Growing Pains

It’s funny, but sometimes it’s hard to see your own progress until you revert to who you once were. No fundamental change has occurred, no earth shattering realization of a new guiding ideal within me, nothing grand like that. Just one day of acting as I would have not even six months ago opened my eyes to the reality that even though I have a long way to go, I have come so far. Even some of the people I once looked up to seemed less than ideal. My view has altered and I see the world differently. 

But my view is not without its flaws. New problems and new solutions are all around me. Things I would have never considered are in my thoughts regularly. Yet, I make the same mistakes as I always have. If just a bit of excitement can make me back-pedal so much, am I really changed at all in any lasting way? So, how can I continue with the end in mind without becoming discouraged? I want to do so much, be so much more than I am now. I am not who I was but I am not much more than that either.

How can I stay motivated and hopeful? No matter how many inspiring people I meet or how many touching experiences I am blessed to have, the doubt always finds its way back into me. No matter how extraordinary my routine is, I get stuck in the drudgery of repetition. No matter how many people go out of their way to support me, I manage to fall on my face.

 Ok, for now. That’s the best you can really expect. But I want more than that. 

Movie Review

Film: All Quiet on the Western Front

All Quiet on the Western Front is a film about what soldiers endured in the trenches of World War 1.  Made in 1930, it was a powerful and timely reminder of the realities and horrors of war. The story follows Paul as he enlists, fights , and sees his friends die for ‘the fatherland’ of Germany.  Director Lewis Milestone allows the audience to connect ideas to create a new understanding of the nature of mankind as well as the nature of war by presenting subtle cues in the music, cinematography, and script. It is through this careful crafting that the film evokes strong emotions in each viewer.

                The cinematography of the film helped convey the message that war is not glorious and dying for one’s country is nothing but throwing your life away. The establishing shot is of two servants opening the doors in a grand house in a German town. The audience sees out to the street, where a parade of soldiers is traveling through, spreading the patriotic spirit of serving one’s country. Then the camera seemingly travels through a window into a classroom, the festivities outside are audible but they dull and the focus is brought to the students inside. Their teacher gives a well written and emotionally appealing argument for joining the army, and he spreads the mania from the street into the boys. The camera then shows a wide shot of the room again, this time, the windows are open, further solidifying the idea of the boys being exposed to and consequently mislead by the mania spreading throughout Germany. More windows and doors are used throughout the film in a similar manner. Another example of cinematography communicating important messages within the film is when we are shown the face of the soldier manning a machine gun. What sticks out here is that showing this soldier’s face once would have sufficed to communicate that he was causing all the deaths we see through close-ups, yet we are shown cross shots of his face periodically. Each time the length of the shot shortens until we only see him for a few seconds, aligning the image with the sound of machine gun fire. The soldier becomes more like the machine he is operating. His humanity is taken away with each magazine he uses. There is also a moment when two of the main characters are discussing a poster of a woman and the audience can only see them because of a mirror beside the poster.

                The script was very compelling. The discussions the characters have together help lead the audience to an understanding of the senselessness of war. Every moment of realization was made more meaningful by how the characters expressed this new awareness through the art of words. The movie was based on a book of the same name by Enrich Maria Remaque was most likely a great source and inspiration for the screenwriters, Maxwell Anderson , George Abbott, and Del Andrews.  Alongside the actual words, the script also provided scenes that show change. If we had not seen Himmelstoss as a mailman first, his harsh attitude as he trained the soldiers would have seemed normal. As he throws off his personality and his goodness is consumed by his power, we see a different type of injury. His very soul has been sacrificed for his title. We are also shown individuals as opposed to the collective on both sides of the conflict: French and German alike. As Paul spends time watching over a Frenchman he has stabbed and making love to a little mademoiselle, he sees them as more than just his enemies. He sees them as his fellow humans, but then killing other humans is much more damaging than killing “the enemy” so he falls back into viewing them as a collective.

                The soundtrack was another mode of conveying the theme, which is somewhat expected, but in such a surprising way: about a third of the way into the film, all background music disappears. Through the last portion of the film, the only music is either sung by the soldiers or played on a harmonica. The harmonica and the chorus of soldier boys were both used to emphasize the youth and innocence of the soldiers. It showcase their humanity and vulnerability. The silences in between were tools as well.  Once in a long while there would be a complete lack of sound, no bombs fell, no rounds of artillery were fired, no conversation took place, just silence. In those silence moments, there was a clear message that resonated better with the audience than any amount of sound could have. These soldiers were suffering the unthinkable and they were just boys.

                Symbolism was used not only to communicate ideas, but also deep emotions. A pair of boots announced death, a butterfly made you understand how fleeting each life is. These everyday things were pumped full of meaning by careful crafting and execution. Each symbol was shaped. The boots were mentioned early and gained meaning as they were passed from one to the next as the war took their lives. The first time, we saw the death, but the next few scenes simply showed how many owners the pair had within a few minutes.  At nearly the end of the film, we learn about Paul’s sister’s butterfly collection and how they caught them. After his friends have been killed and he knows he doesn’t belong in his home any longer, we see him still fighting in the middle of France. He has become a hardened man. As he looks through the sight of his rifle, he sees a butterfly light just outside the safety of the trench. If this moment had not been proceeded by the proper set up, this odd detail might have been over-looked. Instead, the audience can feel the imminent danger. I actually covered my face and burrowed further back into my seat. I knew this was the end of him. As Paul slowly and carefully reaches out to capture the butterfly, he leans further and further out into the open, into the line of fire of the enemy. We see his hand inches away from the butterfly and hear the enemy fire. The hand falls still.

                The movie showed the realities of war. It fulfilled the disclaimer showed at the beginning of the film about how it meant not to accuse but to show the horrors every soldier endured.  Both through the actual story and how it is presented, the film successfully communicates the realities of war. Through conversations, images, sounds, and silence, the audience is transported to the front lines with Paul and share in his terrors and his joys. By showing the inherent goodness within each person, the dehumanizing effects of the war were striking and unmistakable- it turned men into the basest form of themselves. In order to cope, they had to bury emotions deep within themselves until they could feel nothing. And yet, in the middle of such a situation, they showed the best sides of themselves in addition to the worst.

Rainy Day

Why is it that the rain makes us sad? It brings life. It makes the flowers grow. There are many cliché statements about this very idea, and yet something about cloudy or rainy days just leaves something to be wished. Although the sun would literally burn the earth if it were to shine everyday, despite the fact that we understand the importance of the storms, we wish the sun would shine continually.

The same goes for life. I wish things were easy all the time. But, things are not. They’re hard and they will always be hard. The actual events and stresses will change, but the general feeling will stay. We cannot be perfect. Our lives will never always be sunny. We’ll have cloudy days, we might even have personal Hurricane Katrina’s, but they have a purpose. They have to.

Movies and religions and art and philosophy have picked up on this idea: I’m not original or saying anything ground breaking here. Humans have had a sensed this idea for millennia.  The first example that comes readily to mind is a quote from Batman Begins, “Why do we fall sir? So that we can learn to pick ourselves up.” Of course, there are other saying, quotes, and ideals based around this thought.

That’s all well and good, knowing that life is hard and it’s supposed to be hard. It is nice to realize everyone is like you, everyone is suffering and struggling. You’re not alone. But that doesn’t make you feel happy in the midst of a rainy day. The pain you feel and the pain you know is out there compound and the wind starts howling.  The clouds darken and thicken. It seems as if there is no chance for the storm to cease, or that if it does, you will not be around to see it. It will have sucked your life out of you before it itself dies. Just the knowledge that we are supposedly being built up for greater things offers no comfort, only a bitter taste.

The clouds make me feel claustrophobic. I miss the open sky. Gravity increases and the air compounds around me, pushing my feet into the earth. Each step requires staggering effort. Even the thought of jogging or making any sort of progress seems completely unreasonable. The best anyone can expect of me is survival, let alone excellence. But they do expect it. I expect it. And when I cannot overcome my own fears I become stagnated. The hope of a small ray of sunlight penetrating the darkness above me is fleeting at best, I have no power to change the continence of the heavens, and yet I have been told to be an agent and not a victim. But how can I fight this storm?  

The simple answer is I can’t. It’s too big, I don’t understand what causes it and even though I experience the effects, I lack any ability to predict more as well.  It changes so often and drastically that I cannot hope to find any pattern. Some things have been around so long that I didn’t realize that they were outside myself, identifiable, and fallible. But knowing is not a change, a label does not create a solution. I know why it’s happening, but I am just as powerless as before. The monster has a name, the storm is identified, but neither is conquered.

