Well, it’s been a month now (or 29 days) sans alcohol. Not a drink, a splash, or a twist. Nary a drop has passed these lips. I don’t think I miss it. I certainly haven’t experienced an enduring lust for wine or whatnot. I do have moments when I think “oh, a bit of Glenmorangie would be delightful right about now,” but these thoughts are brief and vanish as quickly as they arrive. Such moments usually have something to do with a raw throat; I expect I could justify a sip or two of whiskey with the “medicinal purposes” canard, but no. I do hope that some day I be able to enjoy a whiskey, a martini, or a fine cabernet now and then, but that must wait. Besides, you can’t truly enjoy a nice scotch with a raw throat.
This change was prompted by a therapist’s, perhaps overblown, concerns about my alcohol consumption undoubtedly, was excessive and approaching--if not arrived at--the prodigiousness of a Christopher Hitchens or a Richard Burton). In late January, I told her that I wished to stop drinking (admittedly, I was hungover at the time), and she, anxiously, asked me to see a doctor because, if I were to just stop, I’d experience hallucinations, seizures, heart irregularities, and so on. If she was trying to scare me, it worked--my mind filled with images of RayMilland in The Lost Weekend, and then switched over to Lee Remick in The Days of Wine and Roses (and I was Lee Remick!).
Like any fool with an Internet connection, I went home and Googled “alcohol withdrawal,” which resulted in lists of frightening withdrawal symptoms. Holy cow, I could die if I quit the booze! Inspired by fear, I visited an MD, who promptly gave me a prescription drug and scheduled a week-long tapering off, and that was that. Actually, the tapering off was a bit of a joke: from one bottle of wine, to ¾ of a bottle, to 2/3 of a bottle, to half of a bottle, to two glasses. After five days I shifted to beer (two beers one day, a single beer the next). Ultimately, rather than a gradual process, the “tapering” schedule created an abrupt rupture in my habits. Even so, it served its purpose (I got weaned!).
I don’t whether the tapering worked because it staved off withdrawals or because it forced me to change my evening rituals (note: I don’t miss the drinking, but I do miss my rituals. Peculiar). I hated the medication he gave me, so I quit that after a week. Since then--nothing. Well, far too much coffee and tea, but nothing fermented. So then, I’m sober. Whatever that means.
I didn’t join AA, nor did I visit other addiction groups. This is not because I distrust their methods (indeed, I researched several groups, including AA, which prove effective for many people). I simply didn’t want to be labeled as an “addict” with a “disease” to grapple with the remainder of my days. Although I willingly confess to abusing alcohol, and I recognize my tendency to self-medicate with booze, I don’t see it as something uncurable that can only be put into remission.
The upshot: you can stop drinking without all kinds of accompanying psychosis / illness, you can do it without meetings, and you can do it without declaring yourself under the control of alcohol.
Disclaimer: This ‘blog post is not intended to dismiss anyone whose experiences with alcohol have been emotionally or physically traumatic. Nor is it intended to dismiss organizations like Alcoholics Anonymous. Rather, these are my experiences; moreover, who knows--maybe I was on the cusp of something more full-blown and caught it in time.
01 March 2008
03 February 2008
A Note of Appreciation
'Lo all!
Sincere thanks for the comments and good wishes you've emailed. Right back at 'cha.
S G
Sincere thanks for the comments and good wishes you've emailed. Right back at 'cha.
S G
Lost December?
I last posted just as my thrice-yearly busy season (three weeks) commenced. I followed the completion of my busy season with a four week drunk.
I wasn't drunk all of the time, but very nearly. Part of that was the annual holiday hedonism--"Wahey! It's Christmas!" But most of it, to be honest, was that I didn't have to go to the office. So overindulging, if not justified, was acceptable. right? Bollox. I didn't get a lick of at-home work done over the course of those four weeks. A symptom: I've undermined something I've worked terribly hard for over the past four years. It's all going down the drain.
I've written in the past about my tendency to overdrink. I've been a heavy drinker since I turned 21. I never drank regularly in my 20s, but when I did drink, it was until I couldn't see straight. I functioned well enough (excellent student and employee). Easily qualified as youthful excess. Later, I moved to another country, one where more-than-moderate drinking was perfectly acceptable. Big mistake. I continued to drink heavily--but more often. At the time, I still functioned well enough. In fact, I seemed to thrive..
I 've built up quite a tolerance. Beginning about six years ago (and excepting the occasional day or weekend), I've been either "tiddly" or drunk every night of the week. For the past four years, I might have the rare evening of two cocktails (for example, two double vodka martinis), but it's mostly been either four-to-six dark ales or a bottle (most recently 1 3/4 bottles) of red wine a night. I"m talking every night, including worknights. Sometimes (albeit rarely), the beer or wine wasn't enough (e.g., I ran out of beer or wine), and I'd supplement with a spirit. It's a wonder I haven't died in my sleep a la John Bonham.
I've been lucky in that I've never blacked out, never had a medical emergency (God knows how I've escaped that). Neither have I ever woken up in the morning (or afternoon) and reached for an eye-opener. It's not that I had "rules" about drinking, I just happened to drink in the evenings after I'd completed my day's business. But I would put a hell of a lot of liquor away in an evening.
I have put myself in numerous risky, seriously dangerous situations; I'm too ashamed and frightened to think about the "what ifs." I also have alienated a few people because of my behavior when drunk. But I've mostly been able to mask my problem drinking (at least, I think so).
I don't know if I've hit "rock bottom" (whatever that is), but I'm sick and tired of waking up with a hangover--no matter what degree of hangover it is. I am terrified of losing my faculties. And, as mentioned above, I'm undermining something I've worked toward for the past four years.
Two weeks ago I just burst out and told my therapist about my average alcohol intake. She put me onto a doctor immediately. He arranged a schedule for tapering off, and he prescribed a low dosage anti-anxiety medication. My last drink: one beer on Thursday, 31 January. I think the meds have helped because outside of bouts of crying and/or irritability I seem to have done okay. But I'm afraid of what might happen in the upcoming days--seizures? DTs? Bats with babies faces? etc. Also, sneaky little thoughts are beginning to surface--justifications as to how and why I'm not an alcoholic. But I know I am.
So here's a new adventure. Sober Girl.
I wasn't drunk all of the time, but very nearly. Part of that was the annual holiday hedonism--"Wahey! It's Christmas!" But most of it, to be honest, was that I didn't have to go to the office. So overindulging, if not justified, was acceptable. right? Bollox. I didn't get a lick of at-home work done over the course of those four weeks. A symptom: I've undermined something I've worked terribly hard for over the past four years. It's all going down the drain.
I've written in the past about my tendency to overdrink. I've been a heavy drinker since I turned 21. I never drank regularly in my 20s, but when I did drink, it was until I couldn't see straight. I functioned well enough (excellent student and employee). Easily qualified as youthful excess. Later, I moved to another country, one where more-than-moderate drinking was perfectly acceptable. Big mistake. I continued to drink heavily--but more often. At the time, I still functioned well enough. In fact, I seemed to thrive..
