They're Watching!

I could easily make that title about paranoia (something that I also deal with thanks to anxiety and depression), but what I'm talking about has more far reaching implications.  I'm talking about our children.  You don't always realize that they are paying attention.  As a parent, I can't tell you how many times I've stopped mid-sentence, looked around cautiously, and then whispered some little tidbit to the person across the table because I didn't want my kid to hear it.  I think with words, its easier for us to think about what's age appropriate or what could have a negative impact.  However, we don't always pay attention to what we do and how that affects our kids. I think most parents have uttered the phrase "Do what I say, not as I do" at least once in their parenting careers. It's easy to spout that line, or something similar thereto, but in reality, it's meaningless.  Inevitably your children will repeat your actions and when questioned about it, they will say - "but, but...YOU did it!"

You could take that opportunity to reinforce the "Do what I say" rule, but it's not going to work well.  The truth is, you probably should be doing the right thing in front of them from the beginning.  If you are, then you'll never have to hear "but you did it" as an excuse for their behavior.  This could be applicable to a number of things, but for the purposes of this blog, I want you to think about healthy choices...mentally healthy choices.  I want you to consider how making those choices sets a good example for your kids. Here are 5 simple choices you can make every day that will benefit you, while setting a good example for your child.

1. Drink plenty of water.

In general, people live life on the go, and as a parent that tends to be more true than for non-parents.  Recitals, ballgames, doctor's appointments, meetings, school parties, and play dates and dozens of other things pile up, and we can forget to stay hydrated.  I know this from personal experience.  You just don't realize how important drinking is until you've chaperoned 30 screaming 5-year-olds in a museum, coached a double header, bathed the dog, given 2 baths, run a load of dirty uniforms through the washer, and cooked dinner.  You sit down after 13 "just one more stories" to find a moment of peace in your busy day and you can't figure out why you have a headache, why your fingers are tingly, and why you feel anxious and exhausted all at the same time.  Well, it's probably not a stroke...you're just dehydrated, because you didn't take time throughout the day to drink some water.

You've heard at least once in your life the 8x8 rule: Eight ounces of water eight times a day.  This is an average, and a poor one at that, but its manageable and better than nothing.  In reality, the amount of water you need depends on several things: age, gender, pregnancy, breast feeding, mental health, and physical health. Toddlers, in general, only need 40 ounces of water a day (5 cups), while a breastfeeding mother in her 30s needs 120 ounces per day (15 cups.) Most everyone knows that if you are suffering from diarrhea or vomiting, you need to drink continually in small amounts to prevent severe dehydration, but did you know that lack of water can create complications with mental health?

Our bodies use water to perform a number of complex tasks throughout the day including metabolizing medications, purging impurities, and regulating hormones.  If you battle depression or anxiety, failing to drink enough water can inhibit not only your body's ability to properly produce the hormones you desperately need, but also diminish the positive effects of medications that help to maintain your stability.  You contribute to your own anxiety attacks by not drinking water regularly.  Soda, tea, coffee, milk, and juice are not substitutes for water, even though they contribute toward your daily total.  I know it sounds "crazy," but I promise it makes a difference.  It's not a cure, but it does help.  My son has a bad habit of not drinking enough water, and quite frequently complains of dry mouth, itchy eyes, and headaches.  When he does, my first response is, "Did you drink any water today?"  Almost always his answer is "No."  But then, as he's gotten older, he turns the tables on me.  If my blood pressure is up, if my blood sugar is down, if I have a hang-nail..."Did you drink water?!"  I'm awful, because most of the time, my answer was also no. This hit home with me very recently as I'm standing in the kitchen taking my anxiety meds with a pumpkin spice latte (don't judge me!)  He says, "Aren't you the guy who is always harping on us to take our medication with a full glass of water, and your standing there slapping back pills with a pumpkinfrappawhatever?"  It's never fun to eat crow, especially when its served by your kids.  He was right.  So, I've turned over a new leaf...one of many actually.  I'm dedicated to drinking more water, taking my pills with water, and nagging my family to do the same WHILE setting a good example. I created a chart so I can monitor the results and remind myself of how much I've had to drink.  I'll let you know what I find out! In the mean time... Stay hydrated and let your kids see it!

2. Say no to caffeine.

If that statement made you sad, you really need to take a step back and re-evaluate your health choices.  Now, before I tell you why you should stop using caffeine, let me tell you...I'm STILL working on this myself.  It's new for me too; you are not alone.  The sad thing is...it's not something that I didn't already know, I just didn't care enough to make a healthier choice.  I'm not going to lie.  I like caffeine!!! That being said, like with all drugs, my caffeine need was a debilitating addiction.

People, for whatever reason, refuse to realize or accept that coffee and soda aren't just something to drink.  They are vehicles for a psychoactive drug. Caffeine is the most widely used mood-altering drug and is consumed by 80% of the planet.  Most of those people will use it, in some form, on a daily basis. Many of them are unknowingly addicted to its use and will suffer withdrawal symptoms without it.  I've heard people (including myself) say, "I have a headache because I haven't had any caffeine today."  If someone said, "I have a headache because I haven't smoked any crack today," we'd be all over that with all kinds of labels and advice.  But when someone says it about coffee or soda, we dismiss it.  Why?!? Because caffeine doesn't hurt you?  Wrong.

Caffeine has a profound affect on the body.  It increases heart rate and contributes to high blood pressure, both of which can lead to heart, lung, and kidney disease. Caffeine is processed by the kidneys and excessive amounts (more than 1 cup of coffee a day) can have long term repercussions including kidney stones, urinary tract infections, and poor blood filtration.  Caffeine stimulates your natural "fight or flight" response increasing cortisol and adrenaline levels in the body. This manifests in a burst of energy, but it doesn't last.  In individuals who suffer from anxiety, you've just triggered the beginnings of a panic attack. We spend most of our day trying to avoid panic attacks, and even consuming medications to control them, but then we intentionally consume a substance that will make them worse.  Doesn't that seem counterproductive?  Excessive amounts of cortisol can contribute to weight gain as well.  And yet...most of us can't function without a morning cup of joe.

That's the tell-tale line though, isn't it? "I can't get going without my morning coffee" or whatever caffeine stimulant you use in the morning, be it soda, energy drinks, or pick-me-up pills.  When you cannot properly function without consuming a particular substance, you are ADDICTED to that substance. It IS a DRUG.  You can make yourself feel better by telling yourself its not as bad as cocaine or heroine, but just because it doesn't kill you quickly, doesn't mean it isn't killing you slowly. Let that sink in, and then ask these 2 questions:  Why am I choosing to slowly kill myself?  and Why do I want my kids to see that?

Would you smoke crack in front of your children?  No, not if you're a good parent. Why?  You don't do drugs in front of your kids, because you don't want them to do drugs, and yet they see you guzzling sodas and coffee and hear you say things like, "Oh, I need my Starbuck's fix so I can make it through the day."  How's that so different?  Something else I don't want them to see--Me having a panic attack.  I hate when they see it.  It's embarrassing to me, mostly because I don't want them to see me lose control, but more than that, it scares them. Dad isn't dad when he's a sobbing mess in the bathroom floor. Why would I drink a substance that causes that to happen?  This information is not new to me, but the realization of what I was ACTUALLY doing is. I was making myself sicker in front of my children and simultaneously teaching them that drugs are ok. My son drinks energy drinks like his life depended on it, and I'm to blame.  I taught him that it was ok to do that by setting a poor example. I'm ashamed and horrified, but I'm doing something about.