I have ADHD. I didn’t know until 6 months ago. It made me wonder what would have been different if  hadn’t dominated my life for so long. By defining me, you have also defined ADHD and vice versa. I don’t know who I would be without it. Mental health is such a new facet within our knowledge of life and the way people work that it is seen as mysterious and almost superstitious. I remember I doubted the effect that such a diagnosis could have in middle school. My best friend took some test and a doctor told her she was ADHD and she was scared. I thought it was ridiculous. It didn’t change who she was or the way she acted, it just put a name to a cluster of behaviors… And yet now, as I try to break out of those very same behaviors, I feel her panic. What makes the disorder different from myself, or am I just the disorder. Am I a disorder? Is there something wrong with me?

I see it in my actions, thoughts, and words. Every day it affects me. Despite the fact I have identified the fault within the very make up of my brain, how am I to reorder the neurons? How do I clear the fog? When my brain is a whirlwind, and certain things strike like lightning and others slide through like rain, how can I remember that there is a sun behind the clouds? Faith? Cock-eyed optimism? Hope? Humanity?

I don’t know. All I know is without whatever it is, life would be pointless. I know that rainy days happen, so maybe I can start thinking. Preparing for what is ahead. Carry your umbrella proudly. It is not weak to acknowledge the possibility of storms, it is wisdom to see the weakness and arm yourself  however you can to deal with the deluge that is life.

Freewrite Exercise

So, this is an exercise and the typos and such are a part of it. I apologize, but it's the nature of the beast.

Free Writing Exercise

I read in a textbook that freewritting is very goo to do on a regular basis, and while I don’t quite bekieve that I though heck, let’s give it a whirl. Therules and  such say that I cannot stop righting, backspace, constider spelling, or anything else for that matter. I only must continue to write. And that’s actuall hard, because I cannot really attempt to thinkasead of myself to continue this. Each word is typed as it enters my mind. There is no layover,  o time to process or erganize the thoughts. It/s unnerving and there are so many tupos which I can’t fix yet and that kind of bothers me. Ugh ummm ok well I think it’s silly that we have to judge eachother som nuch. And that e all think its normal. And that I have to get up at like 7 toorrow and it almost 11:40 and I am not tired yet. I was tired at like 5 in the evening, but not now/ Why ucht y bosy nd mind mock me so by siming these things so terribly? I can’r just say oh it’s night therefore I am tired  or oh its day time so therefore I am bringht eyed abd buhy taukled. Noooo I sleep in until 3 and then am ready to take a snooze by 6. But once I get Pat 8 adrenaline carries me through and beyond the end of a day. Just as it seems to be doing woith this excersixe. I don’t know how long it’s been or how much long er I should do this but I feel there may be something else in me. Augh I stopped to scratch my ye and I feel a bit guilty. It still iches but I refuse to cave again…. Oh but it itches and I can’t think of anything else. The horrid sensation soread. Ok ok I givi in bug I will not stop riting fff see see see see see see ee? Did I stop? Heck to the no. I am boss. I typed lefted hanfed with my eyes closed, and sure, the sees may have been kind of mutilated in the rocess, I still did it. After all that’s really the only realistic goal, isn’t it? Alright, I think This is sufficient.

Ok I have to spell check this a bit. I can't deal.

Spell checked version!!!

Free Writing Exercise

I read in a textbook that freewriting is very good to do on a regular basis, and while I don’t quite believe that I though heck, let’s give it a whirl. The rules and such say that I cannot stop writing, backspace, consider spelling, or anything else for that matter. I only must continue to write. And that’s actually hard, because I cannot really attempt to think ahead of myself to continue this. Each word is typed as it enters my mind. There is no layover, or time to process or organize the thoughts. It’s unnerving and there are so many typos which I can’t fix yet and that kind of bothers me. Ugh ummm ok well I think it’s silly that we have to judge each other so much. And that we all thinks it’s normal. And that I have to get up at like 7 tomorrow and it almost 11:40 and I am not tired yet. I was tired at like 5 in the evening, but not now? Why must my body and mind mock me so by timing these things so terribly? I can’t i just say oh it’s night therefore I am tired or oh its day time so therefore I am bright eyed and bushy talled. Noooo I sleep in until 3 and then am ready to take a snooze by 6. But once I get past 8 adrenaline carries me through and beyond the end of a day. Just as it seems to be doing with this exercise. I don’t know how long it’s been or how much longer I should do this but I feel there may be something else in me. Augh I stopped to scratch my eye and I feel a bit guilty. It still itches but I refuse to cave again…. Oh but it itches and I can’t think of anything else. The horrid sensation spread. Ok ok I give in but I will not stop writing fff see see see see see see ee? Did I stop? Heck to the no. I am boss. I typed left handed with my eyes closed, and sure, the sees may have been kind of mutilated in the process, I still did it. After all that’s really the only realistic goal, isn’t it? Alright, I think This is sufficient.

Just in case you got confused ;)

I'm Fine

My sister sent this short story to me and I think it's worth a read or two. It resonated with me because I have ADHD and i sometimes feel like a failure because I "need" the pills. being told to take them is hard, but it does help.

No. I’m Fine.

by Howard Tayler

I’m standing in the middle of our kitchen, and my brain is not working correctly. The failure is something I’m only tangentially aware of, but that’s because the failure itself is drowning everything else out. Years ago I ran barefoot across our weathered back deck and picked up a splinter between my toes. At that moment all I could feel was the pain of the splinter, not the regret at not having worn shoes. So it’s like that. Loud pain over a quiet voice that says “you’re not thinking clearly.”

But that doesn’t help me think clearly. Knowing I’m not in my right mind doesn’t put me back in my right mind any more than knowing I’m barefoot pulls a splinter out of my foot.

I’m standing in the middle of our kitchen, and I’m hungry, but I’m unable to solve the problem. Behind me the open pantry offers dozens of tantalizing options, but that’s not what I’m able to see. Each package, bottle, or bag looks like a closed door, an opportunity to eat something tasty, but only if I can get past the insurmountable obstacles between me and a meal.

“Honey, do you need to take your pill?”

She’s in the dinette, across the counter from me. She loves me and understands me and wants to help, and right now she’s telling me that I’m not good enough to feed myself unless I take a pill.

“No. I’m fine.”

I’m lying, but that’s okay because I’m lying to both of us. Equal-opportunity deception. And I’m a good liar because in the moment I say those words I’m convinced that the problem is not me, my brain, or the absence of some neurochemical whose name I can’t pronounce. No, the problem is clearly external.

“I just… the kitchen’s a wreck. There’s no room to work.”

There are several plates, a couple of glasses, a greasy cutting-board, and other kitchen clutter on the counter, but I can’t enumerate those things, can’t count them. They’re a frustratingly indecipherable puzzle, a tangled knot with no loose end of the string that I can take hold of in order to pull.

The right-hand sink is about half full of dishes, stacked with a haphazard inefficiency that I find infuriating the more I stare at it. The kitchen window, above and behind the dish-pile, frames a beautiful, spring afternoon. Trees are just starting to bud, the distant mountains are still capped with snow, and we should have planted some snap-peas last week. My youngest loves snap-peas. I want to cry when I realize that there’s no way he’s getting garden-fresh snap-peas this year. But I don’t berate myself for that. She’s the one who knows how the garden works, and she’s not out there planting peas. She’s staring at me over the top of her book, but she looks away when I look at her.

More infuriation. It roils. I want to lash out, because she’s reading a book instead of planting peas.

My brain is not working correctly.

Thank God for that sliver of thought, the voice of that lone spectator way up in the nosebleed seats where he can see the whole field. He knows that no matter how angry I may think I am with her, I’m really only angry at myself, even though I can’t seem to figure out why.

“It’s Friday,” she says, and she points to an index card on the fridge. “I can have—“

“I know whose dish-day it is,” I snap. I don’t want a child in here with me. It would be too crowded. The kitchen is too small, and too cluttered, and just the thought makes it too crowded in my head, and I suppose I could leave the kitchen while somebody did the dishes but I’m hungry NOW.

“Why don’t they do the dishes when they need to be done, instead of waiting for us to yell at them?”

She doesn’t say anything. She feels guilty sometimes, guilty that she’s not a good enough Mom to have the kids trained to clean up the house, or even really clean up after themselves. It’s a place where she hurts sometimes, and I poked her right in that spot. On purpose.