I 've built up quite a tolerance. Beginning about six years ago (and excepting the occasional day or weekend), I've been either "tiddly" or drunk every night of the week. For the past four years, I might have the rare evening of two cocktails (for example, two double vodka martinis), but it's mostly been either four-to-six dark ales or a bottle (most recently 1 3/4 bottles) of red wine a night. I"m talking every night, including worknights. Sometimes (albeit rarely), the beer or wine wasn't enough (e.g., I ran out of beer or wine), and I'd supplement with a spirit. It's a wonder I haven't died in my sleep a la John Bonham.
I've been lucky in that I've never blacked out, never had a medical emergency (God knows how I've escaped that). Neither have I ever woken up in the morning (or afternoon) and reached for an eye-opener. It's not that I had "rules" about drinking, I just happened to drink in the evenings after I'd completed my day's business. But I would put a hell of a lot of liquor away in an evening.
I have put myself in numerous risky, seriously dangerous situations; I'm too ashamed and frightened to think about the "what ifs." I also have alienated a few people because of my behavior when drunk. But I've mostly been able to mask my problem drinking (at least, I think so).
I don't know if I've hit "rock bottom" (whatever that is), but I'm sick and tired of waking up with a hangover--no matter what degree of hangover it is. I am terrified of losing my faculties. And, as mentioned above, I'm undermining something I've worked toward for the past four years.
Two weeks ago I just burst out and told my therapist about my average alcohol intake. She put me onto a doctor immediately. He arranged a schedule for tapering off, and he prescribed a low dosage anti-anxiety medication. My last drink: one beer on Thursday, 31 January. I think the meds have helped because outside of bouts of crying and/or irritability I seem to have done okay. But I'm afraid of what might happen in the upcoming days--seizures? DTs? Bats with babies faces? etc. Also, sneaky little thoughts are beginning to surface--justifications as to how and why I'm not an alcoholic. But I know I am.
So here's a new adventure. Sober Girl.
22 November 2007
When Adolescent Women Attack
Like so many--so many--other people, I was mortified by the news that a young girl, an overweight, emotionally troubled, 13 year old named Megan Meier, committed suicide after a hot "boy" (and a few others) talked smack about her on MySpace. The horrible thing was that her tormentor-in-chief was an adult woman, the mother of Ms Meier’s former friend, who posed as a cute 16 year old named “Josh Evans” on MySpace. “Josh” lead Ms Meier on, and then told her--abruptly--that she wasn't worth being friends with. She was a “slut,” she was not a good friend, and, allegedly, the world would be better off without her. A few hours later, the 13 year old was found in her closet with a belt around her neck. She died the next day, just short of her 14th birthday. There is much more to the story than my feeble synopsis, but I won’t go into further details here--Lord knows, the story’s been told and retold numerous times over the past week. If you want those details, you can read:
The story that broke the news. You'll note that the reporter’s paper decided not to publish the adult woman’s name. Others, however, didn’t mind doing so.
Bluemerle discovered the name of the woman who originated the MySpace page and promptly “outed” her--home and business address included. Since then, someone has decided to do the same to Bluemerle’s author (fair enough). Then there's Jezebel. And Death by a Thousand Paper Cuts. And the forum at HitsUSA.
"Josh Evans" herself, the other girl’s mother, filed a report about the Meier episode on 25 November, 2006. The report includes her admission of setting up the MySpace profile. You can read the police report on The Smoking Gun. Oddly, even when the conversation between Megan and “Josh” became sexual (as the report asserts), the adult woman chose to continue the communication.
There are a few thousand other sites that relate the story and readers’ outrage, but I’d like to draw your attention to Leonard Pitts’ poignant editorial titled “If You’re Looking for a Good Laugh, a Real Sidesplitter, Read On.”
Many folks have posted the other family's personal information online. I don’t agree with this tactic; I do think that the woman should be held accountable--an adult deliberately winding a child up and then devastating her to the point of suicide? It’s all so lamentable. And cruel.
Now that the public is vocalizing its response (an outrage that, at times, borders on hysteria), the other family's supporters have come out with their own ‘blogs to try and refocus the debate onto Ms Meier in an attmept to justify the mother's actions. I won’t publish links to those here. If you’re interested, you can Google “Megan had it coming” etc.
My thoughts are with Megan Meier’s family, and with Megan--a girl who didn’t have the opportunity to move beyond adolescent turbulance and discover, well, herself.
The story that broke the news. You'll note that the reporter’s paper decided not to publish the adult woman’s name. Others, however, didn’t mind doing so.
Bluemerle discovered the name of the woman who originated the MySpace page and promptly “outed” her--home and business address included. Since then, someone has decided to do the same to Bluemerle’s author (fair enough). Then there's Jezebel. And Death by a Thousand Paper Cuts. And the forum at HitsUSA.
"Josh Evans" herself, the other girl’s mother, filed a report about the Meier episode on 25 November, 2006. The report includes her admission of setting up the MySpace profile. You can read the police report on The Smoking Gun. Oddly, even when the conversation between Megan and “Josh” became sexual (as the report asserts), the adult woman chose to continue the communication.
There are a few thousand other sites that relate the story and readers’ outrage, but I’d like to draw your attention to Leonard Pitts’ poignant editorial titled “If You’re Looking for a Good Laugh, a Real Sidesplitter, Read On.”
Many folks have posted the other family's personal information online. I don’t agree with this tactic; I do think that the woman should be held accountable--an adult deliberately winding a child up and then devastating her to the point of suicide? It’s all so lamentable. And cruel.
Now that the public is vocalizing its response (an outrage that, at times, borders on hysteria), the other family's supporters have come out with their own ‘blogs to try and refocus the debate onto Ms Meier in an attmept to justify the mother's actions. I won’t publish links to those here. If you’re interested, you can Google “Megan had it coming” etc.
My thoughts are with Megan Meier’s family, and with Megan--a girl who didn’t have the opportunity to move beyond adolescent turbulance and discover, well, herself.
11 November 2007
Cambridge Girls? Meet the Sex Industry. . . .
Last night I wrote of my initial foray into the world of "exotic dancing" (a euphemism I always found rather silly. I stripped. I didn't "dance exotically." I bumped, ground, and did suggestive things with a pole; I don't consider these things exotic). Well, hot after posting that entry, I discovered a month old (10/10/07) article from the UK's Daily Telegraph about some of Cambridge University's young women:
There's something telling about the cost of a university education when even young women who attend one of the world's most prestigious, hallowed insitutions turn to the sex trade in order to make ends meet. When I began, however, I was the only college student on the circuit who also danced. At the time, I felt like a walking urban legend: we all hear about the girl who strips her way through college, but how many of us know her? Anyways, just a news item to share.
Some female students are working as call girls and lapdancers, while several
hundred students or former students are said to be signed up to a single
escort agency.
One student is reported to have been a £50-an-hour prostitute in the city who slept with between 40 and 50 men in a two month period during her first year at the prestigous university.
She told a university newspaper she had met other students doing the same.
There's something telling about the cost of a university education when even young women who attend one of the world's most prestigious, hallowed insitutions turn to the sex trade in order to make ends meet. When I began, however, I was the only college student on the circuit who also danced. At the time, I felt like a walking urban legend: we all hear about the girl who strips her way through college, but how many of us know her? Anyways, just a news item to share.