Another leaf has turned.  I've switched to decaff coffee, tea, and soda, and I'm working on cutting soda altogether. I don't even keep the "real stuff" for other people. (So if you come to visit and you are expecting caffeine, you're out of luck.) My son is almost 20, and his habits are already formed, so the best I can do now is encourage him to find a better way and set the example. If you are in the same boat I was in, let me encourage you to take a step back and look at the example you are setting. It just might save your life and theirs. For me, it's made a huge difference.  My blood pressure and pulse rate are consistently lower, and I've been able to come off of one of my blood pressure medications. I'm having less frequent panic attacks and I'm starting to lose weight.  And it all began with saying NO to caffeine.

***Let me also include tobacco products as well, as nicotine does the same thing as caffeine, but is more addictive and harder to quit.  I quit smoking after 25 years, and it's changed my life (but that's another blog unto itself.)

3. Eat a healthy breakfast loaded in B Vitamins!

I realize the further I get into this blog, the more I sound like an After School Special. I probably should have taken those more seriously in my youth, but hey...hindsight is 20/20 right??!?? I digress. Breakfast really is the MOST important meal of the day for many reasons.  The biggest reason is that it's the starting pistol for the daily race, and it needs to last all day long!  What you eat for breakfast starts the metabolic processes for the entire day, setting the pace for how you'll be processing energy.  In addition, you're body has spent the entire night repairing from the previous day and it needs a pick me up.  But why rich in B vitamins?

You're body uses the various forms of B vitamins, especially B12, to chemically manage stress.  Do you hear me?  Your body is designed to MANAGE its OWN stress.  The only thing you need to do is to give it the fuel it needs to complete the task.  Is it really that hard to do?  For some of us, it is!  The majority of people who suffer from anxiety disorders and depression also suffer from various Vitamin B deficiencies, most commonly B12 deficiency, which can result in increased stress, anxiety/panic attacks, muscle tension, headaches, depression, loss of appetite, and even hallucinations and delusions.  It cycles back onto itself, because the lack of B12 creates stress which uses more B12, depleting your reserves.  

Recently, I found out that my B12 levels were almost non-existent.  I was having waking nightmares, constant panic attacks, hearing voices, and seeing things I knew couldn't be.  It wasn't until my doctor ran a blood panel that we discovered how severe my deficiency was.  I already eat a diet with an increased amount of B12, but I didn't realize how low mine was.  Furthermore, I was "eating" coffee and cigarettes for breakfast for the last 2 decades, which wasn't helping.  Just look at that pile up - Missing breakfast, not enough B12, drinking/smoking stress inducing drugs, and suffering from anxiety and depression.  I honestly don't know how I didn't have a serious mental health break...though I guess delusions is pretty serious, huh? And what's worse...I was constantly telling my kids, "Eat a good breakfast!" "Eat your vegetables." "Fish is good for you." I love vegetables, and fish is amazing, so I was good there, but that breakfast thing...not so much. The doctor added a B12 supplement to my daily routine, and its made a huge different in my energy levels.

One morning, my son was on his way to take a college entry exam, and I said to him, "Did you eat some protein?  Did you drink some juice, and take your vitamins."  And he said to me, "I don't have time, I'll just grab an energy drink and a pop tart."  What the hell did I do to my kid?  I mean, he's not without his own mental health struggles, and I was making it worse by teaching him bad habits. I know he got that from me.  Not only was I damaging my own health by eating poorly, I was damaging his health by not setting a good example.  "I don't have time" is not an excuse for missing the most important meal of the day.  It takes 1 minute to make a bowl of oatmeal in the microwave.  If your life is so busy that you can't find ONE minute to eat something healthy, then you need to step back and take a look at your priorities.  Need help? Here's a great way to start the day...

The night before, when you are cooking dinner, boil three or four eggs. You're already in the kitchen cooking, so it won't take any more time.  When the kiddos start asking for a bedtime snack, slice up an apple or two.  Give them some and ziplock some for yourself.  The next morning, while you're waiting for the bathroom, throw a slice of bread in the toaster. When it pops out, peel a boiled egg, grab your apples, slap some peanut butter on your toast, and eat.  Five minutes is all it took to start your day off in a better way.  Eggs, peanuts, and whole grain breads contain natural sources of B Vitamins.  If you need more than the average person, a bowl of yogurt with granola and blueberries has a substantial amount of B12.  How long does it really take to make a bowl of yogurt?

When you battle mental health challenges, you need to do everything you can to navigate and mitigate the struggles you face because of those challenges.  That journey begins with eating healthy and monitoring your vitamin levels.  If you have never had your B12 levels checked, talk to your doctor and ask for a B12 blood test.  It might provide you with answers to questions you didn't know to ask.  In the meantime, just eat a good breakfast and make sure your kids do to.

4. Go outside!!!

We live in a world where technology will make you lazy if you let it.  I know, because it got its claws into me.  Seriously, you don't even have to stand to adjust the lights, the AC, and the radio...all at the same time.  I love video games.  Always have.  I spend too much time on them.  I think they absolutely have their place in coping with mental illness (and I intend to get into that for a future blog,) but I don't think its healthy if they take over your life. Exercise isn't just good for your heart, its good for your mind, and it won't happen while you're watching YouTube videos about cats. More than anything else...sunlight plays a very important role in mental health, and you can't get that from any other source than the sun!

Almost every person on the planet who has made it past 3rd grade can tell you that plants make their own food, but sunlight actually causes the production of more than just food in plants. Two of those important processes have to do with the creation of Vitamin D in the human body and the release of the "feel-good" hormone known as serotonin. Low levels of serotonin is one of the most common causes of long term depression and anxiety. In fact, many medications for those conditions are designed to increase the amount of serotonin in the system or prolong its presence. A serious condition called seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is caused by limited exposure to sunlight, which causes an increase in depression during winter months.  The treatment for this condition is phototherapy. Obviously, not everyone with mental health issues has SAD, but we can all benefit from the exposure to sunlight.  The increased production of Vitamin D will help with stress management and increased energy, while the influx of serotonin will help to fight depression and anxiousness.  Adequate exposure to sunshine will assist medications in doing their job more effectively, improving your over all health, and ensuring a happier and more productive day.

Most of people don't get enough sunlight.  We lead 9 to 5 lives.  Most of our day is spent indoors under artificial lights. When we get off work, we pick the kids up from the sitter and head home, straight to the kitchen table for homework.  We clean, cook, and assist until its time for bed.  Rinse and repeat.  It's unhealthy. The weekends roll around and we sleep in because we're tired from the work week.  We vegetate in front of the T.V. under the guise of "relaxing and de-stressing." We procrastinate.  We make excuses.  We don't leave the house.  This habit of avoiding sunlight eventually takes its toll.  Our brains can't figure out when to produce serotonin or melatonin, so we stay drowsy and rundown. We lose interest in the things that make us happy, and eventually find new excuses to avoid the great outdoors and exercise in general. We gain weight, which compounds our laziness and depression.  And again it cycles.  I've been guilty of this for years. I'm the king of excuses. I'm the emperor of "I'll do it later."  I wrote the handbook on how to avoid leaving the house. And it caught up with me. I've masterminded my own depressive episodes.  Depression contributes to anxiety, anxiety contributes to depression, and they both make me a prisoner in my own home.  The only way to fight back is to break the cycle. I'm doing that now...