I’m not angry with her. I’m angry at me. The fury roils, and I want to slam something, throw something, break something, because just now I hurt somebody else on purpose and there should be punishment, but I’m afraid to deliberately hurt myself because the moment I do that I really have given up any hope of being independent.

“Just take a twenty, hon. Please?”

I grind my teeth.

A twenty. Twenty milligrams of methylphenidate. It’s an ADHD medication, but she and I and my psychiatrist have discovered that under certain circumstances it’s exactly what my brain needs when it hits this particular failure mode.

I don’t want to need it.

I’m not sad about the snap-peas. The boy likes the vegetables we can buy at the store. He doesn’t need to put garden-fresh peas in his mouth in order to be happy.

But I need to put a pill in my mouth in order to not want to cry right now about how I need to put a pill in my mouth.

I grind my teeth some more. I’m angry, I’m sad, I’m hungry, I’m miserable, and the only solution I can see is the one that feels like failure, the one where I do something somebody else tells me to do and take medicine somebody else prepared and which I’m only allowed to have under the direction of yet another somebody else, a nice lady who charges me $90 every three months just so I can tell her that yes, the pills I take still seem to work and though I should very much like to keep taking them I don’t want to take them, I don’t want to need them, I don’t want this dependency, and no, I don’t want to be crippled every few days, and we talk some more and at the end of the visit I have more prescriptions, more permits for these medicines I hate to want.

The high cupboard where we keep the family pharmacy is literally one step from where I’ve been standing, paralyzed by indecision, anger, and depression. “Family pharmacy” is our little joke. There are a lot of bottles up there. Her medications, including the one she’s been taking for fifteen years ever since radiation treatment. My allergy medications, which I’ve been taking for almost twenty years ever since the allergist identified the dozens of varieties of plant whose pollen, duff, and assorted detritus sicken me for three months out of the year. The over-the-counter pain killers that alleviate our cold symptoms, suppress a nasty cough, or shut down a migraine headache.

One step.

Three steps, really, because I sort of shuffle over to that cupboard. The prescription is in a translucent amber bottle with a white lid, and we’ve got several of those in the house at any given time, so I read the label and then peer up through the bottom of the bottle at the small pile of round, white tablets, each no more than an eighth of an inch in diameter.

How can something so small seem so big?

I open the bottle and gently shake a pill into my hand. With the deftness of more practice than I’d care to admit I fold one finger over the pill, pressing it to my palm, while the rest of my fingers cap the bottle.

I take the pill, swallowing it dry because there should be unpleasantness associated with this, and then I take a glass of water anyway because that was a little more unpleasant than I remembered it being.

“I hope it doesn’t work,” I say. “I want to feel better, but I hope that this doesn’t work so that it’s not something I need to take anymore.”

“I hope so too,” she says. She’s closed her book and is looking at me intently, her eyes a little wet, and I hope that’s not because I poked her but if it’s not that then it’s because she’s sad for me and I don’t want that either.

I feel beaten. Beaten in such a way that maybe I should be angry about it, but if I’m going to be angry at anyone in this house right now it should probably be all these filthy dishes in between me and the space I need to prepare food. I should probably scrape them off into the sink. They hate that. They want to stay dirty, so I should punish them by making them clean. It’s a mechanical task, and I think I can wrap my head around it. I open the dishwasher and begin.

The moment I start pulling dishes toward the sink for their punitive scraping, she sets her book in one corner of the counter and quickly sorts some of the other clutter out of my way. We’re working on opposite sides of this ravaged, Formica battlefield, but we’re on the same side, and I know that, and that makes me want to cry but I don’t because my hands are soapy and if I even rub my nose I’ll be miserable in a way this pill I took won’t fix.

Soon the dishwasher is full, the sink is empty, and the counter before me offers a clear expanse upon which to work, a blank canvas as my art-brain might suggest but I won’t be applying food directly to the canvas because this counter still isn’t clean enough to eat off of. Good enough for food prep, though, and if that seems a little counter-intuitive (ha-ha a pun) then you’ve never had street tacos. Oh. We’ve got uncooked tortillas in the fridge. And cheese. And I bet that bottle of assorted pepper flakes in the cupboard would work to season a queso fundido, which is really pretty easy to make, but I always make too much, but that’s okay because she likes it too, and we can share.

“Have you eaten?” I ask.

“No, I was going to wait until you were finished.”

“How about queso fundido?”

“That sounds delicious. Do you need help?”

“No. I’m fine.”

And I am.

I do need help sometimes, but not right now.

Afterword

v. 1.0, Aug 20,2014

“No. I’m Fine.” is a work of creative non-fiction. These events really happened, and I’ve taken pains to describe them in a way that may help others share in the experience of my mental illness. It was written in one sitting on Tuesday, April 8th, 2014 in Moab, Utah. It was kind of grueling to write. I felt great when I started. I was an emotional wreck when I finished. I suppose writing about it meant re-living it in some way.

My own mental illness is quite mild compared to the ailments suffered by many others, including a number of my friends. It is my hope that this story will help remove some of the stigma associated with mental illness, and elevate our dialog about these issues.

“No. I’m Fine.” was originally written for ALTERED PERCEPTIONS, a benefit anthology for my friend Robison Wells. He has generously allowed me to share it with you free of charge. You may re-share it freely, but please do not edit it or add to it in any way, nor remove this notice. Additional formats may be found athttp://howardtayler.com/no-im-fine, and any updates to the document or this notice will be reflected in the latest version there. Please direct any additional questions to schlockmercenary@gmail.com.

Unfriend

                Friends don’t break up. Then what happened? Did we mutually unfriend? As weird as it sounds, I’m heartbroken; I deleted his number, I unfriended him, and erased all the conversations we ever had. But even if I can’t read his words, they play through my head. I miss him and it’s stupid. I don’t know if I’ll feel better sooner or later or not at all, but then it was only last night. Work only distracted me for a while, then the sorrow returned. And a little anger along with it.

                How could someone who called themselves my friend be so hurtful? It certainly wasn’t accidental; he knew the effect he was having. His messages were volleys of fleche digging into me.  The more I opened up, the more he maliciously rejected me.  There was not found farewell, there was just a flat statement. He was pushing me away and building a wall between us.

                I wish I could be happy just to spite him. I wish I could say I didn’t care. But I know different. I know better. He means a lot to me even now, even after. It hurts. It hurts more than the slap I got from my mom for having him over at a spontaneous swim party. It hurts more than the fear and the solitude that followed. Worse than feeling estranged, running away, and never coming back. I live with friends, not family.  Of course, there were incidents before this one that helped me make my decision, but this was the last straw.

                The day before my 18^th birthday, I ran away. It hurt. But this hurts more. And he’ll never know what has happened. I never had the chance to say. Maybe Mom was right about him. Perhaps all the things she said were true. He is arrogant. He is manipulative. He isn’t a good person.  I just believed there was more in him. The potential is undeniable. He could be a force for good. Just not yet, not for me.  Nothing will change that.

                He gave me a new name. He showed me a new way to think. I felt special in his eyes, I felt I could do more and be more than I was. He lifted me and now he has dropped me. I need my old name back. My true name. No more “Schmidt”. I am Alyssa, and I always have and always will be. He changed  me, but he cannot define me. I choose who I am, who I want to be, and who I will become.

                I wish it wasn’t goodbye.             

Sentimental Reasons

Thinking in new ways is really interesting. Today I had the opportunity to take a mental journey that surprised me. It seemed to be something that was silly and mystical at first, but as I tried to get over my skepticism, I found value in it. Of course, I’m not going to change my default way of processing information and reality, but it was a refreshing change and helped me get some insight that I’ve been needing.

My friend sort of guided me, but I was able to also find and draw my own conclusions. I saw how the past has affected me without blaming anyone. Everything is so interconnected and that’s not bad. Memories and questions that are painful are fine to have. Crying is sometimes a step towards saying good bye, stepping back, letting go, and moving on.

Something has been bothering me for about a week now. It’s basically a huge what if question. There wasn’t going to be any closure and I needed to try to accept that. Accept the fact that I don’t, and indeed may never, understand why it didn’t turn out the way I thought it would. The way I wished it had. But wishing doesn’t do anything or change anything. Besides I don’t want to take away another person’s choice. So, it’s time to move on. Past the crying. Past the confusion.

