Why Temple Grandin bums me out

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At least I got a good seat

A week or two ago I went to Knoxville for a free opportunity to see the Grand Grandin Vizier of American autism. (Played by Clare Danes, of course. It seems obligatory to mention the award-winning TV movie about her). I had seen her lectures on YouTube and read her many contributions in books about Asperger’s and girls OR Asperger’s and employment. We have the same ideas about the types of jobs that would be nice for us to have if there were more of them.

I was so excited to get out of town for a day and find out what new things she had to tell us about ourselves. The place was packed. The overflow was 500 strong, but because I was there early I got to see her in the flesh.

By the end of the Q&A, I was livid. It took me a minute to figure out why though.

First of all, Ms. Grandin just gave the same stock presentation about “thinking in pictures” and showing her upgrades to a cattle death machine and her functional MRI pictures. Then she berated boys who are into video games as she typically does.

Nothing new.

Secondly, the Q&A was a bit haphazard and perhaps not the best format for someone with her auditory processing difficulties. As far as I can tell she has never directly or satisfactorily answered an audience question. She would mis-hear the querent and then go off on an unrelated tangent she knew more about. Adorably, one little boy, the first one, came up to the microphone and asked her if she likes bugs. He never got an answer even after he asked a second time. Perhaps they need to give her written questions from the audience beforehand.

When non-autistic Americans think of adult autism they think of Temple Grandin and that’s a problem.

But that was merely annoying and not the thing that set me off. I watched person after person go to the microphone in front of her to ask their boring questions that she never answered. Several of the querents were little boys conspicuously dressed like Young Sheldons who had good questions, only one of which I can now recall.

The very last little Sheldon came up and asked (I’m paraphrasing), “How did you deal with peer bullying?” in a professorial and exact tone that I instantly recognized. She said something like, “I was OK in elementary school, but was sent away for high school after lashing out at other students in public school to a school for troubled smart kids.”

Interesting, but not helpful.

This little Sheldon thought so as well. He said something else with a lot of vocabulary words about being into math or something in his tiny, incongruous adult voice. The audience once again laughed, good natured-ly, at way he spoke. He looked around frantically at the laughing people, and it was then my temper reared up and I got this terrifying deja vu.

While the adults in the room thought he was a treasure of a little Aspie child and very entertaining, he didn’t know why everyone in that big room was laughing at him.

I recognized his voice as my own as a child, and the reaction of the adults as one that puzzled and confused me at that age too. I gathered from his question that he was beginning to have the increased difficulties with the other kids that I experienced around age eight. I got really into 19th century adventure literature like Melville, Poe, London, and Hawthorne in the 4th grade. When I spoke I used the same archaic vocabulary and prosody as a syphilitic Nantucket whaler. Adults thought it was adorkable and precocious, but my classmates DID NOT LIKE IT AT ALL.

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Not a good look for a little girl

I wasn’t into trains, or math, or, OK I was into dinosaurs big-time, but I was very verbal and into reading is what I’m trying to say. There seems to be this expectation that Aspie boys should go into manly STEM subjects and girls, well, should shut the fuck up if we exist at all. Not one spectrum woman or girl got to ask a question, which I thought was odd considering here we had a rare opportunity to ask an autistic woman to answer questions about her life experience. Ms. Grandin has never spoken much about how being female has affected her socially or occupationally or personally.

Grandin’s experience is not typical for a person with Asperger’s or autism both in the amount of assistance she received back then and how successful she was at her job.

(TONS of autistic females were there I must point out. The organizers preferred to trot out Young Sheldons and professionals whose questions were beyond her. I think she might not be as smart as we give her credit for. Forgive my blasphemy.)

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I cried the whole drive home. It seems like the most urgent issues facing autistic people, especially females, are not being addressed in favor of turning an androgynous autistic woman, who is nothing like the vast majority of Aspies, into a national mascot for our community. When non-autistic Americans think of adult autism they think of Temple Grandin and that’s a problem.

Temple Grandin does not have Asperger’s Syndrome. She is on a different part of the spectrum and had speech and intellectual delays which put her out of the running for Aspie. These delays also led to her being identified and helped rather early. Apparently there were still schools for poor farm kids to go to who were smart and unruly. Not so now.

Not all of us “think in pictures.” Some of us think in words and patterns.

Grandin’s experience is not typical for a person with Asperger’s or autism both in the amount of assistance she received back then and how successful she was at her job. Her symptoms were more severe and led to her being identified when someone with no speech delay or learning disabilities would be tragically missed. I’m glad she got help and was able to make it so cattle are calmer when being led into mechanized death, but her story gives the impression that autistic people are generally being identified in time and getting proper interventions, AND WE ARE NOT.

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Yes

Nearly everyone with Asperger’s from her generation, and a great deal of other autistics besides, were never identified or accommodated so that they could be successful. There are entire lost generations of failed and misdiagnosed autistics who still desperately need help.