Take a walk down a country lane.  Go for a drive through the mountains.  Fish. Plant a garden.  Listen to the birds.   Have a picnic lunch with your best friend.  Take your spouse on a sunset stroll.  Provoke joy, and dare to be happy!

5. Be proud of who you are!

I'm a 40 year old, retired, pagan drag queen with a big mouth and the heart to match.  I'm big where I should be little, and little where I should be big.  Gravity is no longer my friend unless I'm laying on my back. I'm a husband, a father, a son, a brother, an uncle, a cousin, and a pet parent.  I'm a chef, a chauffeur, a seamstress, a maid, an accountant, and a personal assistant to two men with bad memories and serious attention issues.  And I wouldn't have it any other way.

There are days when I don't want to be a dad.  There are days when I don't want to be a husband.  There are days when I can't leave my house because I'm paralyzed with fear.  Sometimes I'm so tired it's physically exhausting to wash my hair...and I don't have that much these days. I look at my house some days and want to burn it to the ground rather than clean it up.  It's on those days, when I feel less like me, that's when I need to let who I am shine the most. I need to let other's see that I'm not always strong.  They need to know that it's OK to have moments of weakness. I don't have to feel guilt or shame for having a mental illness. And I need to ask for help when I need it.

If there is one thing that I have repeatedly harped on with my children, it is asking for help. I could not tell you how many times I have said, "If you need help, ASK!"  Bad grades, complicated themes, words they don't know, climbing a tree, painting a picture, learning to drive, struggling with healthy choices... ASK ME FOR HELP!  I nag and nag and nag them about it, but what about me?  What do I do?  Nothing. I keep it inside. I'm ashamed of my weakness, and I don't want them to see it.  I hide it. I bury it.  It gets worse.  Then I fall apart and they don't see the tiny battles...they get to witness the nuclear fall out.  That's so much better, isn't it? 

I finally asked Jacob, "Why in the world do you let yourself fail instead of coming to me and asking me for help?"  And he said, "I want you to be proud that I did it myself. You never ask for help."  Well...there you go.  I set them up for failure by teaching them it was weak to ask for help.  What kind of parent does that? I was a walking, talking contradiction, and my kids were paying the price. Well, that had to stop, if for no other reason than hypocrisy doesn't look good in a dress. I started asking for help.  My dear friend Lisa, said to me, not too long ago, (and I'm paraphrasing a bit) "It's not weak to ask for help.  It takes a lot of strength to say 'I can't do this on my own.'"  She's right.  And I asked for help. For years I had allowed depression to compound my anxiety, because I refused to admit I needed help. 

Today, that is no longer the case. I'm in therapy for both, and I have meds for both.  I'm drinking plenty of water and eating healthier. I've said good-bye to addictive substances and shouted "HELLLOOOO!" to the sunlight. Most importantly, when I'm falling and losing myself, I reach out to my friends and family, and ask for help. I will be a better example to those around me, especially my kids. I am not broken, and I am more than my mental illness. 

Have a great day ya'll!

Just Breathe

I've been battling anxiety my entire life, so I have no idea what parenting without the challenges of mental illness is like, but I'm sure we all share similar burdens...those of us with the added task of navigating our conditions just have an amplified version.  I'm sure that all parents panic a bit when their child gets hurt. I'm sure that all parents worry when their children are sick.  I'm sure that all parents are nervous about the first day of kindergarten, first dates, first time taking the car out, and all the other first that we have no real control over.  I'm sure all parents, the good ones anyway, care enough to show concern for the well being of their children. However, for those of us living with anxiety, especially death anxiety, those situations can prove to be debilitating...in more ways than one.

Aside from the nervousness and irrational fears that go with anxiety, we have the added luxury of feeling guilty about our anxiety...causing us to worry that we are failures as parents. I've had thoughts many times that I wasn't good enough to be a parent. I've wondered many times if my kids wouldn't have been better off in someone else's care.  Even after stepping back and looking at their successes, I still felt that way.  That's because knowing something and feeling it are very different, and I believe that's a key component to navigating our very delicate mindset.  What you KNOW and what you FEEL are NOT the SAME--but--using proper coping mechanisms, medication, and therapy to your advantage can help you bring those 2 things into alignment.

Four years ago, my son, Jacob, went on his first long distance field trip with his class.  He was 15 then, and though very intelligent, he had his on battles with ADHD and opposition-defiant disorder to deal with, so any time he was away from my influence, I would worry he was going to have a meltdown.  This trip was no different, and in fact, it was worse, because he would be too far away for me to run to the rescue should something happen.  I lay awake all night the night before worrying about all the terrible things that could happen should that delicate chemical imbalance suddenly shift. I remember distinctly one scenario my mind invented -- He's swimming in the ocean and too far out.  A teacher calls to him and insists he return to shore, but his ODD overpowers his rationale and causes him to swim further out to sea.  In minutes, he's overtaken by waves and drowns.  I can see him drowning in my mind's eye. I can feel him gasping for breath, begging for help.  I can hear him calling my name...and I'm too far away.  I scream out into the night, panicking over something that hasn't happened.  I don't want him to go. I'm pacing the floor, trying to find peace.  Nothing helps. I spiral.  I'm sobbing in the floor, clutching handfuls of my own hair, telling myself its silly, unlikely, and insane. I know better...but the panic doesn't stop.  The only thing I can do to make it better is to keep him in the house...with me...forever.

I have spent my whole life a prisoner of my own mind to varying degrees, and there I was moments from making my son a prisoner too.  Did I want that? Did I really want him to suffer the way I have?  I found a moment of clarity in that realization, and I took a breath.  It's such a simple thing, but a deep breath can be ever so cleansing.  It's certainly not a cure, and it doesn't work for long, but it can provide a second's peace to a mind in turmoil, allowing you the precious chance to turn it around - to bring what you KNOW and what you FEEL together.  In that case, I knew Jacob's teachers cared as much for him as I did.  I knew they would keep him safe.  I picked up the itinerary and read it, over and over.  He wasn't going to be swimming in the ocean, just looking in tidal pools.  He was going to be under constant supervision by people he trusted...by people I trust.  I took another breath and the peace lasted a bit long. I thought about the conversations I had had with his teachers.  I looked at their faces in my memory and saw joy, integrity, faith, compassion, strength...I felt better.  Another breath. The anxiety was fading...now I was thinking clearer: "I'm going to need some help over this hump."  I go the medicine cabinet and find my rescue medicine.  I take one, brew a cup of hot tea, and put on some music.  In 30 minutes, I was ok. He was ok.

The rest of that day, I used what I felt in those moments of clarity to keep the anxiety at a minimum.  I reminded myself that I was giving him something that I couldn't always give myself - Freedom. I called some friends, read a book, watched a movie, cuddled with my furbabies, and worked in my garden.  When he came home, I was excited to see him, and he told me all about his adventures by the sea.  He was inspired to pursue a career in science. He wasn't sure what it was, but he knew he wanted to be a scientist. This past June, he graduated Valedictorian, a Golden State Honors graduate, and accepted into the pre-med program. He wants to be a bio-mechanical engineer and develop cybernetic prosthetic limbs. He's going to change the world for the better. If I had kept him home that day, that moment of inspiration he received on that trip would have been missed.  My anxiety...my irrational fear, very nearly robbed the world of his brilliance.  But it didn't. I think about that and remember. I fought back.  I use that memory to fight now.  Every win building on a previous win for a future win; all working to make what I know and what I feel the same.