It seems odd to explain what I did to help with that, with letting go… I might sound a little crazy. Oh well. So, for me, places and experiences are connected to specific people. The person I was thinking of so much went to my high school, and I happened to be there tonight hanging out with some friends. A feeling of overwhelming and bitter sorrow hit me hard. The tears came and I felt silly. I was crying over him like for the fourth time in a few days. This wasn’t acceptable to me, so I decided to try and work through this emotion so I didn’t cry over him again.

I walked across the grounds in the dark. A few light pole eliminated segments of the rolling grassy hills. I sat in a place just out of the light and let the feeling in full force. Focusing on the memories and the sensation in my throat they caused, the tightening and the breathlessness. I then visualized that feeling as an object, roughly a circle the size of two acorns. I “pushed” this object up and into my hands and blew my sorrow into it. Still, it was not stable and kept shifting and trying to reenter me. SO I whispered to it. I said all the things I wish I could have said to him. I told him that I loved him and that I still didn’t understand. I told him that I would be alright, even if I never got my closure. I kissed the invisible object and tried to pour all my feelings and memories connected with him into it. Then I pushed it into the grass, deep into the school grounds where it all began.

The memories belong to the school now. Not to me. Well, they belong to the version of myself that walked those halls. That person is gone now. And although I still sense her within me, it’s a new stage and I need a new slate. I love the place I live and I don’t want to leave simply to avoid sentimental places. So I give the sentiment to the place it is connected to, and try to move on.

Scared

Is there time to do it all? I don't know. Tomorrow things will look better. Sorry this is short, but so am I :P Wish me luck everyone.

Reminders

I’ve had a few reminders this week. None were very pleasant. If you only want to read inspirational things, you might want to stop reading. This whole post makes my blogs title a hypocrisy, it’s not gonna be hopeful or optimistic. This, for all intents and purposes, is a thought dump. Because these thoughts are creating a sort of static in my brain and making me feel incapable of practically everything.

I was forcefully reminded that all relationships are fleeting and you can’t keep grasping at something that has long since died. I expected a few friends of mine to behave as if things weren’t the way that they are. But, I couldn’t escape reality. They both thrust it in my face. I used to see both daily and now I’ll be lucky to see either. No amount of scheming or planning or pestering will change that.  I will miss both of these friends immensely.

I also remembered what it was like to cry over a boy. It hardly happens to me. Not to say that I’m not sentimental or attracted to guys because I am…. It’s just I have never been a crier. Except about him. And he’ll never know. It’s a bit silly, but honestly the best way I can describe it is that, “I cannot bear to have him in the world and thinking ill of me.” (Jane Austin) The worst part is I knew I didn’t deserve him. Though going to a dance doesn’t really make people a couple, we both felt it. And it just grew and grew until it was crushed. I thought I was over the almost-something, but I was wrong. He pushed me away. I backed off sort of, but still tried to be “just good friends.” It didn’t go too well so I gave up and we stopped talking. But then I had to go and text him. And his coldness hurt. I know his reasoning and I know it’s not in my power to change, but I still wish I could. I did lose a friend no matter what he said. Sunday would be the last time I see him before he goes off to the big wide world but I’m not invited. So I cried.  

I also had to relearn that some questions are better unsaid even if you already know the answer. It hurts to hear it. The torture is as self-inflicted as it is voluntary. Not that I wanted the pain, but I knew the possibility of it and still asked. My throat constricted and my eyes burned but I knew for certain. It wasn’t worth it.

I’m not really good at life, in fact I kinda suck at it. Not sure how I forgot, but I apparently did. I constantly surprise myself with my own…. Derpiness. Many little reminders seasoned this week like it was a barbeque. ADHD metaphor. It probably makes no sense but it did in my head. And there, my friends, is the problem. The way things are inside my head are not the way things are. This becomes both confusing and freaking annoying.

I forget that things are not in my control a great deal of the time. People affect me. I affect people. Sometimes I am not even aware of it, but there is so much around me that is pulling and pushing me to act. Decisions have to be made and that’s ok, but when a decision is made but not carried out, the whole ordeal was a waste.

In addition, I was reminded of all the factors that necessitated my way of processing and reacting to situations. Personal problems in my past have changed the way I have developed. I saw that things could have been different, and quite honestly, it was hard not to be angry and feel as if I was a victim of cruel circumstances. A reminder promotes forgetfulness: I forgot the benefits for others involved, and the fact that many others are fighting much bigger battles than I have ever faced.

It’s easy to forget about the way things are. The way I am. The problems that pester me and multiply before my eyes. Remembering hurts. You forget how bad it is until you have to feel it again. You think that perhaps it was all just a phase. That you’d found a way out of the cycle. You had conquered. But really, you’re the same as you were yesterday, and tomorrow will bring no significant changes. Reality is a constant but our perception of it varies.  Our choices that are so influenced by this perception can change the way our life is. The way reality is. And on a lucky occasion, that’s good.

Reminders hurt, but they also help. For instance, I had one slighty reassuring (if harsh) lesson this afternoon. I made the choice to move out a week ago due to a plethora of details and facts that you really don’t need to know (and listing would take forever) and since have felt kind of lost. My group helped me and have supported me, but there were times that I wished for the familiarity of home. I had forgotten within a few days the factors that had added up to my decision. How fickle the mind is. But, today I went shopping with my parents. It was pretty terrible. The combination of a time limit, too many options, and the pressure to acquiesce to their opinions made the trip exhausting and extremely frustrating, not to mention fruitless. They got a salad spinner for a wedding reception I can’t attend, but that doesn’t even count. Everything was so dramatic and they both treated me like I was a little girl. I am 18. Even if I do suck at life, I’m still an adult. As like 6 days ago, but still! The week of longing for home seems silly now. I’m happy I moved out, even if it does make some things more complicated. The stress of trying and failing to make them proud and happy has been a bit lifted. I am still who I have always been: a person who tries to do their best both for herself and others, but I have the opportunity to see myself without automatically looking through their biased lenses. Their opinion still matters, but so does mine. I shouldn’t change for them or around them. I am who I am, and I’m a decent person. I like myself. Sure, I have a lot to work on, but I know that my heart is in the right place. Sometimes they made me forget that, but all I needed was some reminders.

Lonely and Lost

                I have a lot of friends. According to Facebook I have over 200 of them. In reality I have about 20, 15 of which I talk to regularly, and 7 of which I see regularly. It’s harder to keep tabs on everyone when you no longer see them in the hallways nearly everyday and at first that really bothered me. My Circle of Influence had shrunk to about a tenth of what it had been before graduation. The interesting aspect of the phenomenon is that in the months leading to graduation, I wanted out. I wanted to get out of the system and away from all the people within it; rather than enjoying the people I was about to lose, I was negitive and never appreciated how surrounded I was by good people I’d known for years. I miss them. I miss the random lunch conversations and the inside jokes as we pass in the hall, and yet if someone whould have told me a few months ago that, I’d have called themm crazy and probably ranted about all the faults I could see. The faults don’t erase the possitives. They are almost in different planes, ones’ existence does not jeapordize the others’, and yet the more you see one, the less you see the other. There were faults and flaws in everything, but there were also amzing things around me. I put on blinders with a bad attitude, and now I’m overcome by naustalgia.

                So what? High School is over and I’m going to start college soon. We cannot live in the past, but we’re supposed to learn from it, somehow. I haven’t found the key to this and I don’t know that I ever will, but I hope at least I will be able to live with the people I connected with and learn from them as I move forward. Those that I stay in contact with and those that I only knew breifly, each person has affected me. Changed me. Shown me a different way of thinking and acting. And that’s good. Without the friends I have had I couldn’t deal with all the craziness of life. I don’t want to lose anyone else, but they are on a different path that now seperates from mine. It hurts and I try to cling on the the relationship as long as I can but too often not only do I fail to keep it strong, I also make things awkward at the end and that taints all the memories. But letting go is hard and if there’s even the slightest chance that what I do will allow me to hold on to any one of my valued friends, it’s worth a shot, or so I tell myself.

                But if I’ve met so many good people in the last half dozen years in the public school system, think of all the marveous people I’m bound to meet in the next as I move into higher education. The school I have chosen was one I’d always seen myself going to. I fit in there. I practically grew up on the campus. I am moving a whole 2 miles from home to my dorm. I am confortable and secure… at least in theory. I feel like I’m wandering blindly towards a dangerous precipise. One that I have underetimated, thinking it will only be a small bump in the road of life. This year, next month, I will step up to the ledge. I don’t know how to prepare. Should I anticipate an immediate plummet, a gradual decline, or some combination of the two? Should I have a paracute or a rope? Or a flare? I have no clue what I will face, I just know I can’t turn back now. And I don’t want to.

