmentioned by media outlets).  Because they’re kids, their brains are not yet fully developed or functional, so many of them are unable to identify why they’re feeling such huge and overwhelming emotions, how to deal with them, or where to put all the intense energy they undoubtedly absorb from all angles, every day.  Teenagers experience such hormonal irregularities and surges of intense emotion just being teenagers.  Add everything else currently happening in the world and country to that, in addition to peer pressure, trauma effects, and the strong need to prove themselves to one another, and there is the perfect recipe for violence and crime.  It quite literally has nothing at all to do with the amount of police available to respond to it. 

 

Of course not all of the crime happening here right now is perpetrated by kids, but the vast majority being committed by adults cannot be attributed to their, “taking advantage of less police.”  For one, there are still police all over the place, and two, children grow up into adults who also suffer from lifelong effects of the trauma surrounding oppression, poverty, racism, and violence while rarely being afforded the tools to deal with those effects safely and healthily.  Human beings under constant stress, living beneath unjust systems which do not afford them the resources necessary to recognize, acknowledge, and heal, are often unable to see the forest through the trees.  Through no fault of their own, large populations of people in the United States are unable to identify their own actions as sources of trauma for not only those around them, but for themselves.  If this country’s systems weren’t built to function this way, didn’t disproportionately affect People of Color, and if we each had all we needed (absolutely possible), there would be no reason for anyone to carjack, steal, sell drugs, shoot one another, etc.  It’s unfair to blame the very much increased amount of crime in Minneapolis on lack of police or on defunding and not consider the hundreds of years of oppression, racism, multigenerational trauma, and inequality that is coming to a head at the same time as a worldwide pandemic.  Not just unfair, but completely biased and untrue.  As I’ve stated, police can be seen often in all areas of the metro, and people feeling as if their presence is not as prolific as it once was is simply those same people recognizing the increase in crime while also refusing to acknowledge why that increase has taken place.

 

The day before yesterday some of the neighborhood boys who stop by regularly to chat with us, popped in and talked with my partner.  One of them told her that one of the boys who was killed in the rollover was his brother and then proceeded to share with her some very graphic and horrifying details of his death.  With a completely straight face and calm demeanor, he shared things about his own brother’s violent passing that no child should ever hear, even about a complete stranger.  

This kid, at maybe ten years old and even prior to this horrible incident, has experienced so much trauma that relating the vivid and devastating specifics of his own brother’s death, unprovoked, to a veritable stranger, did not phase him at all.  His little body and brain have become so accustomed to experiencing trauma that it has been established as his baseline, his normal.  Because of the lack of resources around trauma care in this country, and the vilification of those who come from marginalized and systematically oppressed groups, this kid is already set up, through no fault of his own, to follow in similar footsteps and/or at the very least, live a life unknowingly governed by trauma effects. Most of these kids are offered little or no community support (part of why we often hang with neighborhood kids and share things they might need with them), and little or no access to qualified therapists and other mental health and social service professionals.  Their minds and bodies continue to develop despite it all, and as they do, they not only experience racism (more trauma), but often also poverty and its effects (trauma), violence (trauma), and every other difficult thing that comes along with being BIPOC (Black Indigenous People of Color) in this country.  I won’t pretend to understand even half of that as a white woman, but I have learned through decades of therapy and by living through my own trauma, how to recognize its effects and identify them as such.  

The community in which we live has welcomed us with genuine kindness, offers of help, and palpable warmth that I can honestly say I have not experienced from neighbors in any other home I’ve had in Minneapolis.  We take daily walks with our dog, and neighbors down every block say hello, wave, ask us how we’re doing, offer beverages, etc.  These are good people and it is obvious every single day.  

Despite all of the positive feelings that come from our neighbors, it is still commonplace to hear gunshots, reckless driving, and impassioned, loud conversations.  When we first moved in last Fall, we noticed more activity in the area than our previous place in North, but it was nowhere near the way it has been these last several months.  