When you find yourself lost in fear and anxiety, stop everything and breathe.  As simple as that sounds, as silly as you might think it is...BREATHE.  Take a long, deep, breath and release some frustration.  Feel tensions relax.  Allow your mind to slow.  Even if the calm only lasts for a second, it WILL give you a chance to turn your day around.  Take that moment and FILL IT UP with as many good things as possible. Smile, dream, laugh...even if its forced.  Tell joke, smell a flower, feel the sun on your face...whatever it takes, whatever it is that gives you peace... DO IT! And then breathe again...and do it some more.  You keep breathing and keep dreaming and keep smiling and you KEEP finding reasons to live, love, and laugh, because you're a parent...and that's what WE do.  And if you can't think of your own...you can borrow mine, and we'll get through it together.

Together, we can! Have a great weekend.

It's a Brand New Day

If you are a regular reader of "Jase-isms," then you know I can't commit to anything "regular," but that's kind of the way life is with me.  In fact, its part of living with mental illness.  You can go days, weeks, maybe a month if your lucky, without having any major issues, then one day your world collapses because someone forgot to put the milk back in the fridge. It really can be something that simple.  So, here's the only promise I can make... What you read here will be irregular, personal, thoughtful, and passionate.

But Jase...this is like your 4th blog, why do you keep changing? I wish I had a good answer for that, but the only answer I have is that I'm having trouble finding my voice as an "adult."  Let me caveat that - I don't think anyone is really an adult until somewhere between obtaining a mortgage and procreating, and sometimes that is even questionable.  When I was in college, I wrote for the school newspaper, as well as having several technical and research papers published. I've had articles published over the years, even some in the last 12 months....but - I feel like for the last decade everything I write has been forced.  Like its not really me...in fact, there's a few things I wrote that literally sounded like another person. That has to stop.  I need to write with my voice, no matter what that is.  It's time to stop allowing others to decide what topics I can write about and how I should write them. I might be angry about the acne on the butt of a random gay adult entertainer or I might be pensive and philosophical about the nuances of cheese.  No matter what it is...I should be able to express myself uninhibited by the masses...be they friend or foe or somewhere in between.

Anyway...that's where this is coming from.  That is why I'm giving my blog a new face.  I want to write about my life, my struggles, my pain, my joy, my right nipple...whatever...without worry. Okay...I'm kidding about the nipple thing...sort of.  The reality is I intend to right about my life as a parent living with mental illness.  I've written tons of things about parenting special needs kids, being a teacher of special needs children, etc.  Those days are kind of over for me as my kids are all grown now. (My baby just started college.) Now, I want to go back and reflect on the struggles I faced (for better or worse) and put them into words.  Maybe somewhere along the way, I've gleaned some wisdom that I can impart to others to make their journey a bit smoother.

With that said, I need your help.  If my tidbits are going to make a difference, I need your help in spreading the good news.  I'm not asking for shameless plugs and senseless advertising, but...if you could share me, tweet me, +1 me...whatever format you use (all of the above?!?!?)  it would be amazing.  Encourage people to comment on the blog directly, sign the guest book, and to follow me on Google+.  In fact, I'll be doing the same for you!  Perhaps if we keep sharing with each other, we'll finally create a world where understanding and compassion are the tools of every trade and tongue.  Until then...journey well!

Autism/ASD Acceptance: Body Image Issues and how it affects us

I started seeing the school psychologist when was I was a teenager, and continued therapy throughout high school, college, and into my adult life.  It was something that I considered shameful.  A dirty secret that I kept hidden...because I was afraid people would hate me more than they already did.  Instead, I spent years in therapy learning to live in a neurotypical world, because I wanted to be accepted.  It took me most of my adult life to realize...it's NOT my job to make you like me.  I shouldn't have to seek the acceptance of others to value my own life...to be proud of who I am.

Autism/ASD presents a whole set of complications by themselves.  While I'm not autistic, I do have an autism spectrum disorder...formerly called "Asperger's Syndrome."  Most of us still use that term.  I mean, isn't it enough that you had to give it a label.  Was it really necessary to change it?  Like life isn't confusing enough?  We spend a good bit of time either feeling...nothing?...I guess or trying to figure out what we're feeling so we can put a label on it and find a social cue to express it so that you can understand what we're feeling...which is funny since most of us don't even understand what we're feeling.  Then there's the anxiety that comes with not being sure that we're "doing it right," because heaven forbid we offend someone because we don't know how to function in your world.  Of course that's nothing compared to the depressive episodes that occur for every reason imaginable... everything from guilt for making you feel uncomfortable to worrying that somehow the color of our socks will make someone hate us. We also have this beyond-obsessive hyperfocus-thing that causes us to put all of our attention into the worst possible emotions. It cycles, until we're in a state of absolute emotional overload, and ALL of that can happen in a matter of minutes and last for weeks.  The condition is not without its perks, but that's not the point of this blog.

As I've mentioned in previous blogs, I've had issues with my weight for most of my life. It's no secret that I was "the fat kid" in school, and it was made evident to me on a regular basis that fat = bad. It didn't matter that I played tennis, volleyball, softball, and swam.  I was fat...fat is slow...fat is ugly...fat is wrong...fat means you are useless. That's how I felt then...and sometimes that's how I feel now.  I no longer look at myself as a monster, but I struggle with body image issues daily. Some days I'm ok with being overweight, and other days I hate the sight of myself in the mirror.  My husband tells me I'm sexy all the time.  Some days I smile and say thanks, and others I think he's a big ole liar who needs to have his eyes checked. Typically, I get through the bad days rather quickly, but then there's that pesky Asperger hyperfocus.  All it takes is one comment from one person, and BAM! I'm in a spiral. In seconds I'll convince myself that everyone hates me because of my weight: 320 lbs of disgusting, wasted flesh. I'll go all day without touching food, until long about the midnight hour my head is throbbing because my blood sugar is in the tank.  My heart will race. My blood pressure will go up...here comes the anxiety. "Oh gods, I'm dying."  And here we go... I'm in the kitchen shoveling food in my face like a prize hog at a slop trough til I'm so full it feels like my gall bladder is trying to shove my lungs up into my nasal cavity. "Oh gods, I'm dying."  Off to the bathroom to hug the toilet and try to throw up.  There I sit...on the floor with the most ridiculous, illogical, emotionally charged thoughts pouring through my mind: "I'm fat. Starve yourself.  I'm going into hypoglycemic shock. Gorge.  I'm having a heart attack from overeating. Puke."  Jumping through extremes is what Asperger's do best.  I think its mostly because emotional extremes are easy to recognize and label, and definitely easy to express.

At this point, about half of you are feeling sorry for me on some level, and some of you are concerned that I'm bulimic. Some of you are going "why didn't we know this?"  Let me address those things.  Don't pity me.  Your pity is painful and unnecessary.  I'm not bulimic.  I don't binge and purge with any regularity. In fact, the overeating is a coping mechanism for stress, because I'm over reacting to not having eaten all day, and the purging is because I've overfilled my stomach to the point that its physically causing me pain. Take all that and combine it with my unnatural fear of death and ASD obsessiveness, and its a hot mess.  All of it though, stems from 1 thing - body image issues.