10 November 2007
Aspergers Quiz
While digging around trying to learn more about Asperger's, I found this quiz. My results:
Your Aspie score: 174 of 200
Your neurotypical (non-autistic) score: 40 of 200
You are very likely an Aspie
Funny. Of course, this is, in no way, a diagnosis. Quizzes like this are too general and are too open to manipulation by the test taker (e.g., if you have an idea of what the "right" response is, you click it). But it is a yardstick of sorts--I know I'm not way off base by exploring the possiblity that I have AS.
I've been trying to work today, but I can't focus. It seems as though every time I settle into my subject, a firetruck or police car goes screaming past my window with all sirens blazing. It's a lovely fall day, though. So when I get distracted (too often), I just drink my coffee and look out the window at the vari-colored trees. Nice. Especially with my iPod's 13 hour jazz playlist on in the background (hardly necessary information, butt here you go). It's a Robert Frost kind of day.
We decided not to travel to see me family for Thanksgiving or Christmas this year. I need to spend that time working. Neither of us wants to engage in the family drama and all the free floating anxiety that accompanies any holiday 'do. We can't afford--emotionally or financially--a Christmas away from our place. So here we'll sit in our pajamas watching bad television. Bliss.
Your Aspie score: 174 of 200
Your neurotypical (non-autistic) score: 40 of 200
You are very likely an Aspie
Funny. Of course, this is, in no way, a diagnosis. Quizzes like this are too general and are too open to manipulation by the test taker (e.g., if you have an idea of what the "right" response is, you click it). But it is a yardstick of sorts--I know I'm not way off base by exploring the possiblity that I have AS.
I've been trying to work today, but I can't focus. It seems as though every time I settle into my subject, a firetruck or police car goes screaming past my window with all sirens blazing. It's a lovely fall day, though. So when I get distracted (too often), I just drink my coffee and look out the window at the vari-colored trees. Nice. Especially with my iPod's 13 hour jazz playlist on in the background (hardly necessary information, butt here you go). It's a Robert Frost kind of day.
We decided not to travel to see me family for Thanksgiving or Christmas this year. I need to spend that time working. Neither of us wants to engage in the family drama and all the free floating anxiety that accompanies any holiday 'do. We can't afford--emotionally or financially--a Christmas away from our place. So here we'll sit in our pajamas watching bad television. Bliss.
From Library to Adult "Bookstore"
I had a hard time holding down jobs as a teenager. I was a dedicated worker…I did whatever was asked, and I did it to the best of my ability. But I was a bit too “off” for my coworkers and, often, my employers. Loud and abrasive when I wasn’t being peculiar and stand-offish.
I had one temp job in high school that was arranged through the school district--one of those programs for low-income youth. I was placed in the local public library, which I absolutely loved. I worked for two women, both incredibly kind to me. One of them gave me a ticket to see Carmen at the local opera house (I love opera. My first experience of it was seeing Faust on a field trip with the “gifted” class). I only worked there three months (it was temp after all); they gave me a set of a necklace and stud earrings shaped like a unicorn when I left. I loved them, and I loved working at the library (I was left alone to get on with my work in a quiet place).
My second job was temp as well; I worked for a blustery insurance agent who terrified me. He didn’t do anything to scare me deliberately, he was just …blustery. I seldom saw him, though (I came in after school and he’d have cleared off for the day).
I was fired from my third and fourth jobs; once for continual lateness (although I’d told them right off the bat that my transport between school and work would cause me to be ten minutes late on weekdays). I was let go from the following job for stealing. I have no idea how that came about, but it had something to do with a missing role of dimes ($5.00). Someone decided it was me wot did it. So out I went. I’m not surprised, really. I wasn’t a companionable coworker, I was a tad strange with my introversion and extreme attention to details.
I was fairly depressed after this second firing, and a bit scared about trying to get another job. My resume wouldn't be too appealing to a potential employer. I was 18 at this point, and just beginning college. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my future.
One day I was reading the classifieds in the paper and saw an ad for dancers. So I went to the business that was hiring (on the slightly seedier side of town) and requested an application of a man who sat behind a massive, u-shaped desk (but with right angles).
I filled out the application, showed him my identification card, and he hired me (no interview; I actually expected one. Hah!)
The desk manager pointed me towards some lingerie the place sold and told me to choose something; he said I would pay for it out of my “tips.” I picked out a short, soft, magenta tunic/slip that wasn’t too revealing. I was unsure about what I was doing--that is, I didn't quite realize what I was embarking on. That didn't stop me.
The man at the desk told me to come back at 5:00 pm to begin my shift. That was that.
It’s so odd to think back; when I initially went in to apply, I didn’t think I had a “real” chance, I thought of myself as unattractive in face and figure. I thought the desk man would shoo me right back out the door. However, as I was to learn, no matter how unattractive you might think you are, you can get hired by a strip joint.
I had one temp job in high school that was arranged through the school district--one of those programs for low-income youth. I was placed in the local public library, which I absolutely loved. I worked for two women, both incredibly kind to me. One of them gave me a ticket to see Carmen at the local opera house (I love opera. My first experience of it was seeing Faust on a field trip with the “gifted” class). I only worked there three months (it was temp after all); they gave me a set of a necklace and stud earrings shaped like a unicorn when I left. I loved them, and I loved working at the library (I was left alone to get on with my work in a quiet place).
My second job was temp as well; I worked for a blustery insurance agent who terrified me. He didn’t do anything to scare me deliberately, he was just …blustery. I seldom saw him, though (I came in after school and he’d have cleared off for the day).
I was fired from my third and fourth jobs; once for continual lateness (although I’d told them right off the bat that my transport between school and work would cause me to be ten minutes late on weekdays). I was let go from the following job for stealing. I have no idea how that came about, but it had something to do with a missing role of dimes ($5.00). Someone decided it was me wot did it. So out I went. I’m not surprised, really. I wasn’t a companionable coworker, I was a tad strange with my introversion and extreme attention to details.
I was fairly depressed after this second firing, and a bit scared about trying to get another job. My resume wouldn't be too appealing to a potential employer. I was 18 at this point, and just beginning college. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my future.
One day I was reading the classifieds in the paper and saw an ad for dancers. So I went to the business that was hiring (on the slightly seedier side of town) and requested an application of a man who sat behind a massive, u-shaped desk (but with right angles).
I filled out the application, showed him my identification card, and he hired me (no interview; I actually expected one. Hah!)
The desk manager pointed me towards some lingerie the place sold and told me to choose something; he said I would pay for it out of my “tips.” I picked out a short, soft, magenta tunic/slip that wasn’t too revealing. I was unsure about what I was doing--that is, I didn't quite realize what I was embarking on. That didn't stop me.
The man at the desk told me to come back at 5:00 pm to begin my shift. That was that.
It’s so odd to think back; when I initially went in to apply, I didn’t think I had a “real” chance, I thought of myself as unattractive in face and figure. I thought the desk man would shoo me right back out the door. However, as I was to learn, no matter how unattractive you might think you are, you can get hired by a strip joint.
09 November 2007
No Memories Fluttered Out
I opened a book of poetry today, and a dried, red scab of a thing fell out. It was a rose petal that I’d stuck between the pages years ago; I don’t know why I placed it in the book.
I’ve been seeing a therapist regularly; well, for two weeks anyway. Two sessions. I’m unsure about her; she seems kind enough, but it all seems so awkward. We’ll see how it goes for another month or so. I don’t know. We talk about current things rather than the past. I don’t want to go there with her just yet.