                I want to reach new heights. I want to soar. Yet I fear I will just fall.

story of My Life

They high-fived over my head again. I hate when they do that. But it’s preferable to when they carry out entire conversations up there. Most people think my size is funny, kinder people think it’s adorable, and the kindest people know it’s almost a curse.
I am a whopping 4’ 9 1/2”. It used to be something I was ashamed of; I can’t play sports well and people never tire of pointing out my size and comparing my child-sized hands to their own. Still, I found a way to cope by seeing it as a calling: I’m a confidence booster for short people. The moment anyone stands next to me, they instantly feel taller.
I’ve found other things to like about being small. People pick me up when they hug me, and once I get over how embarrassing that is, I like it. Everything silly I do, whether it’s tripping up the stairs, sticking out my tongue when I concentrate, or accidentally wearing mismatched shoes to school, gets labelled as "cute" because of my size. It’s a running joke, and I know I’ll always be this small, so I have to love it.
Some people wouldn’t be so positive. I have to climb on counters to get to the top shelf and one of my friend’s belly-buttons is the same level as my collar-bone, but it’s ok. My shape has shaped me and I don’t mind that. I’m distinctive. People remember me.  I wouldn’t change for the world.
feb 2014

To A Man Who Esteems Himself Highly

The attitude of sorrow for your sin
Is hid beneath your broad assured grin.
Asham’d, I think, not that you cause such pain,
But that your high ideals were kept in vain.
With lightning punish mortals for mistakes
Of which the godly sender, Zeus partakes
And thus upon me have you put such blame
For it, of that which now you falsely claim
To be above, in thoughts, beliefs, and ways.
As we have seen, the sinner always pays
No matter if he errs without intent
Across the Styx he'll dwell without content.
And that dear truth shall soon my pain decrease
But yet it tears my conscience, yields no peace.
This course of thought has now my faith revers’d
Redeeming you and leaving me the curs'd.
My heart cries out whenever I think ill
Of you, for I with words do also kill.
Thus you and I our wounds disguise
The guilt and pain behind our guarded eyes.
We do not see though Atlas 'fore us stands
He tries to hold the world up with his hands
And yet he thinks he must, he cannot fail,
He will not falter, e'en as he grows pale.
He won't admit the burden is too great,
Perceived weakness does infuriate
Who so esteem themselves too high.
And in the end we all must die
What happens then, no one can tell
For none return from the realms of Heav'n or Hell.



may2014

Heart of Depersonalization

In Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad allows his readers to explore the connection, or rather the lack thereof, between reality and perception. This is arguably unavoidable; some  say that is the factor that makes humans unique: we interpret the world around us, categorizing new knowledge based on past experiences, and blocking out anything that would jeopardize this foundation. But, this quirk of humanity is not without faults. In the novel, we see that justifying any action does not prevent negative repercussions whether we choose to acknowledge them or not. The heart of darkness is present in all of us. It is the innate ability of the human psyche to justify hurting others. The resulting depersonalization that is not only “unsayable,” but irreversible. Marlow experiences this as he sees the results of imperialism, and yet continues to perpetuate the cycle. Conrad creates a very human narrator, who has very real flaws. We as readers, focus on Marlow and his struggles, while Conrad takes a subtle stand against the prevailing urge to dominate that is still problematic today.
Imperialism wasn’t exactly a revolutionary idea-- subjugation or bondage goes back to the Old Testament, but humans have failed to learn from such an extensive past and continue to repeat the pattern. Conrad seems to at least register this trend, relating through Marlow that “And this [London] also... has been one of the dark places on earth… I was just thinking of very old times, when the Romans first here nineteen hundred years ago-- the other day… but light has come out of this river [the Thames] since.” (Conrad 3) This seems to support the theory that Heart of Darkness is one of the earliest pieces of anti-imperialist literature. True, Conrad and Marlow appear share very “modern,” (Nayak) “humane and advanced views,” (İçöz) but in other ways, they were both blind to their own hypocrisy.  “Marlow condemns the brutality of imperialism and yet colludes with its ruling ideology” (İçöz) and “Conrad seems to oppose only wasteful and selfish imperialism. He appears to justify British imperialism on grounds that it is “efficient" and conducted according to some unspecified “idea.”” (Hawkins) But, this debate is hard to quantify, as Conrad was subject to the same society he set his novel in, when conquering was something to “boast” ( Conrad 3) of. His ideas were ahead of his time and the beginning of a movement.
He saw that no one was truly benefitting from the imperial machine and no amount of words or ideals were going to change that. Marlow’s asserts that, “The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing ...What redeems it is the idea only”(Conrad, 4) To be redeemed, something must first be damned. As a participant in the perpetuating of this poorly justified conquest of Africa and it’s peoples, Marlow is not only excusing Imperialism as a whole, but his part in it. He puts on “blinders” (Achebe) to any other perception of reality. In protectively creating this filtered perception of reality, he secures his self esteem and to a certain extent, sanity. Throughout the novel, Marlow seems to be struggling with himself, he “condemns the brutality of imperialism and yet colludes with its ruling ideology.” (İçöz) He is unable to reconcile the theory with the actions it condones, excuses, and encourages, and this discrepancy creates a considerable gap between Marlow’s perception and the reality of the situation.
In addition to the debate surrounding Conrad’s opinion on Imperialism as a whole is one equally heated concerning whether or not Conrad is racist, and if he is, whether or not it is justifie.? Many think it is at least excusable, but some “believe... Conrad saw and condemned the evil of imperial exploitation but was strangely unaware of the racism on which it sharpened its iron tooth. But the victims of racist slander who for centuries have had to live with the inhumanity it makes them heir to have always known better than any casual visitor even when he comes loaded with the gifts of a Conrad.” (Achebe) Indeed, at first Conrad seems quite resolute in keeping Africans securely subhuman, taking away their right to being treated as such: with respect. He justifies the inequality surrounding the natives by putting them on a different level, thus it is logical at least and natural at best. Indeed this was the public opinion at the time, Social Darwinism provided even more fuel for the flame that was racism and subjugation. Marlow constantly focuses heavily on the natives’ blackness, to help him overlook their humanity. Despite his best attempts to keep them separate, he begins to see them as humans, whether he likes it or not, “Fine fellows-- cannibals-- in their place,” (31) and even to the point of seeing the humanity in a threatening an seemingly barbaric group of Africans, “No-- they were not inhuman.” (31) This revelation is shot home when the helmsman is taken down by a spear. At first, the loss seems to be only of the purpose he served and the shoes he ruined, but when you notice a few interesting details, it becomes clear that this is when Marlow finally sees the “kinship.” Up to this point, the only colors use to describe an african are black and ebony, or the “whites of their eyes,” yet in this passage, Marlow notices the helmsman's blue vest and his red blood. Perhaps most striking is the assertion, “I can't forget him [Kurtz], though I am not prepared to affirm the fellow was exactly worth the life we lost in getting to him. I missed my late helmsman awfully.” (Conrad, 46) The death of the helmsman was the first step.
Although Marlow is able to preserve his sense of identity and purpose as he sails up the Congo towards the great Mr. Kurtz, his entire system of cognition is shattered when he encounters his fellow idealist. As he witnesses that “he [Kurtz] had taken a high seat amongst the devils of the land” (Conrad, 44) his sense of reality is severely shaken. He felt threatened and scared, suddenly aware of his own insignificance and vulnerability. Without intending to, Conrad related something that is indeed “unsayable,” a psychological shift referred to as depersonalization, which simply put is the disconnect between someone’s perception and reality, which some believe is an “emergency defensive procedure against antithetical ideas” (Freud, 1936) or a the “result of a pathological split between the observing and acting sub-functions of the psyche” (Nunberg, 1955; cf. Freud, 1915).” This reaction is more common than one would originally think. According to a study done on Dartmouth undergraduate students, approximately half of the 121 tested said they had experience depersonalization. If you ever wondered if life was just a dream or if there was another world in the mirror, you’ve experienced it as well. Infinitely related to  depersonalization is prothesis. It is the loss of personhood, or gaining “thing-ness” (Apter) of yourself or those around you.
Conrad frequently relates how he cannot articulate or fully communicate the experiences Marlow had while in Africa. To the casual reader this may be annoying and at worst, mistaken for sheer laziness, but when you take this depersonalization into consideration, the fact he can even come close to sharing the sensation is amazing. Many report that depersonalization is dreamlike and extremely difficult to explain. Marlow had been slowly making his way to such a psyche, revealing that “Conrad’s vision.. is an understanding of human nature as fragile and contingent, but deeply social. For this reason, it can only become real, so to speak, or actual, by engaging concrete realities beyond itself—which includes, most importantly, recognizing the humanity of others.” (Baldwin) With this in mind, I argue that neither racism nor anti-imperialism is Conrad’s caveat, but rather a society that promotes anything that can push people to such lengths to protect themselves.
Marlow is not the only European victim of this need to become safe. “While many have noticed that Conrad’s Africans are reduced to a less than human state, fewer have noticed that the same imagery of hollowness connects these victims to those who dehumanize them, the sundry agents of the Company. These perpetrators, as it were, are the novella’s more conspicuous ‘hollow men,’ those who have received more critical attention.” (Baldwin) There are several scattered instances in Marlow’s tale when he references others seeming to be empty, as “if I tried I could push my forefinger through him, and would find nothing inside but a little loose dirt, maybe.” (Conrad, 22) Even the great Kurtz is described as being “hollow in the core.” (Conrad, 53) A lesser noted, but equally fascinating example of this is the Russian who dutifully cares for Kurtz. He, like his coat, has many colored patches that cover that which he does not which to acknowledge the existence of. Protectively, he filters reality. Nearly every European we encounter in the novel has some sort of mental filter in place. And yet, the culture in their homeland pushes more and more people towards Africa, to make others suffer and to suffer themselves. What can this society be based on?
Which brings me to the Heart of Darkness. What is it really? Why does Conrad make it seem like another character? It is more than a symbol or a motif, it is the driving force behind the novel and to come anywhere near a decent analysis, you got to consider the Heart of Darkness. Unlike the Lord of the Flies, which has a very quantifiable and singular meaning, the Heart of Darkness is nearly completely unexplained. Conrad allows us to find out what it is, and it may be different for different people. The Heart of Darkness is the desire to dominate no matter what, no matter who you put in danger or harm, no matter who you leave behind as well as the effects of such behavior. I was always afraid of the dark as a child, light was so friendly and helpful. It showed you things that darkness would either conceal or transform into horrors. A vacuum in the dark can appear to be strange, humanoid, and possibly dangerous. You’ll lose things in the dark. You’ll lose yourself in the dark, “in the psychology of colonization and the ease with which the individual can be unaware of the disjunction between his words and his work in such a society.” (İçöz) Europeans in Africa lost more than a connection to the outside world, but a connection to their own identities. Becoming depersonalized, part of a machine, an anomaton, they are acted upon, controlled. By making those around them subhuman, they lose their own humanity, they are consumed by the Heart of Darkness, and it leaves no room for anything else. They become like Kurtz, a “shell”, a “shade” empty, ethereal, and insubstantial.
Joseph Conrad’s classic novella is more than it first appears. The thin work, under a hundred pages in length, is dense and full of insight. Whether it be because of where Conrad was from, his views, or just a very helpful muse, there is a reason it has become a staple in English Literature. Through his albeit hypocritical critique of Imperialism, he shows us how the Western cultural push towards harming others to help yourself damages the human psyche. This ideal is still present in our society today, though maybe not as extreme as it was when Conrad penned the novella. We hear about it, we might even see it, but we, like Marlow, distance ourselves from it. We do not take action to stop the cruelty we see. WE justify this inaction, thinking in the private recesses of our minds that we are not responsible, that the person can’t possibly be hurt by such a stupid insult or comment, and that we would inevitably be dragged into the conflict, exacerbating the problem. We perceive things in a way in which we can feel comfortable with ourselves and maintain a good social status. Imperialism is merely a by-product of this same thinking. We are willing to put others down to elevate ourselves, but this in itself is a paradox. As we turn our focus inward, becoming selfish, losing ability to see the humanity in others, we become damaged, overtaken by the Heart of Darkness, savage.
Conrad hides behind not one, but two narrators, making his stance on many issues hard to pin-down, and some may say the issues he focuses on are no longer relevant. The Age of Colonization is over. There are many documents that attest to the rights of every person on this earth, and rules against discrimination on race, sex, religion, and even sexual orientation, and yet humanity is still running into the same problems as told of in Genesis: we want to be powerful. Control seems appealing until you wield it, and feel the weight of it. Conrad proves through a parable of sorts, that the human psyche is naturally opposed to harming another human, but that it can condition itself, protect itself, detach itself when prompted. This is incredibly relevant, the modern world is one in which depersonalization, or detachment, is common because of the strain placed there by societal expectations. The Heart of Darkness and its partner, the heart of depersonalization is present in all of us. Conrad provides a powerful argument against a passive tolerance of it and its manifestations, showing the outcome of inaction.
may 2014

