Stuck Gate

There's a gate swinging back and forth. When is it open, when is it shut? I hate when it gets stuck, stops swinging. I fucking hate it. It's like that when the System is tired. We're emotional conjoined twins/triplets/whatever, and when we have energy we're balanced. The gate is swinging. We have time to check in. We have time to feel things. We all have time to "be" and with a swinging gate Rae and Sarah and Amanda and Prowler and L.A. all have a sense of what each other is going through - like the breeze created by a swinging gate and the breeze that keeps it swinging. Stress triggers a physical meltdown - fibromyalgia? And we get tired. The gate stops swinging because all the wind, all the air, all the energy is channeled to Rae so that "the System" can function. But it's not "the System" that is functioning, it's Rae. Imagine conjoined twins, sharing blood. If "one" of the twins starts getting most of the blood because that twin needs it to complete some kind of task, well, the other twin is going to get weak. But they share the fucking blood! So in the end, both twins are weak. That kind of system isn't going to work well if both don't get what they need, no matter how much more useful the one is. You can't starve a conjoined twin and expect the other to live.

So Rae gets depressed when the gate stops swinging and she has to do all the work. You'd think she's like it, but she doesn't. She doesn't because as she uses up all that energy to complete the tasks at hand, the rest of the System is dying. As the rest of the System dies, so does she. She knows how to behave, for fuck's sake, but without Sarah and Amanda and L.A. it's fake and thin and stupid and breathless. It's a hot, oppressive, summer day without air. Without the swinging gate, it's worthless.

If we can't un-stick the gate, life isn't worth living. I don't kill myself because who knows if the Buddhists are right with their reincarnation bull shit, or if the Catholics are right about suicides going to hell. I hope the fucking atheists are right, that after death there is nothing. If we can't un-stick the gate, it doesn't matter if I am seeking death to find relief or change or some such nonsense. If we can't, the System is dead. If the gate doesn't swing, it's pointless for Rae to smile and work, she'll suffocate anyway. Suffocation makes for desperation. Desperate people do desperate things. Suicide is an act of desperation. I'd roll those fucking dice and hope the atheists are right not because I want some kind of change. So fuck you for thinking that. I'd roll those fucking dice because I'm suffocating anyway, the System is dying. Slow, painful, suffocation, conjoined twins watching each other die, a stuck gate......it's worth speeding up the process and risk hell or reincarnation. It's worth it because the atheists might be right.

Weeds

Creeping Charlie is taking over my yard. I hate it. Luke hates the Dandelions and calls them Damndelions. I just read about 50 different ways to eradicate these weeds from the yard so that grass could grow. It doesn't seem like there is a clear answer for staunching the flow.....Likewise with my mental state. It's fraught with negative emotions, self-deprecating thoughts, and sparsely populated with the Kentucky Blue Grass of peace, acceptance, and calm. I can't find a quick fix herbicide that will kill off the Creeping Charlie. I don't mind the Damndelions, but I know they drive Luke bananas so I wouldn't mind killing them off too. But I'm chemical sensitive, so the herbicides that exist might cause more harm than good. I read about a more natural method, testing the soil and adding lime and organic fertilizer, re-seeding, and providing the nutrients and conditions that the healthy, desirable grasses need. Apparently the weeds will get choked out in the process. My shrink would probably appreciate this method most.

But he pissed off Sarah. Not uncommon these days, for Sarah to be pissed. It seems like everyone has pissed her off. She's in such a state of high arousal, hypervigilance, and danger-awareness that trust in just about everyone has diminished. The shrink used some phrases like "we all need Luke" and "leaving and staying in a hotel right now doesn't seem like a good solution." Add that to "Luke really worked hard in here" and the message Sarah got was this.....