I’ve been seeing a therapist regularly; well, for two weeks anyway. Two sessions. I’m unsure about her; she seems kind enough, but it all seems so awkward. We’ll see how it goes for another month or so. I don’t know. We talk about current things rather than the past. I don’t want to go there with her just yet.
22 October 2007
My Nerves Are Bad Tonight. Yes, Bad. . .
I have a trapped nerve in my neck/right arm. It’s not good. I’ve had difficulty working for the past week. Woe. Alas. Etc.
In other news:
After a few weeks of being “good” with drinking, it’s back with a vengeance. That is, I’m back on the bottle with a vengeance. Part of this is because we had a friend staying with us this past week, and he’s a heavy drinker. I’m not saying he’s forced me to drink too much wine (two hangovers this week), but his presence made an easy excuse for myself. The thing is, I’m not serious about quitting drinking. I don’t really want to quit. I like it. I just don’t like how I get carried away with it. Last week, while watching Dexter, I experienced some discomfort as the eponymous character attended an NA meeting. He called his addiction "The Dark Passenger." I'm not sure that title applies in my case. It's no passenger. . .it's me.
Anyway.
More On the Asperger's thing. The clinician I spoke with the other week got back in touch with me (it was a follow up to our meeting; I hadn’t told her about my little foray into contacting one of the therapists she’d recommended). She knows of a therapist who is interested in exploring AS with me. I am happy. I’m not looking to get some official diagnosis; I just want some help figuring things out.
To those who have reached out--thanks.
In other news:
After a few weeks of being “good” with drinking, it’s back with a vengeance. That is, I’m back on the bottle with a vengeance. Part of this is because we had a friend staying with us this past week, and he’s a heavy drinker. I’m not saying he’s forced me to drink too much wine (two hangovers this week), but his presence made an easy excuse for myself. The thing is, I’m not serious about quitting drinking. I don’t really want to quit. I like it. I just don’t like how I get carried away with it. Last week, while watching Dexter, I experienced some discomfort as the eponymous character attended an NA meeting. He called his addiction "The Dark Passenger." I'm not sure that title applies in my case. It's no passenger. . .it's me.
Anyway.
More On the Asperger's thing. The clinician I spoke with the other week got back in touch with me (it was a follow up to our meeting; I hadn’t told her about my little foray into contacting one of the therapists she’d recommended). She knows of a therapist who is interested in exploring AS with me. I am happy. I’m not looking to get some official diagnosis; I just want some help figuring things out.
To those who have reached out--thanks.
12 October 2007
Black Ice on the Head Trip
This has been quite the week. Following a twenty-year boycott of therapy and therapists, I "reached out," as they say.
I visited the university’s counseling center trying to get the ball rolling on this Asperger’s thing--I just want to investigate the possibility that I’ve got this condition. So I spent an hour with a young clinician. A nice young woman who listened and responded rationally. Then she gave me a list of resources outside the university. She gave me three names that I duly Googled.
One recommended name belongs to a kind of hypnotherapist (no way. I spent several of my teenage years with a hypnotherapist who convinced me I was way more unloved and unwanted than I was. She told me my mother had wanted her first baby to be a boy, so I was being punished for being a girl. A bit fucked up, no? I stopped seeing her after that business).
Another recommended name belongs to a well-qualified fellow who specializes in “educational testing” and men’s psychology. Um, guess that one’s out then.
The third recommended name seemed promising enough, so I phoned her; her phone went straight onto voice mail. I left a name and all. She phoned me back not twenty minutes ago. In an extremely rushed exchange, she pushed me to set up an appointment immediately--tomorrow afternoon. When I asked her if she didn’t want to know why I wanted to meet with her, she paused. So I explained there was some minor depression, some anxiety, some family and social issues, and I was interested in exploring Asperger’s.
Silence.
“Well, you know Asperger’s’ got a lot of press lately.”
Silence.
“I can’t help you. But thanks for calling.”
Implication: I’m attracted to the hot new disorder / syndrome / whatever. I hear about something “new” or "glamorous" in the news and jump to self-diagnose. Well, I’m not like that--not typically, anyway. My mother is like that. But on reading about AS--everything seems so right. My long-term partner has read AS materials and agrees. My office mate has read the same AS materials, and she agrees. . . . I can't be totally delusional here.
I've been advised to try the psychiatric department at my university. The problem there is the department prioritizes students who require medication. And I don’t want medication. I just want grounding (does that make sense?). Besides, I think that the uni’s mental health facilities should prioritize undergraduates. They go through such hell--especially the freshmen. I feel guilty absorbing any of their time.
So, I’m unsure as to what to do now. Do I keep trying? There seems to be no one local who knows about Asperger's other than “it’s in the press.”
Maybe I am just going for easy answers. Lord knows, every time the head-health people tried to stick something on me (bipolar, depression, schizophrenia, etc.) they were wrong. I’m likely just as wrong as they. Just paint me angry, frustrated, disappointed, and rather lonely as hell right now.
I visited the university’s counseling center trying to get the ball rolling on this Asperger’s thing--I just want to investigate the possibility that I’ve got this condition. So I spent an hour with a young clinician. A nice young woman who listened and responded rationally. Then she gave me a list of resources outside the university. She gave me three names that I duly Googled.
One recommended name belongs to a kind of hypnotherapist (no way. I spent several of my teenage years with a hypnotherapist who convinced me I was way more unloved and unwanted than I was. She told me my mother had wanted her first baby to be a boy, so I was being punished for being a girl. A bit fucked up, no? I stopped seeing her after that business).
Another recommended name belongs to a well-qualified fellow who specializes in “educational testing” and men’s psychology. Um, guess that one’s out then.
The third recommended name seemed promising enough, so I phoned her; her phone went straight onto voice mail. I left a name and all. She phoned me back not twenty minutes ago. In an extremely rushed exchange, she pushed me to set up an appointment immediately--tomorrow afternoon. When I asked her if she didn’t want to know why I wanted to meet with her, she paused. So I explained there was some minor depression, some anxiety, some family and social issues, and I was interested in exploring Asperger’s.
Silence.
“Well, you know Asperger’s’ got a lot of press lately.”
Silence.
“I can’t help you. But thanks for calling.”
Implication: I’m attracted to the hot new disorder / syndrome / whatever. I hear about something “new” or "glamorous" in the news and jump to self-diagnose. Well, I’m not like that--not typically, anyway. My mother is like that. But on reading about AS--everything seems so right. My long-term partner has read AS materials and agrees. My office mate has read the same AS materials, and she agrees. . . . I can't be totally delusional here.
I've been advised to try the psychiatric department at my university. The problem there is the department prioritizes students who require medication. And I don’t want medication. I just want grounding (does that make sense?). Besides, I think that the uni’s mental health facilities should prioritize undergraduates. They go through such hell--especially the freshmen. I feel guilty absorbing any of their time.
So, I’m unsure as to what to do now. Do I keep trying? There seems to be no one local who knows about Asperger's other than “it’s in the press.”
Maybe I am just going for easy answers. Lord knows, every time the head-health people tried to stick something on me (bipolar, depression, schizophrenia, etc.) they were wrong. I’m likely just as wrong as they. Just paint me angry, frustrated, disappointed, and rather lonely as hell right now.
