What the hell do people think of me?

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I’ve always wondered what people think of me. Not being able to gather enough information from body language and tone of voice can make figuring out whether I succeeded at a social interaction difficult.  Some people speak in passive aggressive modes. They do it to get their rocks off by slyly insulting a socially awkward person. Often these folks who walk among us are either small, bitter people or they fall somewhere on the sociopath spectrum. And yes, there are plenty of other spectrums. Some spectrums can have overlapping symptoms, but the point is that these weak bullies are assholes no matter the reason.

Sometimes when I meet a new person it goes very well, and some people dislike me on sight. A bunch of acquaintances in the same room can have vastly different impressions of what I’m like or what type of person I am. While one person thinks I’m a slut, another will think I’m unsuccessful at getting laid. Somebody will think I’m a bona fide intellectual, usually someone else who reads a lot of books, and another person will think I’m using big words and talking about certain subjects because I’m trying to prove I’m smart when I’m not.

These are often hipster poseurs. They haven’t put the time and personal sacrifice into being tiresomely over-educated. They haven’t done their homework. They’ve been hanging out and perfecting the art of looking cool and defining themselves by what genre of music they’re into and buying spectacles with non-prescription lenses.

Whew! Got a little rant-y there. I’m bitter about some things too.

I’ve worked out why this happens, but it took me a while. I don’t fit into any easily recognizable social tier. I’m un-pigeon-holeable and not good at conforming enough to put people who do have a group identity at ease. I’ll admit oddness can definitely be unsettling whether you can help it or not. What happens a lot of the time is someone will begin to project their personal insecurities onto my vagueness. This can cause a shitload of problems for me and confusion for everyone involved.

This is what it’s like to have a social communication disorder rather than a verbal communication disorder. It doesn’t necessarily mean I can’t make myself understood, but intentions get lost in translation. In both directions. I don’t know what the hell people want from me or expect me to be like. Subtext is hard to grasp in conversation. Also, the way I look doesn’t exactly reflect my mind or personality. I’m a cloud of boobs, lips, and blond hair in the body of a late 20s (early 30s?) Southern girl who giggles a lot. Inside my head I’m a sarcastic middle aged dude who wants to hang out in his study and solve problems. How incongruous.

In summary:

I’m like patchouli – everyone has a strong opinion about me in either direction. Those who dislike me are adamant about it, and those who love me are zealous and super-loyal. But my fans are certainly in the minority.

 

 

 

 

Different, but not uncommon

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On some level I, my friends, family, teachers, lovers, co-workers, bosses, classmates, bullies, et. cetera have always known that I am different in some strange and fundamental way. I was mostly normal, if a bit stoic, before I went to grade school. I was showing signs of precociousness.  After I began school I learned I was the stereotypical nerd, only in doll-faced little girl form. I was overlooked. It was the early 80s and Asperger’s wasn’t as on the map.

Before I sought an official diagnosis, I had certainly heard of Asperger’s Syndrome. I’m a culture and science buff after all. Many beloved American folk characters are Aspie stereotypes (and all of them are male), but I always knew I skewed heavily in that direction. My parents and teachers discussed it as a possibility at one point, but no one wants to admit their child is impaired when there is some giftedness to focus on. My abilities were praised and my deficits blamed on me or ignored or rationalized. I can hardly blame them for this.

Here’s one example of how I was put off the scent for so long:

Around the turn of the century I was in an intense teacher training program at college. I was going to teach high school English. One day we went to a presentation at S       , a rehab facility that also does a great deal of good work with autistic children. It was given by a woman who works with (boys) who have Asperger’s. She gave us the run-down on the symptoms and characteristics and showed us a film of the music therapy she was doing with one boy.

It was an immediate revelation to me. For about an hour. After she was done speaking I piped up like I do and started telling the class, visibly trembling with excitement, how that completely described me as a child. I fear I monopolized the discussion and made it about myself. I buttonholed the presenter after the class was over and followed her into the elevator, getting more talkative and enthused.

She was not responsive. She had one of those inexplicable looks on her face that I later interpreted to mean that I was off-putting. She told me that I was probably not autistic. She dismissed me rudely. She seemed to think that I was just some narcissistic chick who wanted attention, even though the behavior that she, and the entire class I later discovered, found irksome from me was a clear sign of Asperger’s in itself. I think, at that time, it was considered extremely rare for girls, and definitely not women, to have this poorly understood syndrome.