This isn't an adults-only problem.  It starts way back in kindergarten health class when we are teaching kids about nutrition (which we absolutely should do.) The problem is, we are not doing a very good job of sending the right message.  The message should be that "making unhealthy choices with nutrition may cause a person to be overweight, which can complicate health." The message that we actually send is "fat is bad."  Children don't look at another child and think, "His weight is going to damage his kidneys. I'm concerned for his health."  Children look at an overweight child and say, "That kid is fat and gross."  This message becomes about how we look, rather than our health, and it absolutely damages self-esteem.  It persists through childhood and into adolescence, a time when development includes changes in body type.  Some people get thinner.  Some people gain weight. Some people get taller.  Some, not so much.  Bone structure, muscle density, skin elasticity, oil production, and secondary sex traits all manifest during those years.  It's at this point that gym class becomes the bane of every person that doesn't fit "society's acceptable body type."  At this crucial moment in psycho-sexual development, we are at our most vulnerable...and at the mercy of our "peers."  If you are already struggling with mental illness or neurological disorders, these moments not only mold how we view ourselves, but they become a trigger for sudden depressive episodes, overstimulation, and anxiety.  To make matters worse, it doesn't stop in adolescence.  Adults are just as bad as children and teens, if not worse.

I hear women talk about body image issues far more than men.  I think its because if men do it, society looks at them as whiny or effeminate. Men aren't supposed to express emotion you know, and if we do its a bad thing.  "You're acting like a girl" they say...as though being a girl is bad.  It's not an ok message.  Men shouldn't be forced into feeling like "less of a person" because they express emotion. Aspergers work tirelessly to learn how to properly express it, and then we're told, "but you're a man, so don't bother." It's not OK to equate femininity with negative emotion responses.  While we're trying to figure out the difference between happy and content, you're telling us we have to sort out which are "man emotions" and which are "woman emotions."  Aren't they all human emotions?  I mean, if they were gender specific don't you think that at some point the grand design would have weeded that out by now?  Whether you ascribe to evolution (which selects against negative traits) or a Creator (who should know better), the reality is, by this point in human existence, if there was going to be a "man set" and "woman set," it would have happened.  And ya know what...to some degree there is.  Women tend to be more nurturing, while men tend to be more aggressive, but those same traits can be found in both genders.  No emotion is exclusive to gender. We all feel joy, anger, sorrow, grief, laughter, shame, guilt, and regret...unless maybe you're a psychopath.

Women say, "Men objectify our bodies."  Don't be deceived ladies...men do it to each other...both gay and straight.  Men judge each other all the time. Locker rooms and poker tables are riddled with "small dick" jokes, and I've known plenty of women who remark about a man's genitals and body type.  That's no different that someone complaining about small breasts or "muffin-tops".  We make statements like "he has no balls," as though having testicles has anything to do with bravery.  My Mother is one of the bravest and strongest people I know, and I assure you, she doesn't have testicles.  Gay men are notorious for shitting on overweight gay men, which is mind-blowing to me, given there is an entire demographic of people who are sexually attracted to overweight people.  That's not the message we see on TV.  It's not the message we see in body shaming articles.  It's not the message our leaders reveal in speeches.  It's not the message we send on the playground.  Despite all of the body types in this world, society sexualizes and standardizes young and thin. Women are at the forefront of the "body shaming" dialogue, and somehow....people like me...a man struggling to love his body...get's shoved to the side.  And what's more...most of us men who are dealing with body shame, have more than just "being fat" as a problem.  Our struggle is real and it deserves to be acknowledged.

I've been writing for a long time.  I've been published several times over. I used to write under a pseudonym with a fake picture, because..who wants to read an article with a fat guy on the cover. But...recently, I had someone say, "How can I be expected to bare my soul, if I can't be proud of the body that holds it?"  There's a lot of truth in that.  The core parts of who we are...the soul of being human, is covered up by shame, depression, anxiety, and guilt, and more often than not...it's not of our creation. My dear friend Sayward Shores said to me, "We are not our bodies."  How wise! My body is only a vessel, one overflowing with talent, intelligence, and experience. My body is simply the container for "Jase." I am a gift that many people will never bother to open because they don't like the wrapping paper.  It doesn't matter.  The package isn't theirs to open.  It's mine. I open the package and reveal to myself all the wonders and possibilities that comes with being me.  That's how I fight back.  I take my Asperger superpowers of focus and obsession, and I focus on the best parts of me and obsess over the beauty, strength, and wisdom I have to offer.  If someone else wants to open the box, I'm happy to share.

I'm sharing a photo that I've never shared before, as a further step in being proud of who I am.  There will be some negativity...but I don't care. If they don't like the wrapping paper, they don't deserve the gift...fuck them. I don't give gifts to assholes anyway.

Body Image Issues:The Monster in the Mirror

Many people have body image issues.  It's not restricted to gender, age, race, religion, or sexual orientation — though our body image itself can and almost certainly will be affected by these things. Not everyone grows up the same way or in the same environment, and our view of our bodies reflects those differences in ways we often fail to recognize. (Thanks Jenni for helping me put that thought into the right syntax!)

My weight has been an issue since I was in the 3rd grade.  There are enough reasons for that to be a blog post all of its own, but that's not what we're talking about.  Being a chubby kid automatically puts you in the "target zone" of bullies.  It's in the "Bully Handbook" ya know: "Push around the fat kid." It's like their motto or something.  So, many overweight children are forced into one of 2 positions: being a bully themselves OR being a victim.  For whatever reason its much harder to see the middle ground when your 9. I was a kind-hearted child, so I of course, became the victim. At that age, I didn't really know what gay was, but looking back, I can tell you that at the very least, I knew I was different than other boys.  I already felt like an outcast because of that, and gaining weight didn't help. By the time I was in junior high, I had been made fun of for being a "Girly-girl fat boy" so much that I hated everything about myself. Junior high brought with it "locker room hell."  Not only was I more and more aware of my sexuality, but I was fatter, awkward, and unpopular. Walking into the gym locker room was agony. There were some undiagnosed psych issues at work too, but I didn't know that, and wouldn't find out for another 3 years.  So here I was: fat, gross, unpopular, socially awkward, nerdy, and gay....getting undressed with 2 dozen other guys. Anxiety much?!?  I'd do my best to find a corner and hide, bu inevitably one of my classmates would push me, call me names, give me a wedgie, shove me down, or worse..there were way too many "Worse" days than there should have been.  Now, if you're sitting there thinking, "why didn't you stand up for yourself?" then you don't understand anything about the damage words can do to person's self-esteem. By this point, it had gone too far. My mental state didn't allow me the "testicular fortitude" to fight back.  Every day of junior high was a nightmare for me.  I escaped into books and writing in some pathetic attempt to create a world where I could fit in. I got fatter, more nerdy, and eventually, figured out that I was gay.

Now, I want everyone to understand something about these next few statements... This is NOT an attack on my dad. We mended our relationship years ago, but some of the choices he made contributed to my dissolving mental state. He made comments quite frequently about "fags" and how they all needed to die.  When I finally figured out I was gay, those statements included me.  He didn't know that, because I didn't tell him for decades...with good reason.  I grew up in a very religious area of the country, and "queers" were discussed in Sunday sermons.  When you hear you're less than human long enough...it changes you.  This, among other things, began my final descent into depression. At 14 years old, I was a fat fag that deserved to die--at least, that's how I felt. I spent the summer between 8th grade and high school dreading the next 4 years. When high school started...things got worse.