03 October 2007
More on Asperger's; a "Genius" thing
I’m still thinking about Asperger’s Syndrome, so tonight I phoned my mum. After the over-enthusiastic “Hellos!” were out of the way, I asked her how old I was was my IQ was tested, and what the result was (I wanted to confirm--can't always rely on memory).
“You were in fourth grade, and you hit 159. Why?”**
So I told her about my investigations into Asperger’s. Supersmart kids, inadequate social skills, obsessions about arcane/obscure subject matter, etc. As soon as she heard me out, she rushed to tell me she’d experienced social isolation too. She admitted that she’d always felt superior to others (like that was a bombshell), that she didn’t always get along with people, and that she has problems with logic (whatever that means; when I asked her for an example she avoided answering).
I wonder though.
I realize that the whole IQ thing is approached with some trepidation--too many environmental factors and so on. But I’m just realizing that, at eight years of age, I was considered “genius.” Nobel Laureate type genius (five point below Mozart’s theoretical quotient), and one point below the minimal Einstein guesstimate [although Einstein wrote that he was “145” Ha! The ‘umble AE]).
But is the IQ thing all bullocks? Might I have "lost" my “genius” by not "using" it? Is it dormant, or is that "genius" still “at hand”?
I fear thinking of it; if I begin to believe in the IQ thing, I may very well be setting myself for some hubristic comeuppance. It's easier to play dumb.
**After I was tested, I was placed in an experimental class for "gifted” kids. I’ve written about that experience in an earlier blog.
“You were in fourth grade, and you hit 159. Why?”**
So I told her about my investigations into Asperger’s. Supersmart kids, inadequate social skills, obsessions about arcane/obscure subject matter, etc. As soon as she heard me out, she rushed to tell me she’d experienced social isolation too. She admitted that she’d always felt superior to others (like that was a bombshell), that she didn’t always get along with people, and that she has problems with logic (whatever that means; when I asked her for an example she avoided answering).
I wonder though.
I realize that the whole IQ thing is approached with some trepidation--too many environmental factors and so on. But I’m just realizing that, at eight years of age, I was considered “genius.” Nobel Laureate type genius (five point below Mozart’s theoretical quotient), and one point below the minimal Einstein guesstimate [although Einstein wrote that he was “145” Ha! The ‘umble AE]).
But is the IQ thing all bullocks? Might I have "lost" my “genius” by not "using" it? Is it dormant, or is that "genius" still “at hand”?
I fear thinking of it; if I begin to believe in the IQ thing, I may very well be setting myself for some hubristic comeuppance. It's easier to play dumb.
**After I was tested, I was placed in an experimental class for "gifted” kids. I’ve written about that experience in an earlier blog.
01 October 2007
Storythinking
After several months of lethargy and procrastination, I’m (at last!) making progress with my work. Well, largely anyways. I’m plagued by a drifting mind; I’ll be typing along quite happily, then my mind will float off and I begin to daydream. These daydreams aren’t unpleasant, but, clearly, they are a distraction. I’m wondering if I’m (unconsciously) somehow trying to undermine myself; I’ve stopped the obvious attempts at self-sabotage--watching bad television, staying abed until late morning, drinking while working, etc, so I’m finding fresh ways to escape. Because these daydreams are all about escapism.
Like most children, I had a habit of daydreaming. I would obsess over my little fantasies--I would go into great detail, fine-tuning each story until it would play as smoothly as a film in my mind. I would drift off into my stories while sitting at school, walking anywhere, or watching television. If something pulled me away from my daydream (being called on by a teacher, for example, or being told by my mother to get out of the house--to get outside and play “like normal kids”) I would think carefully about where I was in my story and place a virtual bookmark there. When I was able to return to the fantasy, I would “open” at the scene last played.
I expect the daydreaming was a means of maintaining sanity, of self protection, of backing away from the life I dreaded and placing myself in a world where I was in control.
I was seldom “in the moment” as a child, I think. I am a bit more so know, but I reclaim that daydreaming tendency periodically. And now it’s while I’m trying to work. And I’m working on something I love. Go figure.
Like most children, I had a habit of daydreaming. I would obsess over my little fantasies--I would go into great detail, fine-tuning each story until it would play as smoothly as a film in my mind. I would drift off into my stories while sitting at school, walking anywhere, or watching television. If something pulled me away from my daydream (being called on by a teacher, for example, or being told by my mother to get out of the house--to get outside and play “like normal kids”) I would think carefully about where I was in my story and place a virtual bookmark there. When I was able to return to the fantasy, I would “open” at the scene last played.
I expect the daydreaming was a means of maintaining sanity, of self protection, of backing away from the life I dreaded and placing myself in a world where I was in control.
I was seldom “in the moment” as a child, I think. I am a bit more so know, but I reclaim that daydreaming tendency periodically. And now it’s while I’m trying to work. And I’m working on something I love. Go figure.
The Child in Nevada
Like everyone else, I was concerned for the little child whose rape was filmed by her attacker; thank God she was found safe. I hope the media leaves her alone now, and that her mother gets the little child some psychological help pronto.
When the police in Pahrump, Nevada released photos of the abused child, they gave her age as five. I knew, immediately, that she was three. Instinct, I suppose, or perhaps I was projecting something--after all, I was three when my experiences began. When I looked at that photo of the chubby, sweet, child, I saw myself. Again, I hope her family gets the child any necessary help immediately to limit the emotional damage.
When the police in Pahrump, Nevada released photos of the abused child, they gave her age as five. I knew, immediately, that she was three. Instinct, I suppose, or perhaps I was projecting something--after all, I was three when my experiences began. When I looked at that photo of the chubby, sweet, child, I saw myself. Again, I hope her family gets the child any necessary help immediately to limit the emotional damage.
25 September 2007
More music--The Birthday Party
I’ve been listening to The Birthday Party a heck of a lot lately. The Birthday Party was an early 80s Australian band; its members included Nick Cave and Mick Harvey. Sadly, The Birthday Party is fairly obscure now (in the crowds I move in, at any rate)
Seriously folks, if you like Nick Cave, and / or if you like dark, sleazy, anarchic, wild, blistering, depraved early post-punk that skitters between mean rockabilly and proto-industrial, this group is for you. Hey, if they were good enough for John Peel (who loved them), then they‘re good enough for. . . .
I first discovered The Birthday Party long after they’d broken up. I was working in a record shop in the early 1990s, and some distributor sent the store a promo copy of Hits. I fell in love at first hearing--and nobody else could stand it. Happily, my manager sent that promo cassette home with me. I still have it, but I’ve “upgraded” to the CD. Now that I’ve finally collected all of my BP material on my iPod, I’m never without.
Now I just need to get a new copy of Hole’s Pretty on the Inside and I’ll be set. . .for a while, at any rate.
Seriously folks, if you like Nick Cave, and / or if you like dark, sleazy, anarchic, wild, blistering, depraved early post-punk that skitters between mean rockabilly and proto-industrial, this group is for you. Hey, if they were good enough for John Peel (who loved them), then they‘re good enough for. . . .
I first discovered The Birthday Party long after they’d broken up. I was working in a record shop in the early 1990s, and some distributor sent the store a promo copy of Hits. I fell in love at first hearing--and nobody else could stand it. Happily, my manager sent that promo cassette home with me. I still have it, but I’ve “upgraded” to the CD. Now that I’ve finally collected all of my BP material on my iPod, I’m never without.