Less than a month later I got a letter in the mail requesting that I come into the Dean of Education’s office to discuss some “concerns” they had. The semester was over and I had done well on my projects and made excellent grades. All A’s and a B, I think. But the stress of this “boot camp” style, back-biting competitive program was inappropriate for me or any other student who pays money for a fair education. At the end of orientation the director told us “Don’t ever cry and watch your back.” I failed to do both. So I’d begun drinking heavily mid-way through the semester to deal with the 10-hour days of combined student teaching and going to my own classes in addition to severe sleep deprivation and the inexplicable mental agitation I always felt then. In addition to the stressful hours, I was assigned to a “mentor” teacher at D            . She openly abused and belittled the children in her class while she sucked away on fentanyl lollypops. She called individual students “stupid as sin,” and “losers.” She wanted to teach the class, “Little Black Sambo” she told me. I literally cannot make this shit up, but I was reprimanded for “stirring things up.”  The education program directors were angry that I told them about it, as was the principal of the school.

This was only one of my “mistakes.”

Subsequently, I got a DUI one night and had no idea whether to disclose this to the professors running the program. I asked my parents and a lot of other people what I should do, and they were as stumped as I was. I decided to let it ride because the instructors were pretty condemning of the black student’s “drug-addicted” and “irresponsible” mothers. I should mention that this program was racist in that subtle, insidious way that white people who think they’re over their hang-ups are. I found a lot of the comments about and methods of studying “inner-city” kids to be offensive. As did a few of my black classmates who were smart enough not to mention it.

Also, teaching is still one of the only professions where “moral turpitude” is a reason for dismissal. Imagine if that was the standard in Congress! But they eventually found out about my drinking because the women in my study group had ganged up on me and were calling one another on the phone to talk about me. They confronted me, with great hostility, about a meeting with them that I had missed while I was waiting to get bailed out. They went to the program director after I blurted out that I’d gotten a DUI. I can still see the looks on all their faces.

If looks could put you in prison, I’d still be there.

Of course, the powers that be were furious I hadn’t told them. Not that I had any legal obligation to do so. I’m pretty sure they would’ve been condemning no matter how I’d handled it. It was my second DUI.

So when I went to the office, two of the program directors had difficulty voicing exactly why I was “in trouble,” but thought I “wasn’t enjoying teaching” and they “had concerns about my commitment.” I explained that I had recently been ( and incorrectly as it happens) diagnosed with bipolar disorder. They were clearly unsympathetic and “suggested” that I do extra student teaching at W         A                 S          . Actually I was required to get a teacher there to sign a form confirming my hours before they would allow me register for my last semester. I’m pretty sure it was unethical and illegal to do this, but I didn’t know that and I was mortified, and, as a dirty drunk, who was I to judge?

I got the message loud and clear that they didn’t want me teaching children, that I was an unacceptable person altogether.

But I had invested so much time and money in this major after trying and losing interest in several others. So I went to help with the after-school program at W          . It turns out this was a punitive assignment. The “after-school program” was detention for students sent there for disciplinary and behavioral problems at a school where all the other public schools sent the delinquents. The worst of the worst. It worked. I completed my hours, but was too ashamed and angry to go back to the student teaching program, instead just finishing my English degree in nonfiction writing without the degree in education.

Most likely they were put off by my odd, youngish manner and inability to command the attention of classes full of students who looked and sounded older than me. I had been at odds with their attitudes and had made multiple comments they thought were inappropriate (but true). I was piqued by the insistence of teaching total inclusion of special needs students in the regular classroom. I believed then, as I do now, that some kids (like I was myself in grade school) need to be taken out of the regular classroom sometimes and given extra attention and enrichment to deal with our differences. They balked at that quite a bit.

Ultimately, my own developmental issues were the direct cause of their “concerns,” but they never once followed their own advice and put the welfare of their student, me, at the forefront. They were never honest or clear about why they thought I was not equipped to teach. This was yet another missed opportunity for me to get help. I was ashamed I had even suggested I had Asperger’s at that presentation.

This incident put me off the right path for another 15 years.

During that time I was raped multiple times by multiple people because I can’t always read people’s intentions and personalities. I unconsciously mirror body language and conversational tone as many autistic women do, and when a man is flirting with me I don’t realize it and I can send the wrong signals without meaning it. They think I’m good to go even though I only want someone to talk to and I’m copying them. If had known about my differences and tendencies, I would have understood how I was vulnerable and how to keep myself safe.