There’s also the fact that if you are an autistic person with great verbal talent, you are kind of screwed. As I have explained, I’m not particularly high-functioning in my day-to-day, but I am articulate, intellectual, and able-bodied. I need some temporary disability benefits, but will never receive any help because of how I present as being more capable than I am.

In fact, I convinced myself for years that I couldn’t be autistic because I could understand humor and sarcasm and metaphor.  Turns out you can have a brilliant sense of humor and not be literal all the time and also have great difficulty with autistic symptoms. Reading (particularly hyperlexia) goes a long way to overcoming these deficits and many female and male Aspies are missed because we are so verbally talented. Reading helps us figure out subtext in some situations where it would be harder for us and allows us to learn better cognitive empathy and conversational skills than some others on the spectrum who have different talents.

Not all of us “think in pictures.” Some of us think in word patterns. Educators and clinicians would do us all a favor to learn this.

 

Jump Outs: The WTF police tactic you’ve never heard of

It’s already happening in a town near you.

I recently recalled an incident that happened at least 15 years ago on New Year’s Eve when I experienced a seldom-discussed insane policing tactic. I had only begun my evening when I left one bar – on foot – to see what was going on at another one. I carried a clear plastic cup filled with plain water, no ice, wasn’t intoxicated yet, but planning on it and trying to keep hydrated.

Out of the ether, a nice SUV screeched to a halt beside me and a preppy-looking dude with a short haircut jumped out and accosted me in a loud commanding voice.

“What’ve you got in that cup there?!! You got booze?!!” Without giving me time to process what was happening or identifying himself he barged into my personal space, which is precious to me, and grabbed at the cup in my hands. I was confused and frightened. My night just went from zero to WTF in 2.5 seconds.

I thought I was being aggressively harassed and reacted defensively like any woman alone on a sidewalk at night would who is suddenly swooped down upon by a SUV-load of psycho dude-bros . I got upset is what I’m sayin.’

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What is this shit? Ride ‘n’ Rape?

I shoved my cup at him and yelled, “It’s water, asshole!” He sniffed it like he was the Official Street Beverage Inspector-General, angrily threw it down on the ground, and just as quickly vanished back into the vehicle and roared away.

Without another word.  Like fart fairies in a fucking wind tunnel.

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Although the SUV was completely unmarked, all the guys in it were dressed like 2017 Nazis, and he never identified himself or why they pulled over to harass me, I got the distinct, no, certain sense that they were plainclothes cops. I had encountered police and military types before and they can take the cop out of the uniform, but not the uniform out of the cop. However, this type of police behavior was so beyond the pale of what I thought was constitutional that I was never for sure.

But in the past few years I’ve read a lot of books about policing, and I came across a few descriptions of this wild and typically discriminatory police tactic. Usually only black men in urban areas experience anything like this. It’s an aggressive, unconstitutional form of “stop and frisk.” Cops will see a group of black youth hanging out in a “crime prone” area, and will jump out of unmarked vehicles sometimes in plainclothes and sometimes pointing weapons at the group. They are lined up against a wall and frisked.

However, in this excellent article on ThinkProgress a 16-year-old black girl explains that although these happen all the time in Washington DC, “They check the boys. They don’t check the girls.” This article from three years ago states, “Girls have yet to be targeted by these actions.”

Well, I’m a girl and a white one too. And this was years ago.

I’ve combed the Internet and found absolutely no example of this tactic being used as a New Years Eve vice squad operation to hassle people who are possibly drunk in public. So far I’m the only white woman on record who has ever encountered this method.

Guess I’m just extra special.

Of course, the DC police chief Cathy Lanier vehemently denies that this is a method still used on a daily basis. (As do all police chiefs who have to address this practice in their departments.) Even Norm Stamper in his seminal book Breaking Rank makes no mention of this particular method.

ICE is currently using plainclothes agents to aggressively approach possible illegal immigrants outside of courthouses. And getting it wrong like in the video below.

The greatest danger of this is that people who are undocumented will avoid going to the police or courts to report crimes committed against them. The other danger as Ana Kasparian points out in the above clip, is that when you are approached like this you have no idea you are dealing with state or government officials. Who may or may not be armed and ready to shoot.

What if I’d actually hit that cop who jumped out at me in defense? What might you do if some randos who rolled up on you began to speak and act in an aggressive, frightening manner?

This is just another way that police actions are putting citizens at greater risk rather than reducing it.

Interesting sidenote: There’s actually a reality TV show called Jump Outs that “pits contestants against elite police Jump Out Teams. Contestants must plan and move a [fucking] amulet across a wasteland all while being tracked and chased by police.” I guess the entertainment industry is more willing than police officials to admit that this is common practice.