Now I just need to get a new copy of Hole’s Pretty on the Inside and I’ll be set. . .for a while, at any rate.
22 September 2007
Hole's "Pretty on the Inside"--a musical meander
Pretty on the Inside, Hole's debut, came out when I was in my early twenties. It spoke to me, wept with me, raged with me, rumbled in me, and stayed with me like nothing ever had (nor has). "Teenage Whore," "Garbageman," "Pretty on the Inside". . .the music articulated my self-loathing, my anger, my pain. I'd forgive Courtney Love (nearly) anything because she provided a catharsis, an expression of all the bubbling bullshit inside of me.
The rawness, the freakishness, the pain of Love's vocals in an age of Tori Amos and Suzanne Vega...no contest (I knew I was supposed to find "Me and a Gun" cathartic, but I didn't).
As far as Riot Grrrls go (is that antiquated or what?) nothing, nothing by Bikini Kill, L7, Seven Year Bitch and other valuable bands, touches Pretty on the Inside.
As far as Riot Grrrls go (is that antiquated or what?) nothing, nothing by Bikini Kill, L7, Seven Year Bitch and other valuable bands, touches Pretty on the Inside.
More insociability (yada, yada, yada)
In my previous post, I came across as crying "victim!" in terms of my social failures. I’d like to remedy that.
Why I freak people out
1) Peculiar announcements. For example, in a seminar once, a conversation revolved around gender and literature. I seldom spoke in the class, but this time, I was unstoppable. “Ezra Pound once declared that “the brain is essentially a great clot of genital fluid” (e.g., the intellect is, essentially, male). Everybody turned to stare at me, open-mouthed. I attempted to explain why I divulged this curious, if mildly revolting, quote, but quickly gave up. I was a bit surprised that my colleagues, primarily modernists, were unfamiliar with the cite. But never mind.
2) When I’ve done something I feel badly about--shame or embarrassment--I shut down to others. And I tend to walk about looking angry (although I’m not--but my face is “set”; I'm trying to mask my emotional state, and I suppose it appears angry). I add this because today someone asked me if I was upset over something, and I was feeling fine at the time.
3) When I drink to excess at parties and other gatherings, I can become overly aggressive, sexually inappropriate (making passes at people even though I‘m not interested in actually having sex, making out with female friends--who I later avoid out of embarrassment), or I begin gossiping, talking about my experiences, etc. People are interested in none of the above; truth be told, I’d avoid someone like drunken me.
4) As I can’t do the small talk, and the “introductions” thing, I come across as a snobby, superior bitch. I’d like to claim I’m not, but maybe I am.
Actually, I can be a miserably moody female. Who wants to be around that?
Why I freak people out
1) Peculiar announcements. For example, in a seminar once, a conversation revolved around gender and literature. I seldom spoke in the class, but this time, I was unstoppable. “Ezra Pound once declared that “the brain is essentially a great clot of genital fluid” (e.g., the intellect is, essentially, male). Everybody turned to stare at me, open-mouthed. I attempted to explain why I divulged this curious, if mildly revolting, quote, but quickly gave up. I was a bit surprised that my colleagues, primarily modernists, were unfamiliar with the cite. But never mind.
2) When I’ve done something I feel badly about--shame or embarrassment--I shut down to others. And I tend to walk about looking angry (although I’m not--but my face is “set”; I'm trying to mask my emotional state, and I suppose it appears angry). I add this because today someone asked me if I was upset over something, and I was feeling fine at the time.
3) When I drink to excess at parties and other gatherings, I can become overly aggressive, sexually inappropriate (making passes at people even though I‘m not interested in actually having sex, making out with female friends--who I later avoid out of embarrassment), or I begin gossiping, talking about my experiences, etc. People are interested in none of the above; truth be told, I’d avoid someone like drunken me.
4) As I can’t do the small talk, and the “introductions” thing, I come across as a snobby, superior bitch. I’d like to claim I’m not, but maybe I am.
Actually, I can be a miserably moody female. Who wants to be around that?
21 September 2007
Learning to Talk
I’ve just spent an evening out, at a bar, with a group of colleagues. I spoke with a few people, but I didn’t engage the way other folks did, I mostly sat outside the group and watched their interactions. Surprise! I remained sober while others fell about giddy with booze and plans to continue their intoxication into the night. Oh, the promise of the early evening buzz--who knows where the alcohol and the evening will take us? To curious bars, to strangers' beds, to pavement pukings, to sprained ankles from staggering in heels, to Godalmighty hangovers and the morning shame. . . .
I'm not pointing fingers here. I simply spent the evening watching these much younger people getting ready for a pre-term blowout (good for them). So, I spent a bit of time at the sidelines nursing a dirty vodka martini. A wallflower? At my age? Hell yes.
I wrote a few blogs back that I am fairly incapable of walking up and saying “hi, I’m SG, how are you etc.” I need to be introduced to people before I can talk to them. This aloofness isn’t intentional, and it isn’t a reliance on etiquette.
I’ve always been convinced that my lack of social success is due to some freakery on my part. I’m fundamentally unlikable, unlovable. But, how much of it is me, and how much of it is “them”? Do “they” sense my sordidness, my seaminess, before “they” even know who I am? I don’t know. I’ve always struggled with social settings, be it classrooms, parties, recess, or professional meetings. It’s not just awkwardness; maybe it’s like Prufrock being pinned against a wall.
One problem is that I can get so tongue-tied that I am simply inarticulate, and people can’t grasp what I’m saying. So many thoughts begin teeming in my head that I swear I get confused. Usually ½ xanax helps to level that mental calumny--which poses the question: is it anxiety that provokes the confusion? Maybe, maybe not.
Although the xanax generally does the trick, I took some prior to my PhD oral exam; even so, that was a disaster. I swear, I don’t know how I passed. It's ot that I didn't know the "answers," I just couldn't respond clearly to the questions posed. I am convinced that the paper I presented saved me. And the fact that my advisor is confident in me (but then, what if he isn’t, and he just doesn’t like to see his students fail? In the post-exam debriefing he assured me that he had seen the other committee members fail examinees--and this without my asking him “how did I pass?” I assume he either sensed my concerns or he and the other committee members had spoken of my inability to speak extemporaneously). Anways, there's a bit of shame in here; I humiliated myself in an arena where I should excel.
Which brings me to the reason I couldn’t sleep tonight. I’ve been passed up, ignored, for several opportunities I’ve been entitled to within the parameters of my program, which ends in June (please forgive me for being vague here. It‘s necessary). I’ve tried, twice, to bring authorities’ attention to this. Once, it worked. The second time, nothing. And I’m at a loss. I’m afraid to nag, But I do know that “squeaky wheels get the grease.” But why are people who aren’t squeaky, and who aren’t as advanced (in the program) as me, getting all the grease? Again, this isn’t paranoia. I just keep getting skipped. Either I’m invisible or people are picking up on the social ineptness. It certainly is not my job performance (I’ve got great evals). I’m thinking that, perhaps, my inelegant articulation impeded getting my message across to aforementioned authorities. Then again, they just might not give a whatever (the latter worries me, because one of the authorities is my advocate).
Anyways, I can't sleep because the clock is running out on my time in the prgram, and it looks like I'm going to leave with next to no real experience in my area, and I'm wondering how that will help me acquire a decent job next year.