I continued to flail around the edges of society, looking for a good fit, a comforting group identity to wrap myself in. In all that time, no one ever reached out to me or tried to get to the bottom of my dysfunction, not even the people who love me the most.

Despite horrifying clues like this, the DSM-IV and common ideas about Asperger’s just didn’t quite fit. Lack of empathy? Robotically repetitive behavior? Strict routines? Unable to make friends or have a conversation? Doesn’t like fiction? Likes to memorize train schedules? Great at math and computers? Male? Nope on all counts.

So I concluded that while I certainly had the general nerd stigma and social delays, I was entirely to blame for my considerable difficulty controlling my emotions and completely failing to manage stress or succeed in life, my relationships, or college. I was diagnosed with everything from bipolar to unipolar to psychotic to “unspecified personality disorder” to PTSD. None of those fit at all. There was a lot more going on than depression or anxiety alone. I’ve never been manic. I’m the opposite of psychotic. I couldn’t break from the vividness of reality even if I tried. And I have tried.

I surmised I suffered from CCD or Crazy Cunt Disorder. Some sort of amorphous, shameful female hysteria. I grew to loathe myself and ceased to care about what happened to me. A lot of other unfortunate things happened to me because of this and will be detailed in my (bitchin’) book.

I felt I was broken and despicable and ridiculous and weak. Other people had a lot of challenges and still succeeded – why couldn’t I “buck up” and “deal with it.” If I’m so smart why can’t I figure it out? But mostly, when asked by the few head-shrinking Pez dispensers who bothered, I reported always being highly mentally agitated for no discernable reason. I, to this day, have no words to adequately describe some of the hellish, altered mental states (though totally without delusions or hallucinations) that I have periodically weathered since childhood.

“Pernicious dysphoria” comes close. Like some ultra-crippling anxiety disorder that won’t let up. After a while I deduced that the deep, black bouts of depression I have are because I’ve become overwhelmed and exhausted from a life change or tragedy or new job and I can’t handle nearly as much interaction as other people.

Jobs break me down in a matter of a few months. I can make a normal first impression and get hired. I do a great job and work hard, but I keep getting more and more tired on a regular full-time schedule.  I stop eating and sleeping and I shed weight. The miscommunications build up and I am made to feel less and less welcome wherever I am. I’ve only been let go three times, but I usually see the writing on the wall and quit before they can come up with a reason to fire me. One time I had a letter of resignation in my pocket when I was called into my boss’s office to be fired. I can’t even do part-time anymore because I’m too afraid of being overworked and/or bullied.

Bullying doesn’t stop at high school graduation, by the way.

Social misunderstandings and faux pas are the hallmark of my life. I don’t see ephemeral social constructions like company hierarchies and gender expectations all that clearly and that obviously leads to problems. I don’t know unspoken rules of appropriateness or dress. I can pretend at work, but eventually my “mask” slips a few times too often and they figure out I’m a weirdo or not the “type” I presented myself to be. People project their own insecurities on someone they can’t clearly define and my superiors begin to watch me closely for more mistakes which makes me nervous enough to oblige them.

I am darkly familiar with self-fulfilling prophecies.

For the longest time I purposely self-medicated with alcohol and thought my pathological awkwardness was due to being intoxicated in unstructured social settings. After four years of sobriety (but not tee totaling), I am utterly alone and feel less confident in my ability to have relationships with people and enter social settings. My mental agitation still plagues me, as does my insomnia. I have too many crimes and employment gaps to get a job that comes close to my skill set or will pay a wage that will free me from the control of my parents. Besides I’ve got no references and my former employers dislike me. It’s mutual.

So here I am, trying to write myself into a better story.

Let’s Start Talking About the REAL Reasons Americans Abuse Opiates

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Although there have been many valid explanations for why we have an opiate epidemic on our Drug-Warring hands, I have not yet heard anyone mention what the primary reason actually is, so I’ll tell you what it is:

It’s Pain.

And I’m not talking just about the physical kind – I’m talking about the mental and financial and social kinds of pain which are more devastating than physical pain. The vast increase in prescribing opiates is certainly a big driver of the crisis, but many people take opiates for the duration of an illness or injury and then stop taking them. They don’t become addicts; but a lot of other people can’t get off them ever again.