My Internship Summary

It was not really planned, my interest in Speech Pathology. It sort of sprung up unexpectedly about a year ago, but I can’t quite remember exactly when. Discovering that talking well was a career revolutionized my aspirations. An internship was the next logical step; I wanted to test the waters before I dove into college. So, I arranged an internship under Aubrie Henrie CCC-SLP at Windsor Elementary in Orem. I also met and worked with Peggy Smith, the Speech Technician that works two days a week in the speech room
At first, none of us really knew what to do. I couldn’t directly work with the kids so finding tasks for me was challenging. I soon learned that there was more to Speech than talking to cute kids all day long; there were many responsibilities and most weren’t necessarily fun. Paperwork and data collection were a much larger part of the process than I originally thought. Aubrey found small ways that I could help, starting with putting away the working folders in alphabetical order. Later, I was trusted to do more complex tasks like making flashcards and teaching materials,  organizing records, preparing synthesized data, and checking inventory. I also got to observe the therapy going on nearly constantly in the room.
Watching the kids progress was a treat, especially a young girl enrolled in the Special Needs PreK who was beginning to overcome her struggles with language in general. When I first came, she would only say Si or mumble nothings and now she is much more vocal, even to the point of saying classmates’ names. Of course, she still has work to do. Her poor articulation makes it difficult for her to say all she wants and for people to understand her. On the opposite side of the spectrum are the kids who are stubborn or have plateaued for other reasons. One older boy has been working on reading out loud using the appropriate intonation for months, while a younger new boy refuses to engage. Aubrey has to work through disappointments and sometimes spends a long time brainstorming how best to help her students, even though see only sees each of the for 15 minutes twice a week.
    As I saw the relationships Aubrey was able to develop with her students, one of my greatest fears regarding Speech Pathology was eased. My family has never had experience with mental disorders past common and easily controlled depression. I was uncomfortable with the thought of working with Special Needs students, and perhaps upsetting them, or otherwise provoking them because I did not know how they would react. Many of the students who need speech therapy are normal, but many also have additional struggles. Whatever the case may be, through seeing Aubrey work with each student, I realized that it didn’t matter if the student had a few struggles, they were still just a child. One of the biggest things I learned was that a mental disability does not make the person suffering from it stupid or less human, it just makes life harder for them. Oddly, many of these students with the worst problems had the best attitude about life and found joy in everything.
Every day I get little assurances that this career is right for me. A trend on social media is quizzes and surveys that help you discover more about yourself and I am only slightly ashamed to admit that I take nearly every single one I see. Two were related to what field or job I should have, the first one said I was well-suited to be involved in humanitarian related areas and the other pinned my career down: Therapist. Both seem to have somehow picked up how much I enjoy helping other people.
I knew where I was headed, but I didn’t know if I would actually follow through. This internship has allowed me to see the day-to-day activities, struggles, and triumphs I will face and that it’s worth the time and effort, just to help one kid gain the skills to communicate wants and needs with parents and develop normal relationships with their peers. I am committed to further my preparation for this career.Brigham Young University has a Communication Disorders undergraduate program I am excited to enter soon, and I plan to get my Master’s from Utah State just like Aubrey.

may2014

Aspergers Help or Hinderece?