At my school only 2 things mattered: sports and marching band. You'd think that marching band would be less stressful than sports as a fat gay kid, but it wasn't. The same people that berated me in the locker room and the classroom in junior high were sitting with me in band...and they didn't let up. Not even for a second.  I was too self-conscious about my weight to even think about showering in front of people, and being gay in a locker room full of naked guys my age...well, that was just going to add to my anxiety. So...I dropped band to escape the torment, and I didn't pick up sports to avoid more of it.  This left me in social limbo.  Did it help....nope! Because now, I was a fat gay nerd who didn't fit anywhere with anyone ever. My spirit was destroyed.  When I looked in the mirror, I saw the reflection of my damaged soul.  THIS is the essence of "body image issues."  It's not just about being overweight or acne or facial features or muscle tone....its a package...an ugly one...drenched in self-loathing and weighted down by years of ridicule and shame.  I saw myself as a monster and a burden to my family.

Without getting into details, I was suicidal, and we will leave it at that. On the day I had decided to put an end to the monster, I ran into Eric...this dreamy guy that I had had a crush on for a long time. He was talented and sexy and kind, but why would he want to know a monster?  I was sure that he was going to kick my ass for running into him...I mean, I literally ran into him. And you know what he did...he apologized to me (When it was actually my fault) and said, "I missed you at the meeting yesterday." He smiled and we went our separate ways.  The rest of the day, I couldn't get that out of my head. For some reason, it stayed my hand, and I decided the monster could live. When I returned to school, I went to the guidance office and told her everything I've just told you. She set me up with the school's psychiatrist on a weekly basis. I got to see him AT school, so I didn't have to tell anyone, not even my parents about my "problem."  At this point in my life, only 3 people knew I was gay...me, the guidance counselor, and the psychiatrist. Doc (that's what i called him) helped me understand A LOT about who I was. Consequently, this is when I first found out that I was ASD (formerly Asperger's) and started behavioral modification therapy.  The rest of my freshman year was...better.  Not great or good, but just better.  Mostly because I had less anxiety, and there was 1 place I could be me...in the guidance office. By the time my sophomore year started, I was stronger and more confident. I was learning to use my Aspy-powers to control other parts of my life, and bullies were becoming less of a problem. I joined a bunch of clubs, made friends that were just as weird as I was, and eventually...people left me a lone. Until one day, I became....the bully.

I had spent so many years being tormented by other people that when I finally found freedom it became something different.  I was totally able to defend myself, and quite frequently did. I lifted weights, played tennis, went swimming, and eventually played volleyball at OleMiss during the summer. I lost some weight, but not a lot; I was still chubby.  I had more control over myself than I ever had, but I was still socially awkward.  I was content with being gay behind closed doors with "some people" and eventually told a few close friends...and a few guys who wanted to "Experiment." Despite all of the headway I had made...when I looked in the mirror, I still saw a scared, scarred, socially unacceptable monster.  A few years in therapy doesn't erase a lifetime of ridicule and shame. I was angry and bitter, and one afternoon some asshat guy I went to school with said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and I LOST MY SHIT! Quite frankly, I scared a half a dozen people, who up to that point, had never even heard me cuss, much less get violent.  When it was over, they applauded me. It felt AWESOME, and in that one moment, the monster took on a new form. Vengeance replaced shame, hate replaced fear, and bitterness became the fuel that drove me onward. As my senior year moved on, I took great pleasure in destroying the people who pissed me off. I spent the next 3 years purposefully hurting people, because evil was fun, and NO ONE fucked with me. Sex, drugs, alcohol, fights, overspending...wickedness was my friend. I was still a monster, but at least it was a monster I liked.  I was out of the closet to everyone except my dad and a few family members. I embraced the part of ASD that basically makes me a sociopath, and I liked it. No apologies, no regrets. Until 1 night, in a drug-ridden rage, I put one of my best friends in the hospital.  Nearly killed him with my bare hands.  When I realized what I had done, I decided once more, I needed to change.  I went to rehab, returned to therapy, and looked once more into the mirror: sad, lost, and broken...I was still a monster.

The next decade was spent with a litany of horrifying choices: making the wrong kind of friends, going back into the closet, forcing myself to be "christian," raising someone else's kids so they could ignore them, jumping from job to job because nothing suited me, and of course being the subject of rumors and gossip in my hometown...because to most of them..fat gay men are pedophiles.  And I'll leave that there. After a string of broken fake relationships, teaching in a school system where parents and faculty called me every foul thing imaginable, and destroying my financial stability...I was back to where I was years before. I looked into the mirror and a fat, ugly, lying, cheating, self-loathing fag looked back. The monster was reborn.

Thankfully, I had some very good friends that reached out to me and gave me a chance to get a grip on my life before I ended up at the literal end of my rope. I moved in with them. Made some great friends, many of whom I am still connected to, and life was better.  Once I was on my feet, I got my own place, a better job, and a live-in... Life was good...or so I thought.  It didn't take long for the rumors to start. I mean, I was a gay man in a small town...I must be out for kids...right?  NO!  Idiots!  I don't know why so many small town people have such small minds.  GAY DOES NOT MEAN CHILD RAPIST!  That has to be one of the MOST IDIOTIC notions I've ever heard. But they didn't care.... You know what happened?  I was sitting in my living room one night, and my god son was sleeping over.  A brick came through the window of my house with "Die Faggot Die!" written on it. Colby was covered in glass. We called the police...and they did NOTHING! A week later, someone set my Halloween decorations on fire in front of my house. Police did nothing. I was called a "stupid faggot" by a co-worker. I reported it...the company did nothing. A friend of mine was beaten til he was unrecognizable...for being gay and not hiding it.  The police did nothing.  And it was at that time, that I finally realized that nothing was ever going to change in small town U.S.A.  I had spent years fighting for my rights and the rights of others.  I had tried to fight the stereotypes and rumors. I was in therapy and doing my part. I was finally finding some stability.  It was all for nothing. I had to leave.  The monster had no place. With help of some awesome people, I made my exit. After a very painful good-bye with my parents, I left my job, my house, my family and friends, and everything I had known...to start over in California.  The night before we made that cross-country drive, I stood in the bathroom in my parents house and looked into the mirror...and said good-bye to the monster.

I've lived in California for almost 10 years now.  I'm 40. I'm still fat...probably fatter.  I still hate the way I look, but...I don't care anymore.  I've got wrinkles on my wrinkles, and saddle bags for eyelids.  I'm also married to the love of my life.  He's my best friend.  I'm a dad. My kid is pretty awesome when he isn't making me insane...but kids do that.  Life would be boring without him.  I've worked to improve the lives of the LGBT community through activism and political protest. We've come a long way in the last decade. I have some of the most amazing people in the world to call friends....not just friends, but family.  I still have anxiety. I'm still ASD.  I still struggle with my self-esteem.  But I don't have to do it alone. I'm stronger, wiser, and honest with myself.  When I look in the mirror, I see an older version of a fat, gay, socially awkward, not so popular me....but he's not a monster. He's a war-torn soul that seen his fair share of ugliness.  He's a fierce friend who knows the pain of loss and loneliness.  He's a voice for those who cannot speak, an ear for those who think no one is listening, and a hand to extend to those who think they walk alone. He has scars...beautiful reminders of where he came from and the struggles he endured. He's not perfect...and that's ok. None of us are. He is David's husband, Jacob's father, Shamus and Archer's pet-parent, and Cheryl and Steve's son. He's a maid, a chef, an educator, a writer, a seamstress, a gardener, and a magical half-dragon genius. I am an individual. I am a human being. But...