I had the dubious benefit of “attending” court-ordered drug treatment (in my case it was for alcohol) in my Southern state. I took careful notice of the people I met and spoke with in both jail and treatment, and I was shocked to hear the stories they told about their lives. Absolutely every woman was a survivor of some kind of repeated sexual assault, sexual abuse (by a family member, caretaker, or significant other), violent trauma, total estrangement, or sexual exploitation. Most were mentally ill. All were very poor and underserved if not completely unserved, because of the many institutional system failures in America.

Most people got locked up on paraphernalia charges, theft under $500, probation violation, and/or insolvency.  The people in treatment with me (some of whom I also met in jail) were suffering from some of the worst life experiences and situations I’ve ever heard of. Even though some people exaggerate for sympathy, if you have to drag someone’s tale out of them after laying groundwork over weeks in stir or in group therapy, they are not making that shit up.

In jail, I slowly got to know another woman there who finally told me she was a “trick baby” and didn’t even know what ethnicity she was. (Asian? Native American?) She was also epileptic, mostly deaf, an addict, and a member of the hidden homeless. These are the “precariously housed” meaning, at least for her, that she had to submit to sex to crash on various guys’ couches. She complained in her innocent way that what she hated most was always having guys “bothering” her when she just needs a place to sleep other than her car.

Every human has a breaking point when they will seek out ANY relief from unbearable pain, and everybody has a finite amount of resources to battle it.

Speaking of the deaf and/or developmentally disabled, I met a surprising number of people with these problems, and all of them had resorted to substance abuse to numb the pain of deep isolation, the resulting poverty, and repeated victimization.  The issues of substance abuse and police brutality are very real for the disabled and largely ignored as well. Almost half of all people killed by police are disabled and usually not in an immediately  visible way.

 

 

Baby steps, I guess.

The most punishable offense to many cops is lack of a prompt response, difficulty following or understanding orders, and perceived disrespect. Lots of cops are delicate, but thuggish, flowers who require deference and unquestioning obsequiousness at all times.

But back to our national love of getting high.

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I figured out that substance abuse is directly related to the degree of isolation and trauma a person has experienced, and the more you have suffered the less able you are to summon the considerable internal and external resources that are absolutely needed to heal from the severe issues at its root. Addiction is a symptom of other serious conditions. If you put someone in rehab or jail but don’t address the financial, familial, mental, social, housing, employment, and physical problems they have, you are setting that person up for relapse or death. 

Here’s a helpful TED Talk about why people (and other animals) develop maladaptive coping mechanisms when they suffer isolation and pain which reflects current evidence-based research. Our “moral” and “disease” models of addiction have at the very least been harmfully inaccurate.

By far, the worst thing about my entire odyssey was the degree of toxic shaming we were subjected to. Initially trying a drug is your fault because you chose to “make a bad decision” and break the law. You’ve sinned. Relapse is really, really your fault because you are supposed to know how to resist temptation with the (largely useless) advice they gave you about “avoiding triggers.” The 12 Steps used in most American treatment programs is outdated, ineffective, poorly studied, and loaded with negative, shaming attitudes and more bad advice. The addict is always solely to blame rather than the life conditions and intractable illnesses they deal with.

Here’s the bottom line: 

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Source here

Fifty percent of Americans in 2017 are struggling to pay for housing and having enough to pay for food and sundries.  A health care or car emergency can utterly wipe them out. These are people who take out loans for college and well into adulthood the jobs they studied for have simply not materialized. Their debt exceeds their assets. These are also people for whom the dismantling of the mental health system by Reagan has left them without a place to get help and has simultaneously criminalized the sick, the poor, and the different.

I could go on.  Things have been getting worse for average Americans so gradually that we didn’t realize we were being cooked alive and quietly robbed of more and more of our rights and political agency. The labor unions were broken, the push for women’s rights stalled, and anyone requiring social entitlements was demonized. What we DON’T need is more tough love, shame, religious censure, and socially conservative policies.