In fact, about three days ago, I was sitting in my car, parked on the street outside our house, getting ready to go to the grocery store.  I was looking at my phone trying to pick music, had all of my windows down, and just as a neighbor’s car was driving by to the East, a very new and enormous white Ford pickup which had been going West, stopped abruptly and I heard a man yelling.  He was wearing thick work gloves and ran after the green car, tried to grab it, yelled something about “money motherfucker,” and then right next to my open car window shot a gun into the green car, turned around, ran back to his truck, and took off.  My neighbor got out of his car and yelled, “What the fuck man!  You really gonna shoot at me, for what!?” His passenger, a woman, got out and walked over to their house telling the driver that, “he better get that motherfucker.”  I got out of my car, in a state of shock, the green car turned around and left, I thought to go after the truck, but actually as I later discovered, he had just pulled back into his driveway.  When the cops showed up about thrity seconds later, they asked me to relay to them what happened, I pointed out the .45 shell lying in the street, and talked with them a little about how things have been for them lately.  One of the cops was white, as are my partner and I, but the neighbor in the green car, the shooter in the white truck, and the other cop were all Black.  The younger Black cop went about tagging and bagging the shell, took pictures, responded to base, etc, while the older white cop talked with me and my partner who had come outside.  I purposely tried to address my questions to the Black cop, but he did not seem interested in talking with me and the white cop was very chatty.  It made me wonder if this was just their dynamic, or had something to do with race and/or rank.  Regardless, the white cop told us that there has been so much gun violence and so many shots reported that crime rates are higher than Chicago right now and that they are pretty constantly responding to Shot Spotter reports of shots fired.  He explained the Shot Spotter technology, which is pretty high tech and finally gave me an explanation for those gray boxes that are mounted on a lot of light poles and stop lights around here.  He said, “This just needs to stop,” and told us about how one of the local missions had a “no questions asked” gun surrender event at which only one weapon was brought in after an entire day.  He agreed when I said that people are so stressed and angry and outraged with everything happening that they are ready to lose it at the drop of a hat.  He also said there have been a whole lot of “crimes of opportunity,” and seemed like a pretty decent and genuine human being which I must admit surprised me considering that this was the first positive interaction I’ve had with a police person since about 2004. (I was 19 and pulled over on the side of the road writing down a thought, when the local old man cop in Cushing, MN came out to make sure I was okay, told me to take my time getting my thoughts out, and then said, “I’ll be just up the road if you need me.”)  

After the officers left, my partner and I walked down the alley a bit because I was pretty sure that’s where I’d seen the green car before, and we discovered the driver standing next to the car smoking a cigarette and looking at his phone.  I asked if he was okay and told him that was a terrifying thing that just happened.  He looked at me like he almost wasn’t sure what I was talking about, then said, “Yeah.”  I asked if he knew what it was about, and he said that he and his girl were on their way to do laundry (we could see it all piled in the back seat) when that white pickup came flying down the alley very fast as they were pulling out of their driveway.  He turned East, the truck turned West and all of a sudden he was being shot at.  He said he had no idea who the man was or what he was talking about and that it had to have been mistaken identity because something similar had happened another time he’d been driving that car.  He said all of this to me perfectly calmly without any real inflection in his voice and with a straight face. It reminded me of the kiddo telling us about his brother and further broke my heart.  If we weren’t still in the midst of a pandemic, I would have asked to hug him. 

That night, I heard ten more shots in the distance while I watched TV.  When I went up to bed and was lying there in between asleep and awake, my mind told me there was a loud crack of gunfire right next to my head and I was jerked awake, eyes wide, to find myself safely in bed with my partner sleeping next to me.  The following day I could not get the occurence out of my head and decided to leave some garden veggies and a card for the neighbor who had been the actual victim of it all.  When I walked over to set the bag on his car, he and his girl were sitting inside.  I handed it to them and just told him I’d been thinking of the two of them since and was hoping they were okay.  They both told me thank you with smiles and I walked back across the street to my house.  

What’s really been haunting me about it all, is the ease with which that man hopped out of his car and shot a gun at someone without even knowing for sure it was the person he was after.  That this couple have had something similar happen to them before, and that their reactions to an occurrence so incredibly upsetting were as calm as they were.  As if things like this happening are common and don’t necessarily affect their day to day activities.  As if trauma is so prevalent that even reacting to new instances of it feels unnecessary.  