 

 

 

 

 

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“Rough Riding” and the Death of Freddie Gray

“Rough rides” are commonplace. It happened to me. More than once.

A man walks past a mural of Freddie Gray in the Sandtown-Winchester neighborhood of Baltimore

So it appears that the Department of Justice is not going to file charges against the six officers involved in the death of Baltimore resident Freddie Gray. I’ve been looking back on the details of this case today and it still makes me angry. Yet no one else familiar with American policing tactics is surprised by this.

The moment I first heard this story break I was 100% certain what had happened. I still am. Because it happens all the time and it happened to me more than once.

To refresh your memory:

Two police officers on bikes began to pursue a young black man in a poor neighborhood when they “made eye contact with him” and the man promptly fled on foot. From personal experience, police officers are very serious about making eye contact with random people and immediately responding to any “furtive movements or body language.” I can personally attest to a glance that ended in my being arrested.

He was apprehended, recorded being placed into the wagon, and at some point in his transport he sustained a neck injury that led to his death several days later.

Why Freddie Gray ran upon seeing the cops is a bit of a mystery. He had a knife on his belt, but the last time I checked that wasn’t a crime, even in a bad neighborhood. Although the police report says it was an illegal “switchblade,” it turned out to be a “spring assisted” blade which is perfectly legal there according to the Baltimore City DA. I’m going to speculate that Mr. Gray had a history of being stopped and frisked or just plain hassled by cops in his area. He grew up dreading them. I’m willing to put money on it that he wasn’t entirely sure if his blade was legal or not. Even if he did know it was legal, he understood that if the cops noticed it, legality wouldn’t matter for him.

Ironically, he might have been afraid of being shot and killed. So Freddie freaked out and took off, and the consequences were all out of proportion anyway.

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(Wikipedia)

Above is a map of all the confirmed stops the police van made before he was taken to the station. Notice they took the time to do some errands and made a lot of sharp turns along the way.

Freddie was somehow injured and/or just too upset by being chased down by cops that he couldn’t get up into the van without assistance. In that video I see a terrified young man, hurting and having an emotional meltdown. I also see inconvenienced cops. Some officers assume that any difficulty you might have following their orders is intentional so as to make their night worse. Every “perp” is a diabolical liar who acts pitiful to manipulate the circumstances. I’m not saying this is never true, but it’s far less common than is generally assumed by police and corrections officers.

The van pulled over in order to shackle him because Gray had become “irate” in the back of the vehicle. So he was either having a physical/emotional crisis or giving the cops lip. There was no way he could hurt them in that position though. After that, they picked up another arrestee and went to the grocery store for some reason.

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We may never know why.

Likely in that long, strange trip, the cops took the turns not-so-gentle and did so in a frustrated frame of mind. Freddie Gray had the same kind of neck injury that occurs if you dive headfirst into a dry pool. The amount of force necessary to do that degree of damage suggests that the police were intentionally trying to knock him around. Only six days earlier the BPD had issued new rules about safely securing prisoners in transport. It is more dangerous for them to lean in and secure an upset arrestee, and better solutions need to be explored, but they don’t have to drive like maniacs.

I am no stranger to being unable to keep your feet under you while being transported in shackles. I’m not sure exactly how Freddie was bound, but the backs of those vans are slippery steel boxes with a narrow shelf bolted to the inside as the only “seat.” In order to prevent getting slammed around, one has to “surf” the curves and turns they make. This means you have to be able to place your feet wide apart and grab onto the walls with your hands. This is impossible with hands and feet bound close together.

Several times riding in the back of the “train” as we call it in my town, the level of safety has devolved into a dark cavalcade of slapstick comedy. Everybody has to physically brace themselves by grabbing onto other inmates who may or may not go down with you anyway. Sometimes one person will have to yank someone by the back of their shirt or pants to keep them from smacking their heads on the wall or floor – or ceiling. Keep in mind that frequently the prisoners are ill, injured, or disabled in some way, in addition to being bound hand and foot.

Other times, instead of not enough passengers, they cram way too many of us in those things. The last ride I took, we were packed in so tight, hip to hip, that each woman in turn had to lean way forward or way back because our arms and elbows were too wide to fit. I was leaning forward as I recall, and there’s a particular sudden swell in the freeway on the way to court from the jail. The van accelerated and bumped up on one side which cracked the back of my head against the inside wall so hard I was nauseated and the other women cried out in angry alarm.

Hey! You throwin’ us around back here!” yelled the goddess-sized black lady who’s side I was stuffed into. We all saw the two COs up there look at one another and burst into laughter. Then they just turned up the radio and chatted in a self-satisfied manner while a few of the girls quietly cursed and asked me if I was OK.

Blessedly, I was OK, but Freddie Gray had no one and nothing to brace himself against the casual cruelty tolerated by American policing and corrections.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.