I am NOT a monster. And neither are you.

3 Questions You Shouldn't Ask Your ADHDer

Any parent will tell you that when you ask a child a question, you'd better be prepared for the answer, because there is no telling what they'll say.  Typically speaking, if you ask a generic question, you'll get a normal answer though...at least where neurotypical children are concerned.  With special needs children, even the most mundane questions can have complicated answers.  There are some questions that are guaranteed to trigger such responses, and I thought I'd offer a brief...warning.

1.  Where would you like to eat?

Now, if you're a parent, you've been out with your children and realized that they are probably hungry.  Deciding to offer them a treat of eating out, you ask, "Where would you like to eat?"  If you have neurotypical children, you'll get anything from McDonald's to Starbucks depending on their age.  If your child has ADHD, you'd better be prepare yourself.  You might get something normal, or you might get "on the moon."  Yes, I said, "ON THE MOON!" It answers the question, even if you don't have a clue how it would be possible.  This might prompt you to ask more questions.  Do yourself a favor and just....don't.  Once they've given their wild answer, you have a choice:  either reconstruct the question with a caveat that will inevitably prompt more questions from them OR figure out how the hell you're going to have lunch on the moon.  I made this mistake once...and we had lunch on the moon.  We created a "lunar landing" area as part of our homeschool science class and had a nice lunch of cheese sandwiches, apple slices, and pizza pies.  (I let the kids pick the menu.  Can you figure out why they chose those foods?  Leave your answers in the comments section below.)

If you'd like to avoid having lunch on the moon and other similar circumstances, its best to ask questions like these with constraints.  In stead of leaving them wide open, say "Would you like to eat at McDonald's or Burger King?"  You could ask, "What's your favorite thing to eat?" and then you select a restaurant that serves their favorite food.  Occasionally though, I'd recommend letting one of those open-enders fly and running with it.  It could lead to some hilarious and fantastic memories that you and your little ones will cherish for years to come.


2.  Have you finished....?

It doesn't matter how you complete that sentence.  If you are asking someone with ADHD if they have finished something, you already know the answer.  It's no.  Even though you are secretly hoping the answer is yes, you are only asking because you know they haven't.  You're using the question as a prompt to keep them on track.  Unfortunately, you're also making yourself insane.  Repeating the same pattern over and over again, expecting a different result each time, is the definition of insanity. Instead of asking a question, just check.  You can say, "Hey, bring me your homework so I can check it."  or "I'm going to go check your room to see if its clean."  The idea that you are about to find they haven't completed the task yet can be quite motivational.  In most cases, they'll return to the task with a renewed vigor.  It also helps to set small, definable goals when assigning tasks to children with ADHD.  Instead of "Clean your room" it would be more prudent to say "Please pick up all the clothes and put them in the hamper.  I'll be in in a few minutes to see what else needs to be done."  A small more defined task with a reasonable time limit can be helpful in keeping your ADHDer on task.  You can assign a new task once the previous task is completed to satisfaction.

3. Why did you...?

This is a lesson you'll learn very quickly.  That question is BAD BAD BAD.  You don't have enough time or brain cells to endure this level of wacky.  I'm not trying to suggest that people with ADHD are insane or incapable of rational thought, but they are impulsive.  Their minds tend to leap frog through topics.  You ask why and by the time they've mentally processed the answer, they've forgotten the question.  You might think that's a stretch, but I've seen it happen. If you need an explanation from your ADHDer, do yourself a favor and guide the conversation.  Don't just ask why.  "Did you get distracted while you were doing your homework?"  No.  "Did you lose your pencil?"  No.  "Did you forget your book?"  No.  "Were you watching TV instead of working?" No.  "Then you should have it done.  Let me see it." I'm still working on it.  "Has something prevented you from completing your homework or are you having trouble with the assignment?"  No, I'm just having trouble focusing.  BAM!  By asking targeted questions and guiding the conversation toward an actually answer, you've avoided a 30 minute explanation about the math teacher's dress, Sally Jane's new pet iguana, and the dog running in circles chasing invisible squirrels. The reality is: He's having difficulty focusing.  Recognize that the answer to "Why did you...?" always comes back to focus.  Everything else is just filler.  It saves time and sanity just to accept it.  You're job is not to navigate the rocky waters of explanation, but rather to supply the focus.  You can't do anything about his racing mind, but you can minimize the stimuli affecting the race.  A clean workspace, some music he can relate to, and a reduction in foot traffic can be just as beneficial as all the 504 Plans and IEPs and medicines in the world.

Adventures in Babysitting

I know I said I wouldn't be writing a blog every day, but for now, I'm in the mood.  I've been thinking quite a bit about my childhood lately, for reasons I'll keep to myself for now.  It's been a considerable trip down memory lane.  As I look back, I find that I struggle for "happier" memories.  The sour far too often outweighs the sweet.  I don't think its because I'm a negative person.  I think its just human nature to linger on the "not-so-good" things.  They tend to stick with us more.  I'd like to tell you that I'm turning over a new leaf and focusing on only positive things, but that's not true.  I've tried it.  It doesn't work.  Stepford-Jase is creepy.  What I will try to do is share an equal amount of the good, the bad, and the ugly.  A nice balance tends to make for better storytelling anyway.  Here's one of those that contains a bit of all 3...

I had the good fortune of having a "stay at home" mom for my early childhood years. (And before someone gets the idea that I have something against working moms, please let me assure you that I do not.)  We weren't rich...hell, we weren't even middle class.  We had to gather eggs and milk the cow every day just to eat breakfast.  In the winter, meals were often left overs that had accumulated over the previous year, frozen in baggies and old buckets.  In the morning, mother would throw some homemade canned tomato juice in a cast iron pot, dump in an ice block of frozen whatever-was-in-it, and set it on the old wood stove.  When it boiled, it was done.  Sometimes it took all day.  I was a poor farm kid from the sticks.  Cereal was a luxury.  I spent May to September 90% barefoot and shirtless, because we couldn't afford new shoes and clothes.  They had to last.  Truth be told, we didn't always get "new" anything.  A good bit of the time, we got hand-me-downs from cousins and neighbors.  It was a circumstance of country life...but I digress. My dad made 3.15 an hour in those days, and the farm didn't bring in a great deal of money.  Mother decided she would start babysitting to bring in some extra cash.  To show you how much of a difference there is between then and now...she got 20.00 a week to take on 2 other kids 8 to 10 hours a day.  Can you imagine?