What we DO need is:

  • MAT (medically assisted treatment)
  • nonjudgmental, sympathetic counseling that addresses the specific reasons women and all other predominantly non-violent offenders (men, the disabled, LBGTQs, POC) end up in the system
  • comprehensive mental and physical healthcare (good luck on that one, I guess)
  • the 12 Steps replaced with a recovery philosophy that uses evidence-based methods rather than faith-based ones
  • safe rental housing we can afford
  • better jobs that pay enough to live on
  • an end to the Drug War and the decriminalization, Portugal-style, of personal substance possession and use
  • forgiveness of past non-violent drug-related offenses or at least removal from background checks so to prevent the stigma that leads to un- and under-employment (and relapse)
  • prompt, free legal help that doesn’t suck or favor domestic abusers
  • childcare and community supports
  • better treatments for chronic pain

Tall order, am I right? This is true:

Every human has a breaking point when they will seek out ANY relief from unbearable pain, and everybody has a finite amount of resources to battle it. Even the people who are “living the right way.” Thanks for being honest, Mo!

 

Speaking Ill of the Dead

Chris Cornell sexed up my teens and Roger Ailes killed my grandfather.

Yesterday we lost two famous dudes, Chris “Spoonman” Cornell and Roger “Kiss Me or I’ll Ruin You” Ailes. Two more different folks I cannot imagine. One committed suicide, but if you are familiar with his music, it’s under the category of Tragic But Not Shocking – like Hunter S. Thompson or Michael Jackson. The other is soon to be bunkies in Hell with Bill Cosby and Fred Phelps.  I hope.

I am so sorry that yet another person of worth felt the almighty tug of the abyss and got sucked in. It seems like the good ones torture themselves to death too soon and the shitty ones keel over after a long and enriched existence. I was in high school in the early 90s, so Cornell’s constipated, but sexy, voice serenaded my own self-flagellating teen years. He embodied the angsty music of the grunge era and always got confused with Alice in Chains.

I now wonder why the music of the 90s was so angsty. Smashing Pumpkins, Rage Against the Machine, NIN, Radiohead et al. are far more appropriate for the 21st century. Hell, Ok Computer and Kid A are the perfect accompaniment for most of last year and the current, uh, situation. I knew they sounded ahead of their time. But things back then were comparatively sane.

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But still ridiculous.

A big contributor to the fix we find ourselves in was the other guy. A right-wing Hut. Along with a rogues gallery of psychopaths like Roger Stone, Rupert Murdoch, and Bill “Phone Spanker” O’Reilly.

I have a special place in my gall bladder for Fox News. I was forced to watch Crossfire with my grandpa when I was a kid. He tried to raise me up angry Republican, but it didn’t take. His attitude towards the Anita Hill testimony was enough to convince me I didn’t want to be like him. Also I listened to Rush Limbaugh and Michael Savage.

I learned in church that Christians who “get it” are identified by their love. And that wasn’t the tone or philosophy that came across on Fox. They had a real Scroogian contempt for the poor and seemed to have it in for women and minorities. It’s an ugly way to think and live.

In fact, Fox News was a major contributor to my grandfather’s death. He got increasingly sucked into watching Fox all the time. Their format did exactly as it intended and a documentary called The Brainwashing of My Dad explains it better than I can. Towards the very end of his life he was doing strange things like taking actual “screen shots,” with a film camera, of Fox News crawls on the TV. We found them after he passed.

He became irritable and argumentative and fearful and depressed. The attitudes on Fox stoked his already racist outlook. I mean, the guy was a blue collar WWII vet born in the rural South in 1923. There were going to be certain biases.

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Exhibit A

Such was his fear of a black planet that he refused life-saving medical help when he saw that Obama would likely win the 2008 election.

One of the last things he said on his deathbed was, “I guess we have new president.” All my grandmother could do was nod. He died a few days after the election.

Thanks, Obama.

There is this cultural rule that I’ve never understood whereby it’s considered bad taste to badmouth people who are dead. Someone on TV made an ugly comment about Ailes and my mother gasped a bit and said, “That’s a low blow to Ailes.” That’s right, she defended the honor of the man who brainwashed her dad and made his last years anxious and angry.

From a logical standpoint, the very best time to talk shit about someone is when it can’t possibly get back to them or hurt their feelings. And why does keeling over in his mansion at age 77 magically transform a terrible man into a holy relic?

It’s just nonsense. (Even though I kind of did that in a post about Nancy Reagan.)

So fair thee well Chris Cornell, you are probably crooning on a cloud with Prince. R.I.P.

Roger, even though you are only the second worst person with your name, suck it.