Note: although my job requires me to speak publicly on a regular basis, I have few problems. I always prepare a “script” (with footnotes, believe it or not) before it’s necessary, so I’m seldom required to think hard on the spot.
I'm not pointing fingers here. I simply spent the evening watching these much younger people getting ready for a pre-term blowout (good for them). So, I spent a bit of time at the sidelines nursing a dirty vodka martini. A wallflower? At my age? Hell yes.
I wrote a few blogs back that I am fairly incapable of walking up and saying “hi, I’m SG, how are you etc.” I need to be introduced to people before I can talk to them. This aloofness isn’t intentional, and it isn’t a reliance on etiquette.
I’ve always been convinced that my lack of social success is due to some freakery on my part. I’m fundamentally unlikable, unlovable. But, how much of it is me, and how much of it is “them”? Do “they” sense my sordidness, my seaminess, before “they” even know who I am? I don’t know. I’ve always struggled with social settings, be it classrooms, parties, recess, or professional meetings. It’s not just awkwardness; maybe it’s like Prufrock being pinned against a wall.
One problem is that I can get so tongue-tied that I am simply inarticulate, and people can’t grasp what I’m saying. So many thoughts begin teeming in my head that I swear I get confused. Usually ½ xanax helps to level that mental calumny--which poses the question: is it anxiety that provokes the confusion? Maybe, maybe not.
Although the xanax generally does the trick, I took some prior to my PhD oral exam; even so, that was a disaster. I swear, I don’t know how I passed. It's ot that I didn't know the "answers," I just couldn't respond clearly to the questions posed. I am convinced that the paper I presented saved me. And the fact that my advisor is confident in me (but then, what if he isn’t, and he just doesn’t like to see his students fail? In the post-exam debriefing he assured me that he had seen the other committee members fail examinees--and this without my asking him “how did I pass?” I assume he either sensed my concerns or he and the other committee members had spoken of my inability to speak extemporaneously). Anways, there's a bit of shame in here; I humiliated myself in an arena where I should excel.
Which brings me to the reason I couldn’t sleep tonight. I’ve been passed up, ignored, for several opportunities I’ve been entitled to within the parameters of my program, which ends in June (please forgive me for being vague here. It‘s necessary). I’ve tried, twice, to bring authorities’ attention to this. Once, it worked. The second time, nothing. And I’m at a loss. I’m afraid to nag, But I do know that “squeaky wheels get the grease.” But why are people who aren’t squeaky, and who aren’t as advanced (in the program) as me, getting all the grease? Again, this isn’t paranoia. I just keep getting skipped. Either I’m invisible or people are picking up on the social ineptness. It certainly is not my job performance (I’ve got great evals). I’m thinking that, perhaps, my inelegant articulation impeded getting my message across to aforementioned authorities. Then again, they just might not give a whatever (the latter worries me, because one of the authorities is my advocate).
Anyways, I can't sleep because the clock is running out on my time in the prgram, and it looks like I'm going to leave with next to no real experience in my area, and I'm wondering how that will help me acquire a decent job next year.
Note: although my job requires me to speak publicly on a regular basis, I have few problems. I always prepare a “script” (with footnotes, believe it or not) before it’s necessary, so I’m seldom required to think hard on the spot.
Balloons Go Pop!
I recall a childhood party. Probably the first one I attended. It was a fellow student's birthday 'do, so naturally there were games. One of these was a race to sit on a balloon and pop it. I refused to do it. The birthday girl's father kept trying to get me to sit on that balloon, and he couldn’t understand that I was scared to--either I was afraid of the noise or I was afraid of “hurting” the balloon. I ended up crying over it, and the parents phoned my mother to come and get me. That was the last birthday party I attended as a child.
19 September 2007
Sweet Sixteen and Never Been. . . .
This happened on my 16th birthday.
I went out with my friend Debbie. We headed for her boyfriend’s house in the northeastern side of town (about three miles away from my home). We drank a few beers, we listened to some Iron Maiden, but my heart wasn’t in it. I felt...bad. Anxious. I wanted to go home. Debbie didn’t want to go. John, Debbie’s boyfriend, had a car, but he didn’t want to drive me home, which was understandable (the beers). They didn’t want me to call for a ride--my mom was at work (the graveyard shift), and her live-in boyfriend might get pissed off at chauffeuring, and this would get me in trouble. That was their reasoning anyway.
I should have gone with my instincts and called Herb (mother’s boyfriend). Instead, I went along with Debbie and John’s urging--they would find me a ride home. This meant we walked down the main drag in that part of town--with Debbie sticking her thumb out while John and I walked behind. A truck pulled over. A big, blue, old school Chevy.
Debbie yelled, “You got a ride!”
I said no. No. no.
John said, “Don’t be scared, I know this guy. He’s the security guard at Zed Middle School. I know him. He’s the best guy to drive you home--he’s a security guard.
So I clambered in. I gave him directions to my street (not my house).
We started off pleasantly enough. He offered me a Camel straight (non-filtered for you non-smokers)
Then he turned off the main drag. And he drove down street that, at the time, was undeveloped. Lots of fields. Lots of fields. And he pulled into one.
It was February. Snow covered everything.
He drove pretty far in-maybe half a mile. I remember seeing the lights of a bowling alley and a set of McDonalds arches. So close.
I said “what are you doing?”
He said, “I’m going to fuck you.”
I pleaded--no. I was still a virgin (and I was). He said I wasn't--couldn't be.
He opened the truck door and pulled me down the seat so that my legs were hanging out.
He stuffed it into me. He shoved his fingers up with it--to put it in me--impotent.
I was screaming. He put his hands around my neck--“I will strangle you. I will kill you bitch.” I shut up. I kept looking at those Golden Arches. At Silver Lanes' flashy signs.
Then I left; I went into third-person and saw what was happening from the other side of the windshield. It all became a movie, and Valerie Bertinelli was playing my part.
At the same time, I was still there. I saw the stupid plastic dog hanging from the rear-view mirror. I noted the murky blue, broken, dashboard speakers.
And then. I don’t know how this came to me…I grabbed my little, skinny, black Cricket lighter from my vest pocket and put it up to his face. He had some growth there, and I torched it. I seriously did.
He yelled, and knocked the lighter out of my hands, into the snow outside. The he pulled me out into the snow. He went back to choking me and trying to shove himself into me.
He finally gave up. Standing up, he said “I’ll drive you home.”
I gave, again, directions to the street I lived on. I added “It’s my 16th birthday.” He said “I’d give you money if I had any.”
All I kept thinking was “sweet sixteen and never been kissed.”
A block before my house I said “This is it”
“Are you sure” he said.
“”Yes” I said.
We were in front of the house were I usually babysat for a neighbor woman.
So he dropped me off. When he drove away, and after he’d turned the corner, I ran home.
I don’t want to go into the drama that followed right now. I’ll just say:
I felt safe/justified when, after being inspected by doctors that night, the police drove me back to the scene of the crime, notes a sign of a scuffle, and found my little black Cricket lighter--evidence that I wasn't making it up.
Debbie and John denied I’d been raped. They said I was making it up for attention. And laughed about it; they denied they’d been with me when I got into that blue Chevy; they said I’d left John’s house to find a better party.