I assume that I can relate to this because of my personal history of complex compound trauma and working hard with a mental health professional to deal with those effects in healthy ways.  But actually, this is not the same.  It’s not the same because the intergenerational trauma active in my family and genes, does not include slavery, racism, nonstop viliification from every aspect of media and society, brutality from my own government institutions which are supposed to keep me safe, and four hundred years of oppression that is all now being denied by huge populations of people.  Denial from the same groups who suggest BIPOC should, “move on already,” and, “just get over it,” since no one alive today owned slaves.  They are correct in that slavery in the United States, as it was hundreds of years ago, no longer exists, but a new framework has taken hold in the form of millions of people struggling to make ends meet while functioning beneath the weight of centuries of trauma, pain, and struggle.  Keeping so many of us so focused on acquiring enough to pay rent, eat, own a running vehicle, raise children, and survive day to day, that we don’t even realize we are all enslaved.  Keeping our minds diverted by political and celebrity drama, unending media gibberish, twenty four hour fear-mongering news reports, and social media platforms where it is entirely possible to not only see myriad mistruths, but also to cloister a person’s concept of reality into one which supports a single (usually warped) view of the world.  

Many BIPOC literally have no choice but to merely survive while our entire country’s systems function just as they were constructed to; building wealth for white men on the backs of the impoverished and oppressed while effectively convincing citizens that they are to blame for their own lack of opportunity.  

We can’t build a foundation for success with Jello, and we can’t pull ourselves up via bootstraps that don’t exist.  

This country must evolve and old ways of thinking must change, or we will all fail and we will all fall.  

 

“It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.” -Jiddu Krishnamurti

 


Wednesday, May 20, 2020

Loud Pipes Irritate Lives

I'm home.
We're all home.
Or at least we should be if we have the choice, because there is literally a pandemic happening and we're spreading it by acting like selfish assholes.  Which, you know, is unfortunately pretty par for the American course.
So I'm home, it's a beautiful day and we have all the windows open despite living in a corner house with a stop sign in front, which, for who the fuck knows what reason, is apparently optional for about thirty percent of those who pass by.  This means there's a lot of honking, there've been four accidents since we moved in, and even some of the people who actually stop at the sign, choose to squeal out while also blasting music on speakers that literally set off car & house alarms.  Sometimes, this is so startling that I get little flashbacks of past, unrelated traumas in my body and feel angry or sick or confused.  Which needless to say, blows.
For this reason, I decided to make a tasteful but not too bourgie-sounding sign asking people to please not do that inconsiderate shit.  My sign was maybe two feet high, white with black painted lettering, I attached it to the pole of the stop sign with some wire, and it said, "PLEASE DON'T DRIVE LIKE A JERK!"  Not just because I'm sick of PTSD flashbacks while gardening for the benefit of some tire-squealing stranger jerk, but also because lots of kids live in this neighborhood and I swear I see a lost/found dog posting on NextDoor daily.  It felt reasonable when I made it, all things considered but it's possible "please don't drive like a jerk!" in all caps was a bit much. I thought about this a significant amount however and here was my logic:
The people who are driving like total assholes, are probably used to seeing and disregarding the "Slow Children Playing" signs.
(I take issue with these because there should be a comma after "slow," otherwise it conveys an entirely different message!)
But this led me to thinking more about the type of person who squeals their tires at a stop sign in a residential neighborhood at 1pm, 4pm, 11pm, 2am, 4am, 6am, 9am...  Based on the types of vehicles that do this and my guesses at their drivers' mental states, levels of social emotional intelligence, self-awareness, and what would get their attention & consideration, "PLEASE DON'T DRIVE LIKE A JERK!" was what I decided upon.  Also considering what my neighbors would accept and not be offended by.
I put my sign up around 10:30am on a Thursday, by 2:30pm my partner had watched an older man in an older giant SUV stop, get out, look at the sign, remove it, and put it in his back seat.
I put my second, nearly identical sign in the same spot around 4:30 that same day, and by 10:30 it also was gone.