The newest trend in Mental Disorders has emerged, a somewhat mysterious developmental delay called Asperger’s Syndrome. “Aspies,” as some prefer to be called, display many Autistic behaviors, such as repetitive movements, behaviors that can put off peers, breakdowns, inability to understand social cues or perform well in social settings, and trouble relating to others; the defining difference is that those with Asperger’s “do not have significant delays in language and cognitive development,” (Roan) often having an extensive vocabulary from a very young age. This difference characterizes the separation of the two neurological disorders. Some experts believe that Asperger’s is a variant of High-Functioning Autism, one of the many “autism spectrum disorders” and that the diagnosis of Asperger’s should be eliminated completely. As the Asperger’s debate continues, as to whether it is distinct from High-Functioning Autism, its removal from “the authoritative text for American therapists, hospitals and insurers, of mental disorders,” (Nugent) the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, imminent, a question arises: does a diagnosis help or hinder the individual with the symptoms of the Syndrome? The purpose of a diagnosis should not be to separate the individual, by giving him or her excuses for unacceptable behaviors, but to help him or her learn to blend more with the collective, become more social and hopefully happier and more able to take on the world. Therefore, Asperger’s diagnoses should be better regulated, standardized, handled with extreme care, and recategorized.
“Labels don’t make you happy…” says the surprisingly wise Zombie in Wreck-it Ralph, and it is true. Labels limit you. With that in mind, Asperger’s and other neurological diagnoses should be told only to the parent or legal guardian while the patient is young. Novelist Benjamin Nugent, who was misdiagnosed at 17, ponders:
“If I had been ... given the diagnosis [of Asperger’s] at the more impressionable age of 12, what would have happened? I might never have been able to write about social interaction, having been told that I was hard-wired to find social-interaction baffling.”
When you are told that you have a disorder, you begin to doubt your ability to overcome your difficulties, you begin to believe you cannot do any better than you are doing now. This mentality prevents any child from progressing or overcoming challenges; whether they are neurotypical or do indeed have a mental disorder. This prompts them to begin to excuse themselves by shouting “Asperger’s! Asperger’s!” (Page) whenever they misbehave. In one extreme case, the “Aspie,” a young man named Tom was erroneously given “a card describing [his] condition [to be kept] in his wallet so he [could] take it out and show it if he [got] into trouble,” (Mestel).  This way of evading responsibility prevents a person from developing a healthy sense of accountability for their actions and their inevitable repercussions. The power of the mind is incredible; you can do and be whatever you set yourself to. This includes convincing yourself that you have a neurological condition, such as Asperger’s. Whether you legitimately do have Asperger’s (or any other neurological disorder) or not, the diagnosis itself does nothing to help you overcome you quirks and social issues. When interpreted as a life-long excuse to sit idle and allow certain weaknesses rule your life and choices, it becomes a dangerous hindrance to progress.Therefore, a diagnosis of mild mental disorders such as Asperger’s should not be disclosed to the patient until he or she is mature. A diagnosis should provide a way of suppressing unwanted symptoms of a disease or disorder by suggesting means of addressing and resolving them effectively, which can be better achieved by a responsible adult and guardian.
The negative effects of a misdiagnosis may outweigh the benefits of a diagnosis for mild cases, so diagnoses should be given sparingly, only to those who would get effective treatment, rather than a string of excuses. As psychologist Bryna Siegel, who directs clinical care at the autism clinic at the University of California, San Francisco, explains:
“until the publication of DSM-IV, very few people had heard the term Asperger’s. And when it came out, a lot of clinicians let their fingers do the walking in DSM. There were fully trained practicing clinicians who really didn’t have any idea what Asperger’s was. Everybody with Asperger’s got diagnosed with Asperger’s, but a lot of other people got diagnosed with Asperger’s, too.”
The increase in diagnoses, or “documented cases,” has sky rocketed in the past decade1 making many people question the authenticity of an Asperger’s diagnosis. This growth in awareness of mental disorders such as Asperger’s and many Autism Spectrum Disorders provides for a high rate of mis-diagnosis. The Syndrome has become “the hip, upper-middle-class disability to have” (Ames2) rather than a condition that can be overcome with the correct treatments and effort. Truth be told, the inclusion of the term Asperger’s Syndrome in the DSM-IV published in 1994 borders on accidental, “Asperger’s got put in at the last minute...There’s so much of a rush to get the finished book done and copyedited and out. Things happen.” explains Fred Volkmar, head of child psychiatry at the Yale–New Haven Children’s Hospital This resulted in a very loose definition of an already vague condition, creating a very broad pool of possible Asperger’s candidates.
“Under the rules in place today, any nerd, any withdrawn, bookish kid, can have Asperger syndrome. The definition should be narrowed. I don’t want a kid with mild autism to go untreated. But I don’t want a school psychologist to give a clumsy, lonely teenager a description of his mind that isn’t true.”(Nugent)

If the case is severe enough to really affect a person’s life and a diagnosis would allow him or her to find help, the individual should be diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder and as journalist Benjamin Wallace explains,
“the American Psychological Association has proposed to eliminate the Asperger’s diagnosis, folding it into the broader new all-purpose bucket of autism spectrum disorder. The thinking is that Asperger’s isn’t scientifically distinguishable from autism, and that a single diagnosis may help to combat the epidemic that is more diagnostic than real.”
Autism does not dehumanize individuals, and the stigma surrounding it and other mental disorders is staggeringly disproportionate to the actual effects such a disorder can have. “One thing I've realized is that everybody is a little ‘autistic,’” explains an “Aspie” in Tim Page’s Question and Answer-based article in the Washington Post. Struggling to get along with certain kinds of people, being interested in a certain subject more than another, getting stressed when things don’t go according to plan, these things are not abnormal. They are very human. We all experience these struggles and have to learn to deal with them. People who have conditions which fall under the Autism Spectrum Umbrella sometimes have extra difficulty in overcoming these struggles, but that makes them more human, rather than less. An ASD Diagnosis shouldn’t be feared, and the word “autism” isn’t dirty or negative. It’s a condition that can be overcome. ‘“My belief,” says an older man [diagnosed with Asperger’s] named Allen, “is it’s impossible to distinguish Asperger’s from high-functioning autism. It has more to do with where you get a diagnosis than the scientific criteria.”’ (Wallace) Officially including those who would be diagnosed with Asperger’s within the Spectrum may ruffle the feathers of some Asperger’s advocates and patients, the actual benefits of this arrangement will smooth them once again. If they look at all the new possibilities for improvement provided by this simply terminological change, soon they will see it was the right choice.
There are many organizations that recognize the unique abilities autistic individuals possess, and put “the autism advantage” to use. A Danish company “called Specialisterne, Danish for “the specialists,” [is based] on the theory that, given the right environment, an autistic adult could not just hold down a job but also be the best person for it,” reports Gareth Cook, journalist for the New York Times, who did extensive research on Specialisterne with the guidance of its CEO and creator Thorkil Sonne. Sonne noticed the special skills his son possessed at a young age despite, or perhaps more accurately, because of his autism, and “he slowly conceived a business plan: many companies struggle to find workers who can perform specific, often tedious tasks, like data entry or software testing; some autistic people would be exceptionally good at those tasks.” (Cook) Through Specialisterne, these adults are finally able to hold down jobs for the first time, and learn to be independent, more comfortable and behave appropriately in social settings. This is progress beyond what many “Specialisterne consultants” had been able to achieve, or come to expect to be able to achieve.
There are also treatments being developed to help those with autism to overcome difficulties closely associated with the disorder, such as a newly developed nasal spray containing Oxytocin. The hormone Oxytocin, the caring hormone, is released in a mother’s brain every time she breast feeds and helps build the strongest love on earth, between herself and her baby. Rob Stein, national science reporter for the Washington Post, explains that,
“When [the nasal spray was] administered to those with ASDs, the individuals were better able to maintain eye contact The study, involving 13 adults with either a high-functioning form of autism or Asperger Syndrome, a mild form of the disorder, found that when the subjects inhaled the hormone oxytocin, they scored significantly better on a test that involved recognizing faces and performed much better in a game that involved tossing a ball with others.”
The study shows that the hormone can significantly help improve social behavior in autistic individuals, including those with Asperger’s, and “the findings were promising and could lead to the first effective treatment for the central problems affecting people with autism.” Why, when these two conditions are so similar does separating them seems counter-productive and counter-intuitive, has this very divide existed for the past decade, perhaps preventing meaningful progress because of a terminological fallacy? If the same treatments are prescribed after either diagnosis, where is the difference? Merely in the name.
When dealing with neurological disorders, it is very difficult to discover the proper way to confront these problems and resolve them effectively when the details of the disorders are still being uncovered. The science behind these conditions is relatively new, and unexplored. As we move towards improving the quality of life those with Asperger’s can have we must re-evaluate the purpose of diagnoses, reminding ourselves that such a disorder should never be an excuse, but a solution to a problem. A diagnosis should only be given when the case is severe enough to merit medical treatment, to help the individual learn how to join the collective and repress unwanted behaviors. In an instance in which it will do so, an ASD diagnosis would better serve the individual, and therefore, the term Asperger’s Syndrome should be taken out of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, as is planned, in its forthcoming fifth revision, with its replacement being high-functioning autism, on the Autism Spectrum. This will allow for a definitive and more specific definition, quelling the disastrous over-diagnosis due to a loose definition that has occurred since 1994. The condition does not dehumanize those who have it, but simply make some things harder for them than for normal people. Teaching this will help to erase the misleading strong negative connotation the word Autism has been stamped with.
Humans fear the unknown, and the more and more we discover about ourselves and the world around us and our own bodies and brains, the more mysteries we find. Proper education and research, hard work and perseverance, these are the only true way to illuminate the unknown and overcome the fears we all have. Rearranging the terminology of Asperger’s Syndrome and tightening the definition will help in this quest to gain knowledge and conquer fear, leading us toward what is hopefully a brighter future, both for the neurotypicals and the “Aspie’s,” allowing us to progress together in our search for truth and improvement.