My mother cut out a blurb from the local paper that said “teen hitchhiker raped.”
I went to the house were I usually babysit the day after my rape just to let the woman know that I’d been dropped off nearby, in case she saw anything “funny.” she said, “you mean like him?”
And there he was. Walking up and down the street smoking a cigarette.
Did “they” catch” him? No. Not a surprise, either. This is a city where a then-recent police chief said, when asked what a woman should do if she were confronted with rape, that she should “lay back and enjoy it” (following a public outcry, he chose to wear the slogan on a t-shirt. Somehow, he thought he was being funny)
I’m sure I’ll elaborate on the police's woeful invesitgation at another time. But can I say this for now?
Fuck you, Detective Poindexter.
I went out with my friend Debbie. We headed for her boyfriend’s house in the northeastern side of town (about three miles away from my home). We drank a few beers, we listened to some Iron Maiden, but my heart wasn’t in it. I felt...bad. Anxious. I wanted to go home. Debbie didn’t want to go. John, Debbie’s boyfriend, had a car, but he didn’t want to drive me home, which was understandable (the beers). They didn’t want me to call for a ride--my mom was at work (the graveyard shift), and her live-in boyfriend might get pissed off at chauffeuring, and this would get me in trouble. That was their reasoning anyway.
I should have gone with my instincts and called Herb (mother’s boyfriend). Instead, I went along with Debbie and John’s urging--they would find me a ride home. This meant we walked down the main drag in that part of town--with Debbie sticking her thumb out while John and I walked behind. A truck pulled over. A big, blue, old school Chevy.
Debbie yelled, “You got a ride!”
I said no. No. no.
John said, “Don’t be scared, I know this guy. He’s the security guard at Zed Middle School. I know him. He’s the best guy to drive you home--he’s a security guard.
So I clambered in. I gave him directions to my street (not my house).
We started off pleasantly enough. He offered me a Camel straight (non-filtered for you non-smokers)
Then he turned off the main drag. And he drove down street that, at the time, was undeveloped. Lots of fields. Lots of fields. And he pulled into one.
It was February. Snow covered everything.
He drove pretty far in-maybe half a mile. I remember seeing the lights of a bowling alley and a set of McDonalds arches. So close.
I said “what are you doing?”
He said, “I’m going to fuck you.”
I pleaded--no. I was still a virgin (and I was). He said I wasn't--couldn't be.
He opened the truck door and pulled me down the seat so that my legs were hanging out.
He stuffed it into me. He shoved his fingers up with it--to put it in me--impotent.
I was screaming. He put his hands around my neck--“I will strangle you. I will kill you bitch.” I shut up. I kept looking at those Golden Arches. At Silver Lanes' flashy signs.
Then I left; I went into third-person and saw what was happening from the other side of the windshield. It all became a movie, and Valerie Bertinelli was playing my part.
At the same time, I was still there. I saw the stupid plastic dog hanging from the rear-view mirror. I noted the murky blue, broken, dashboard speakers.
And then. I don’t know how this came to me…I grabbed my little, skinny, black Cricket lighter from my vest pocket and put it up to his face. He had some growth there, and I torched it. I seriously did.
He yelled, and knocked the lighter out of my hands, into the snow outside. The he pulled me out into the snow. He went back to choking me and trying to shove himself into me.
He finally gave up. Standing up, he said “I’ll drive you home.”
I gave, again, directions to the street I lived on. I added “It’s my 16th birthday.” He said “I’d give you money if I had any.”
All I kept thinking was “sweet sixteen and never been kissed.”
A block before my house I said “This is it”
“Are you sure” he said.
“”Yes” I said.
We were in front of the house were I usually babysat for a neighbor woman.
So he dropped me off. When he drove away, and after he’d turned the corner, I ran home.
I don’t want to go into the drama that followed right now. I’ll just say:
I felt safe/justified when, after being inspected by doctors that night, the police drove me back to the scene of the crime, notes a sign of a scuffle, and found my little black Cricket lighter--evidence that I wasn't making it up.
Debbie and John denied I’d been raped. They said I was making it up for attention. And laughed about it; they denied they’d been with me when I got into that blue Chevy; they said I’d left John’s house to find a better party.
My mother cut out a blurb from the local paper that said “teen hitchhiker raped.”
I went to the house were I usually babysit the day after my rape just to let the woman know that I’d been dropped off nearby, in case she saw anything “funny.” she said, “you mean like him?”
And there he was. Walking up and down the street smoking a cigarette.
Did “they” catch” him? No. Not a surprise, either. This is a city where a then-recent police chief said, when asked what a woman should do if she were confronted with rape, that she should “lay back and enjoy it” (following a public outcry, he chose to wear the slogan on a t-shirt. Somehow, he thought he was being funny)
I’m sure I’ll elaborate on the police's woeful invesitgation at another time. But can I say this for now?
Fuck you, Detective Poindexter.
Back at work
Today was my first day back at work following a three month break. It's been a fantastically long three months (and I don't mean "fantastic" as in "terrific," but as in "preternaturally"). I'm grateful for the return to order. If you haven't figured it out already, I'm horrific at regulating myself. Even so, I woke up way too early (4:00!) worried about the day. Perhaps it was because after several months of self-imposed isolation, I was going to be surrounded by people. Usually, this sets me on edge, so I took 1/2 xanax before I attended the big meeting that initiates our work year.
As I said, I was dreading seeing all of these people. But, surprisingly, I was pleased to see everyone (at least, those I know). You see, I assume that people don't like me, that people avoid me, etc. So I was thrilled when I was greeted with hugs, pleasantries, and happy catch-up chats (and no, it's not because I've been away for "health issues").
I guess that I'm projecting my distrust of people: I expect them to see me how I see them (now, that that make any sense?). I'm seriously phobic about social situations. I'm peculiar about meeting people. I don't--I can't--walk up and introduce myself to a stranger. I wait for introductions. Even if I'm standing with a friend and an unknown third party, I won't say jack unless/until I'm introduced. I don'tknow if it's shyness or a fear of intruding on others' conversations, but there it is. I just fail at sociability. Unless I drink. then, I fear, I get too social. Which is why I am not attending the annual autumn wine and cheese 'do.
Anyways, today was an uncommonly nice day.
Aside: Miles Davis's "Black Satin" is one odd track; I can't decide if it's disconcerting, frightening, or genius.
As I said, I was dreading seeing all of these people. But, surprisingly, I was pleased to see everyone (at least, those I know). You see, I assume that people don't like me, that people avoid me, etc. So I was thrilled when I was greeted with hugs, pleasantries, and happy catch-up chats (and no, it's not because I've been away for "health issues").
I guess that I'm projecting my distrust of people: I expect them to see me how I see them (now, that that make any sense?). I'm seriously phobic about social situations. I'm peculiar about meeting people. I don't--I can't--walk up and introduce myself to a stranger. I wait for introductions. Even if I'm standing with a friend and an unknown third party, I won't say jack unless/until I'm introduced. I don'tknow if it's shyness or a fear of intruding on others' conversations, but there it is. I just fail at sociability. Unless I drink. then, I fear, I get too social. Which is why I am not attending the annual autumn wine and cheese 'do.
Anyways, today was an uncommonly nice day.
Aside: Miles Davis's "Black Satin" is one odd track; I can't decide if it's disconcerting, frightening, or genius.
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