I'm pretty mystified about why, to be perfectly honest, this message is unacceptable so someone/s.  I can guess at reasons, but when it comes down to the sentiment and the fucking abhorrent driving people choose to partake in thirty feet from my literal front door, I just don't understand.  I considered making one more sign with a differently worded plea like, "please drive safely," or "children playing," or "drive like you live here," but ultimately decided not to because I was frustrated for multiple days, by the other two being taken and am not so much interested in repeating that.    
...
So, I found some plain, black, label making stick-on letters and decided I would use the stop sign to my advantage.  I cut out letters for the word "please" which I planned to place above the "STOP" on the sign.  Then I cut out letters for "driving," and "crazy," to put below "STOP."  Yes, I know it's technically illegal to actually do this, which is part of why the sticker letters are still sitting on the side table next to our couch.  But God damn it!  Maybe I'm just old now and feeling very "get off my grass!!" but I pay a decent amount of money to live in my home, it's my first, I care for & repair it, I improve it, I love it quite a lot, and I just don't want my dog, my partner, or anyone/thing else to be struck, right outside my house, by some shitbag trying to improve their sense of self-worth by owning a completely unnecessarily loud-ass car and driving it as if they are the only human in existence.  I have enough trauma in my past, thank you so very much.
Too much to ask?
#TMTA?


(While typing this (about an hour), I heard three sets of cars honk at each other for not stopping, three with excessively loud pipes, more than I could count going way too fast, and one tire squeal.)

Wednesday, January 9, 2019

Money, Again.

For good reason!  Or maybe not.

I've been struggling with balancing all the requirements of life, well forever, but in the past couple years or so it's felt more intense.  I have hundreds of ideas for creative endeavors: writing, visual art, furniture refurbs, businesses, sewing, activism, etc, etc.  Thing is, once I get home from seven or so hours of wrangling children with Special Needs, I am BEAT.  It's the best job I've had in my 34 years of life, but it takes so much out of me that when I'm finally on my own time I can't seem to do anything but sit and wind down with Netflix.
I love my job more than I'm capable of expressing, and I'm extremely good at it.  If all I had to do to make ends meet was work that job, I think I could figure out a way to balance things.  Unfortunately, because I chose to get a Bachelor's Degree, had some illnesses and surgeries some years ago with the bills to match, and must pay all the other necessities of being alive in 2018 America, I technically work four jobs.
Teaching is my full-time, five day a week job, but often when I leave there I go to one of two former student's home to take care of them, or to a group home I've been working in for six years to take care of the clients there.  In addition, I sew scrunchies out of scrap fabrics which I sell at local shops, I dog sit, I collect improve and sell antique and vintage items online and in local stores, I make art which I occasionally sell, and I try to maintain a comfortable and organized home at the same time.
I also try to keep up with all of the lovely friends and acquaintances I have made throughout my life, but that's not always something I can do.  I simply don't have the time or the energy which is both upsetting and very sad since my relationships are what I value most in life.
I would also like to read more books, make more art, take more hikes, hunt for more rocks, walk my dog more, sit and chat with my partner, cook healthy and delicious food each evening, keep up with repairs to my car, go on trips, travel the country and world, brush up on my ASL, learn more about all that I'm interested in, be more active with social justice, and spend more time with my family.
When will I be able to do all of this?  It doesn't seem like too much to ask and seems fairly reasonable to me.  Really, what I'm yearning for is the time and means to explore myself and the world with those I love.  Isn't that why we're here?  In my opinion, yes.  However, at some point in human history, someone recognized that they could do less and have more if they exploited other human beings, that caught on, evolved, and now we are completely and utterly enslaved by money and by those who believe they are entitled to and must hoard all of it that they can get their hands on.

It's abhorrent to me, and to many others, yet it continues because those of us who recognize what's happening have literally no power to change it.  I protested and rallied in the streets in my late teens and twenties, but at this juncture it feels pointless.  There are absolutely successes here and there that started with a rally or protest, but I'm quite sure they were before my time.  Now that I'm older and can clearly see how entrenched all of the corrupt systems in this country and the world are, the more pointless all that energy appears to be.  Not one of the millionaires or billionaires really actually care about our well worded signs and en masse chanting, and if they do will certainly not suddenly decide to share their totally unnecessary masses of wealth to heal the world or disrupt the status quo.
I say that because even people I interact with day to day or see posting things online, don't seem to understand and/or don't seem to care that we are living beneath massive structures of corrupted and broken systems whose weight we will eventually crumble beneath. So many of us just keep doing what we believe we are supposed to do and trust that the systems we grew up with will continue to function and serve us as they were created to do.  But, they weren't created to serve us.  Period.  They were created to make money for those who oversee and own these systems and to keep us in debt and blinded to what could be possible if they were gotten rid of or reformed.  I think Noam Chomsky explains it much more clearly:

"Students who acquire large debts putting themselves through school are unlikely to think about changing society.  When you trap people in a system of debt, they can't afford the time to think.  Tuition fee increases are a 'disciplinary technique,' and, by the time students graduate, they are not only loaded with debt, but have also internalized the 'disciplinarian culture.'  This makes them efficient components of the consumer economy." 