The first couple of children she kept were the children of family friends.  Their dad drove the local milk truck and their mom was a secretary for a small business.  They were nice people.  Trey and Ashley became like family for my sister, Tiffany, and I.  We were all separated by 1 year...meaning I was 6, Trey was 5, Tiff was 3, and Ashley was 2.  Ash was potty training and still in diapers. She was...portly?  She always reminded me of the Gerber baby but with more chubby.  Trey was so thin, you couldn't have hit him with a handful of corn.  I assumed he was thin because Ash was eating his share as well.  Tiff and Ash spent most of their time playing dolls and annoying Trey and I.  For some reason they couldn't understand why it was inappropriate for girls to enter our Fort, which was basically 2 hay bales, a dirt mound, and a bed sheet I pilfered from the clothesline.  They could usually be deterred from bothering us with the waterhose, though in most cases that resulted in the wooden spoon making an appearance.  We had 1 television..cabinet style.  There were 2 dials on it and rabbit ears for the first 6 years of my life.  Didn't matter though...there were only 3 channels anyway.  If you were lucky, and the birds stayed away, and the weather was good...you might get 2 of the 3 to come in plainly.  The other was a lost cause unless you held your mouth just right.

One evening, after Trey and Ash had gone home, my dad came in and began discussing this "new" technology with my mother.  I was intrigued.  A device that would allow us to watch movies sounded AMAZING!  I listened for a long time, and I remember thinking how awesome it would be to have something like that.  The downside was that it was going to cost my dad two weeks pay to get one.  That wasn't something we could afford.  I was disappointed.  A few weeks went by and I had all but forgotten about the new movie thing.  Pretending was better anyway, and we had started getting a new channel (a 4th one!!)...KBSI 23, a FOX station.  That meant more cartoon choices, when we were allowed to watch that is (which wasn't a great deal. 30 minutes a day, and Saturday mornings.) Life was good.

Right at the end of summer, a few weeks before it was time to pick corn, my paternal grandmother, Mamaw, called to tell my dad that she had found a VCR machine for sale in the newspaper. (That's right bitches, we had a phone. It was an avocado green rotary phone, but we had one.)  Mother had saved a good bit of her sitting money, and she and Dad decided to move into the "modern" era.  The VCR was listed in the items for a yard sale in an area of my hometown called "Pleasant Valley."  Pleasant Valley was a subdivision built to provide housing options for the workers of the Goodyear factory that had opened in town...the largest in the U.S.  You had to be pretty well off to afford a house in that subdivision.  It was home to doctors, lawyers,...well, everyone except poor farm kids.  It was actually kind of exciting to think we were going to go there and buy something.  (Sadly, once I got to know some of those families later in life, I realized what an idiot I was.  Most of them were assholes.)  Since my dad had to work, it mean that Mother was going to have to go...with all 4 kids! Knowing how difficult it would be for Mother to handle that, Dad took it upon himself to invite Mamaw.  Now, there's some history there.  Mother and Mamaw got along about like two Tomcats in a burlap sack (and I'll save that for another time.)

The next day. Mother, Mamaw, and we 4 kids, piled into our Mercury station wagon and headed to town.  It was about a 15 minute trip, which was about the width of our county.  We pulled into the driveway of the yard sale, and Mother said to Mamaw, "Keep an eye on them.  I'm going to be just a minute."  Mother got out and hell broke loose.  Mamaw's idea of "keeping an eye on us" was browsing the yard sale.  She left 4 young children in the car....windows down mind you.  In those days, in our small town, you could do that without much risk of criminal activity.  The real risk was leaving 4 children to their devices.  You should also keep in mind that I have Asperger's syndrome and death anxiety, which were both undiagnosed at the time.  Trey, we later found out, had severe ADHD.  This is a volatile combination in and of itself.  Throw in 2 siblings we couldn't stand and 33 seconds of boredom, and it was a mess.  We decided to play "campout."  If you don't know anything about Mercury station wagons, here's a brief description. Bench seats in the front, bench seats in the middle, and collapsible "kiddy" seats in the cargo hold.  I sat in the front with adults, because I was oldest.  The others were in the center.  The kiddy seats were folded down to allow full use of the cargo area.  Trey climbed over the seat to join me in the front.  We moved the bench seat all the way back and used windbreakers to build a tent.  We then decided we needed a fire.  Gathering brush from the floorboard and using Mamaw's cigarette lighter, we built a small fire in the ashtray...which quickly filled the car with smoke, even with the windows down.  This was enough to get Mamaw's attention.  She put out the fire, and subsequently prevented my mother from starting one on her head.

This next part will need a bit more explanation.  You see, Dad believes that if you get off the interstate, you have to live there.  So, he doesn't stop on long car rides unless he needs gas or has to pee.  That doesn't work well with a 6 and 3 year old. As a result of his insanity, Mother put a potty chair in the cargo area so we could use it without having to pull over.  Now, all of us knew it was there.  Tiffany decided that she needed to pee.  She climbed over the eats, into the cargo area, and proceeded to do her business.  Once finished, she stood up and attempted to pull up her panties.  Unfortunately, they had gotten hung on the kiddy seat latch.  She kept bending over and jerking them, but it wasn't happening. This also caused her to moon and flash everyone at the yard sale, which was half of Pleasant Valley. A crowd of people, including other children, gathered outside of the window.  Tiff began crying and screaming, because she's a drama queen.  My brain started to melt and I dove under the dashboard.  Luckily, my grandmother had the good sense to help her before it got worse.  Meanwhile, Trey had engaged in a spitting contest with another boy from the crowd. (Oddly enough, we later, as teenagers, became best friends...with benefits!)  The volley of saliva carried on for a while.  Tiffany decided that she too would join in.  With both Trey and Tiff spitting, things were getting gross fast.  Mamaw apparently thought to look in our general direction and yelled for them to stop.  The boy turned to walk away.  Tiff thrust her head through the window to get in one final spit as Trey cranked it shut, trapping her sideways head between the window glass and the door frame.  Of course, the drama queen began to wail.

Mamaw wasn't able to stop the cries from activating Mother's seek and destroy protocol, as she began shoving her way past the shoppers.  When she arrived at the car, she jerked the door open, not realizing Tiff's head was solidly trapped...and there she dangled by her neck.  Trey smacked the window roller (as they were hand cranked not electric), releasing her face, and causing her to drop to the ground with a resounding thud.  It sounded something like a brick smashing through a pumpkin.  Mother grabbed her up off the ground, comforted her, and checked for injuries.  Seeing there were none, she then inspected the car, that was devoid of adult supervision.  Seeing the burnt grass in the ashtray and the piss-filled potty in the cargo area caused her to lose her mind.  That was the first time I ever heard my mother say, "Fuck."  Now, this entire time, Ashley had been sitting in her carseat...quietly...shitting.  Not just a normal amount, but like enough for 6 kids.  I distinctly remember Mother picking her up and watching the poop spill out of the carseat.  It was disgusting.

4 hours, 4 spankings, 2 adults fighting, a moon-fest, a spitting contest, a campfire gone wrong, and a shit-filled carseat later...we had a used VCR.  It cost mother a month's worth of babysitting and all that drama, but we had one.  When dad arrived home that night, he saw the VCR and said, "See. You said it was going to be too hard with the kids.  I told you Momma would help."  Mother, smiling politely, said..."Your mother is as useless as tits on a boar. Never again..."  And she made good on her word.  That was the last time Mother and Mamaw were ever in the same car. She quit sitting.  A month later I started to school and Mother went to work...at a Video Rental place, no less.

Oh...and this hat is very similar to the one June Thompson wore when I was a child.  She owned the VCR that we bought.  Two years later, Mother went to work for her husband as a collections agent.