march 2013

Sweet Tooth

​My Step-Mom used to say I had a second stomach for dessert; beyond the offense at being compared to a cow I couldn’t help but agree with her.  Eating copious amounts ofsugary substances was my childhood in a nutshell. There didn’t seem to be any harm in it. I never agreed with counting calories or weighing myself daily. It didn’t make any sense to abstain, I enjoyed it so much, and it was within the rules. Chocolate is one of the four major food groups, right? At least my guilty pleasure wasn’t something black-listed, like drugs or something. I rationalized that although it wasn’t good, it wasn’t the worst thing I could be doing.

​Consequences seemed non-existent until I ran into some trouble with a lollipop from Six Flags.  It was late and chagrinned by how much my cowardliness had shown in my demeanor whenever I was faced with even the smallest of rollercoasters, when I was pushed to finish what I’d started, I didn’t back down. With at least 85% of the goliath already ingested, it seemed like more couldn’t make much difference.

​Boy, was I mistaken. It made a huge difference. I was thoroughly sickened. I couldn’t even get on the plane the next morning to fly back home to my mom. She called to check on me, and I tried to cover it up. Ashamed that I had made the stupidest decision, sacrificed so much for somethinginsignificant-- a fleetingly temporary reward-- I subconsciously swore off sweets.  That does mean I didn’t slip up for theoccasional cookie and who could ever resist ice cream, but never again did I underestimate the side effects of my decisions. I knew when I’d had enough and how much was too much, and when to stop.

spring 2014

senior year

Senior year. Does it even matter anymore?

Well, don't look at me! I have absolutely no clue! Half of me says, "Nah, it's not like my grades even matter. As long as I don't fail any classes, I'm set" but my other half can't handle the slacking. It's like some sort of principle; teachers put in the time to teach so, as a student, I must put in the time to learn. That means getting decent grades. Such as “A’s”..those are good..

So, what are we supposed to do? Our plans are ready, waiting for a piece of paper to tell us we succeeded and that we can move forward. It might be a diploma, an acceptance letter, or a mission call, but that's not what makes us truly successful. True, it is an indicator, but it is not a creator. We sit around, waiting to know for certain what kind of person we will become based on what someone else says.

Does it matter? We decide everyday and those decisions can be very hard. Would it really make that much of a difference to put in the work to get from a C+ to a B? My applications are in. It's not like anyone will look at my grades now. The thing that matters is that II will know that I made the choice not to do my best. It's not about how many AP classes you took, it’s not about the letters on a report card, it's not even about getting into your dream college. I'm not saying you can get into your career of choice without having to play the higher education game, and I'm not saying that that isn't important, but it's not the single most important thing of your life. Not even in the top ten.

Be who you aspire to be today. Learning where we are now and recognizing the things we can improve on is key to dealing with real life- and it's coming. Next year, well, in five months, high school will be over. We need to be actively equipping ourselves with the habits and principles necessary to achieve our personal successes. There isn't time to do it later, we have to do it now.

Senior year is confusing, we are pulled in so many different directions, and there are so many good things to be doing. Don't sweat it, we are all feeling it: Senioritis. It is a real thing! Just remember, although this stage in our life is ending, that doesn't mean we should opt out of bigger and better opportunities. Life goes on after high school. Set yourself up for success. You are the only one who determines what success is for you, and you're the only one that can ensure that you will get there. It'll be hard sometimes, but you can make it. Find something or someone you love. Keep pushing. Pushing for a better future isn't always about grades, it's an attitude, and yes, you can have one without the other.

In the end it's why you do something that determines that thing’s value, so why do we do what we do? Why do you do what you do?

Does that matter anymore?

2013

not a feminist

Not A Feminist

Alright, this post is going to make it sound like the title is a lie, but I swear it's not. I am all for stay at home mothers, because have you seen what Daddy's idea of nurturing looks like? If not, you don't want to know; if yes, well you know where I'm coming from! But, that's not the point, it's the little indicators of chauvinism in our society that frustrate me.

There are so many stock phrases that reek of it,
"Boys will be boys." What does that mean, anyway? Won't girls be girls, or kids be kids? Why just boys?
"Well, he is a guy... so, you know." Don't take his crap ladies! Even if he is a guy and they're a bit helpless.
"Make me a sammich, woman!" Yes, I know this is a joke, but really? And don't even get me started on the kitchen jokes! Yes, they are funny. No, I don't get offended. But, they are an indicator
And that's not even going into the memes and song lyrics.

It's even evident in my home. if I ask my mom to make me a quick sandwich because I'm in a hurry but I need lunch, she looks like I smacked her in the face; when my brother sends a text saying he's on his way home and hasn't eaten and would appreciate it if she could make some dinner, she tries to make it something bordering on gourmet. Now, my interpretation of the situation around me may be exaggerated and I may not recognize all the factors, but it sure seems like a double standard to me.

I know we are different, and I know that we are made different for a special reason. the problem with pop culture is that it attempts to ignore these facts. On the one side, you have girls objectifying themselves and on the other women trying to remove gender from the equation entirely. news flash: it doesn't work that way! As women, we are equipped for different things than our counterparts- call it what you will: evolution, Divine Nature, what have you- but that does not make us inferior. But, it also doesn't make us superior. just.... different. Every person just that: a person. And every person is good at some things and less good at others. we just don't see that too much of the time.

It starts young, this figurative (to a point) indoctrination on what it means to be feminine or masculine. You can see it in kids shows and movies. The old norm was that the woman looks pretty, is kind, cleans, and waits patiently for a man to change her situation. Yes, it is horrible. But the new stereotype is almost worse and somehow almost identical, the woman looks sexy (or "sassy" as the seven-year-old girl I babysit puts it), is still really nice, has some significant talent, and makes her own decisions no matter what anybody else thinks. The last one is what worries me. Yes, be independent! Don't wait for a man to live your life, but don't throw it away because you wouldn't listen.

And it's not just girls that are bombarded with this, either. guys are dealing with it too. It is a little more subtle though, there's no Cover Men, but it's there and more damaging. It teaches them to tend towards violence and that a girlfriend is a status symbol. she isn't a person, she's a possession, something to get. And it gets worse as we get older. The brainwashing intensifies as we become young adults as a means of selling products. Buy this cologne! Men who wear it have the sexiest girl friends, or, even better, the most frequent one night stands. This filth is poured in at every opportunity. After all, how else does someone sell that stinky cologne?

So, amid all this, is it any wonder people are getting confused? If a guy doesn’t like cars or video games, he'll feel like a misfit; and if a girl prefers that new set of Magic cards than a new pair of earrings, she's not normal. There is no such thing as a normal girl or a stereotypical guy. We define those things by our preferences and choices. Normal is simply another word for average. Mathematically, it means the product of an equal part of each member of the set, and lingually, it’s synonymous with boring. Why do we shoot for that? Normal is boring! Be you! Gender doesn't define you. We define what it means to be feminine or masculine. Whether you try to change the world's view or simply adhere to it, make the decision for yourself and on your own terms

2013