And that is all we are; "...efficient components of the consumer economy."  This applies to medical debt, credit card debt, student debt, etc.  
MONEY IS A CONSTRUCT CREATED TO KEEP US DOCILE AND SIDETRACKED,
and debt is the most powerful weapon within this construct.
We stay docile and focused on making money, because we believe what we've been told and what has been indoctrinated into our minds for our entire lives.  We believe that we all can and must pull ourselves up by the bootstraps and if we work hard enough, we will make it.  The truth is, we all can't make it.  Literally.  Infinite growth is impossible and we all can't live like or be millionaires, or even hundreds of thousandaires.  Despite the idea being presented as possible for anyone who works hard enough for it in this land of opportunity; that just isn't how the system functions in reality.  There are exceptions of course, but the vast majority of us will be working and barely getting by until we die.  Which is absolutely the purpose of debt.  If you are a person of color, things are even more difficult because of the rampant racism and active systematic oppression so many insist doesn't exist.

Unfortunately, this system also thrives on fear and ignorance so we are constantly being pulled away from one another.  The idea that we are all so different is continually suggested both subtly and directly throughout society.  We are constantly sidetracked by the micro in our lives that we often forget about the macro.  There is always something in our peripherals waving a bright flag to point out the hypocrisy in an old song, to yell about patriotism, to insist evolution is nonsense, to whine about the behavior of others, to tell us everything will be fine if we keep buying things, to condone deplorable actions, to remind us of the fancy house/boat/car/clothes we could have if we just keep our heads down and continue working, that so many of us are totally unable to see what is really happening.  How can we get together, have a thoughtful discourse, and force change when we are all struggling simply to live?  
We are required by law to let insurance companies take our money every month, just in case we get sick or hurt.  Then when we do they have the power to deny payment for our treatments even though, if we've been paying them for a year, they already have AT LEAST twelve hundred of our dollars for doing literally nothing.  In addition, if your policy is bad, as most are since the decent policies are too expensive to afford, insurance will only pay a portion of your medical bill and you are left to figure out the rest.  When we consider that money is a human construct, does it really make sense that a human being must have it to be kept alive and hold value as an individual?
In addition, you must have somewhere to live if you are to be a component of a consumer economy (aka a "functioning member of society"), so you must also pay money to do so.  Unable to work?  Too much debt to be accepted on a basic rental lease or to make mortgage payments?  Too bad.  You must figure it out or live on the street because money, A HUMAN CONSTRUCT, determines how deserving you are of a roof over your head and whether or not that roof leaks.




Just another day in the life of a Special Educator...


Student in bathroom after peeing on one of his teachers. He is holding his business as he sits on the toilet:
D: "D has tail?"
*pauses*
"Nooo, D has penis! It's a...."
*Points at it.*
"P...penis!"

Me: yes, that's what it is, D.

D: "Penis!"
*flopping it around and etc*
"Ms Sadie, it's a..."
*long pause, staring at me and waiting*

Me: Yes, D, it's a penis.

D: *examining himself* "Ice cream cone! It's a ice cream cone!"

Me: *stifled guffaw* Yes, it kind of looks like that doesn't it?

D: *holding and pointing to it*
"D eat ice cream cone?"
*Pretends to eat it.*

Me: *can hardly contain myself* I don't think that would taste very good, D.

D: *still holding it* "D eat penis!"

Me: Oh, no, I don't think that would taste good.

D: "No eat penis. Pull off?"
*yanks on it*

Me: Oh ouch, that would hurt, wouldn't it? Hey, D, let's be all done in the bathroom now.

D: "Okay!"
*stands up to leave*

Thursday, March 30, 2017

A Rough Day

Last Friday was a rough day.

I teach kids with special needs in a level four public school.  (There are only five behavioral levels.  Level five are those who are in constant crisis mode and usually live in a crisis facility.  The kids I work with are one level below that.)  One of my students is a very difficult kid whose behaviors appear to emerge at random and almost never subtly.  Thursday, he was a snuggly, sleepy, lovey little kid, giving hugs and kisses and saying I love you.  Friday, he purposely peed on the floor of the bathroom while smiling at me then saying,"You like it?" 
"No, I don't.  I don't like it at all."  
He smiled and replied,"You know you like it."  
When I leaned to clean it up, he began to spit on me, which I have learned to stop reacting to at all since that seems to be the reason he does it in the first place; the reaction.  Although, nothing is ever consistent with this kid.  
Following the peeing and spitting, he had a BM (bowel movement) and then refused to allow me to help him wipe.  His dexterity is not great and he can't do this on his own, so I just had to wait him out.  (Something else I have learned is a valuable tool.)  Eventually he got bored and started to lean forward to mess with his pants or something, and I snapped my hand down and got a wipe in.  He then pointed at me, frowned, and raised his voice with some nonsensical Somali, English hybrid words I couldn't understand followed by, "you!!" and a swat in my direction.  I dodged and waited some more, repeated the above twice, and finally got him out of the bathroom with a clean bottom and a smile on his face.  On the walk back to the classroom, he listened so well and instead of climbing on the bikes in the common area or dropping to the floor, walked slowly right to the classroom.  
He worked on a puzzle for awhile, had a snack of his choice, and while he was happily eating, I walked over to get a sip of water.  He got up and came over, slapped me hard on the back between my shoulder blades, and then sunk his teeth into my arm.  He then smiled his crooked little smile as I yiped,"ouch!" and he said,"Oh, sorry.  Sorry, Miss Saddie!"  His brow furrowed and eyes looked sad, as he kissed my cheek and sat on my lap to watch a video.  
Ten minutes later it was time for him to put his coat on.  This kid loathes putting his coat on, and we were two staff short in our classroom, so it was up to me to wrestle him into it.  First he smacked me a couple times with his hands, then dropped to the floor and would not get up.  When I tried to put the coat on while he was on the floor, he began to kick and got me hard on each arm and once on my head.  When he found that I was still not deterred, he flung his head back and butted me a good one in the jaw.  This was when I tapped out, told the sixty four year old teacher in the room with me that I was done and went across the hall to get more staff to help.  (He will often listen to one of the teachers in that room.) Someone came over to help and we had to escort him out to his bus, one of us on each side, then bribe him with bubbles to get on.  
Once all the busses were gone, I rushed to get going because it was Friday and I have therapy every other week at 4:30p on the other side of the city.  My therapist had recently changed the time to 4p, so I was really hurrying and arrived with enough time to stop and get some gas.  Before getting to the gas station however, I could not help but notice that every fourth vehicle on the road was driving like a complete maniac and I had to make evasive maneuvers twice in that short drive, to avoid what was sure to have been an accident.  
When I pulled into the gas station I took out the gas card a friend had given me (because money is the worst ever), and stuck it in the pump.  This didn't work, so I tried again, and again, then threw my purse into my car, locked it, and went into the building with the gas card.  I waited behind several people taking their sweet times to pay, then was told that nope, sorry, no gift cards today because their internet is down.  I then went back out to my car to get another way to pay, brought that in, and left to get to my appointment.
Upon arriving at my therapist's office, her door was closed which I thought was odd since I was two or three minutes late.  I looked at the text exchange and discovered that the change to a 4p appointment time started the next week, not this one.  So I made myself some tea, which I promptly scalded my hand with, then sat down and played stupid phone games for half an hour.  
When our session had ended and I had spent the majority of it explaining why things feel so painfully hopeless to me so often, how I feel paralyzed and trapped by money, and how there seems to be no escape from that, I went out to my car to head home and found a parking ticket resting beneath the wiper, fluttering in the breeze.  As I looked at it, I watched the rush hour, Uptown Minneapolis traffic, race by and thought how easy it would be to just step in front of one of these hurried commuters' vehicles and probably end it all.  I thought about the pain I would feel and how I would immediately regret having done it, but how the physical would (at least partially) outweigh the emotional, and I'd have a short respite.  I thought about the person who would have hit me and how they would be scarred forever because of it, about my blood on the street, about my dog waiting at home for me, about my mom and her reaction when she got the call that her only daughter had been hit by a car in the big bad city, and I took the ticket from my windshield, got into my Honda and started it up.  Still teary eyed, I headed through the familiar streets toward the interstate and as I reached the busiest and most confusing intersection in the area (the Hennepin-Lyndale split) the light turned red.  I was about six cars from the crosswalk, and could think of nothing but getting home to my bed which I would not leave for the remainder of the evening.  As I sat waiting, I saw an older (mid seventies) looking man open the door of his big Ford pickup and look back over the traffic lined up behind him.  He looked a little confused, and I immediately thought,"Oh, I bet you anything this truck won't be moving when the light changes."  
He stood there for some time, I watched, and then the light flipped to green and the three or so cars between he and I, pulled around him honking and sped off while the other two lanes of traffic zoomed by on each side.  He was, of course, in the center lane.  I pulled closer to his truck and put on my hazards then opened my door and yelled out,"Do you need help?!"  Obviously sans dentures he responded,"I think so!"  So I pulled up closer and jumped out of my car, ran up to his, and asked what he was trying to do since it seemed he was attempting to push the full-sized pickup on his own while also steering it.  He explained that he just needed to push it out of the center lane and to the shoulder, and without a thought, I ran back to the rear and started pushing.  Somehow, I was moving this truck up a slight incline, on my own, and then I realized that the cars passing were not likely to see what was happening here and would continue to attempt passing on both sides which meant that either the truck would plow into one of them, one of them would plow into the truck, or I would be smashed in between this truck and some impatient driver.  Just then, one of the cars trying to pass on the right, stopped and the driver jumped out to help push, then one other driver did the same and we had the truck moving pretty quickly over to the curb.  The old man was still trying to push and steer simultaneously and I looked up just in time to see him lose his footing, while still holding onto the steering wheel.  He legs were dragging on the ground as he held on and his entire body was about to slip under the truck when I ran up and thrust my arms under his armpits, hefting him up.  His old, fat, poodle dog, excited to see a new person, was wagging his tail and trying to jump out to say hello while this was happening, and the old man was saying,"No Buddy!  You stay in there!"  For a moment I held up the man's weight with one arm as I pushed the dog back into the passenger's seat, the men helping to push the truck stopped pushing and made some uncomfortable joke about falling but did not step in to help me hold up this grown man's weight, and about then the man found his footing and stood.  I told him I thought it would be best if he just get into the truck and we will push it while he steers.  He resisted this a bit, but I insisted, rolled down the window for him, and helped him into his seat.  He then resisted my shutting the door behind him and for some reason wanted to keep the door open.  I insisted we close the door, this was done, and I ran back to help push again.  In no time we had the truck on the side of the road and I ran back to my car which was now just sitting in the center lane behind a very busy intersection, with traffic flying by on both sides.  I jumped in, waved at the two men who had pulled over to help, and continued home.  
When I got home, I let my dog out, ate a salad in my bed, and then lay there for several hours watching Cold Case Files and crying off and on.  It occurred to me as a lay there that I hadn't thought, even for a moment, about the possible consequences of jumping into rush hour traffic to single handedly push a very large pickup.  I very easily could have been killed, hurt, or had yet another car totalled.  Luckily nothing happened but a surge of adrenaline that gave me super strength and stupid courage.  Maybe I could find that old man and he could pay my parking ticket.

Last Friday was a rough day. 

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Go Fuck Yoursel...Wait...Thanks!

Tonight when I asked a dear, curmudgeonly friend what he thought of my blog since he had recently read it in its entirety, he told me that it all sounded to him like,"a teenage Andy Rooney wrote it."  Which is funny, as many things he says are, but not exactly what I was going for.  So I was a little bummed about it for a bit, and then it occurred to me that (although a sexist, racist, ornery old man) Andy Rooney was on TV for fifty years and incredibly famous for writing about what he thought about things in the world.   So, thanks dear friend!  (Even thought that was kind of a dick thing to say.)