"You can't take care of yourself so you have to depend on Luke to take care of you. He really is the normal one in the relationship, and you and your emotions and behaviors are bad and wrong, so you have to stay there in your home. You shouldn't feel as hurt and as angry as you do because you've done sooooo much more to hurt him and he's been so good about it, you owe it to him to stay and give him some space and try to meet his needs for a change." The feelings that accompany this message include a feeling of being trapped, ashamed, and afraid. Since these feelings are intolerable if they escape Sarah's room, they get transformed into rage should they be tapped. They are Creeping Charlie on steroids.

The System has discussed this, and there is some question (in varying degrees) as to the accuracy of the message Sarah got. But no one inside can quite explain it to her, and really, everyone kind of buys into the basic premise of the message anyway.  Fear and anger choke out the Blue Grass.

Luke and Rae are trapped in a cycle of triggering behaviors. For example, Luke was showing some of his carpentry work to Rae, and Rae, knowledgeable in the methods of stroking the male ego and crafty with words, praised the hard work and the preciseness of the job. She wondered about how to best finish the project so that it looked as polished on the outside as it was on the inside. Luke is notorious for creating a fantastic product, stable and functional, but rough around the edges. Rae excels at outer polish. It's actually an excellent combination. Luke heard this message...

"Your work sucks."

Rae wanted to discuss how to finish the project, and truly discuss it.... Luke stopped communicating. It was all subtle, of course, but Rae felt the wall almost immediately so Sarah took over and said "it's like talking to a brick wall" and walked away. Luke wanted to defend his communication process, but Rae said "you're angry and so am I. I don't want to talk about this." But no one disengaged. The System had the following feelings as Luke ping-ponged between his own feelings of defensiveness, hurt, anger, and fear....

-anger, fear, rage, hopelessness, shame, terror, defensiveness.....

I swear I wasn't mean. I was mad. I swear I didn't rage, but I was mad. I swear I said only things that were true, but I was mad. Luke said "I'm not talking about this with you." Then proceeded to share his feelings. When I responded (with a relatively appropriate response) he said "I'm not going to talk about this with you." So I left the room. He then struck up a conversation about WHY he didn't want to talk about it with me. So I pointed out how he was not disengaging. So then he tried to talk again. I knew what was going to happen.... no matter what I said, he would said it was wrong. No matter what feeling I shared, he would explain why I shouldn't feel that way. No matter where in the house I went, even my room, he would pace and huff and puff and stand in the doorway, and say repeatedly "I'm here for you if you need me." The pressure would be on, non-stop, and there would be no escape. And the Shrink's words echoed in our head "leaving is not a good idea. You need him." I felt like a tiny piece of Kentucky Blue Grass, surrounded by acres and acres of Creeping Charlie, and thistle. Huge, pokey, dangerous thistle.

I KNOW I'm off balance, I KNOW I have emotional problems....but I resent feeling like the whole world acknowledges Luke's stability and functionality and niceness and wonderfulness while I am perceived as a bitch, a life-sucking wacko, a psychiatric train wreck, and a non-contributing member of the marriage. I sense the world wondering why HE is putting up with ME.

Such feelings and thoughts make suicide such a reasonable option. Only if I kill myself, Luke will have to change his lifestyle dramatically. My income keeps us living a relatively decent life financially. There is no way he could afford to live like we do on his income. I know that is a dumb thing to even bring up, but I DO contribute. I work my ass off every day to keep my job to keep us financially secure.

No one eradicates Creeping Charlie. Careful, methodical, annual maintenance will keep it under control, but it's never gone. Personally, I think Dandelions are pretty. Herbicides could kill the rose bushes, the peonies, the lilies... it could seep into the ground and poison our well. What's the point? What's the point of working so damn hard to control a fucking weed that will never go away? How can a tiny little blade of grass survive the weeds, the thistle, the herbicides, the re-seeding? What if the Shrink wants to get rid of the little blade of grass, too? Can a few dandelions stick around, despite the fact Luke hates them? What if both Luke and the Shrink just want to plow it all under? I feel like I'm being plowed under. I don't know who is plowing. Everyone is plowing. I'm even plowing. The world is plowing. I should be eradicated.

Push and Pull

Emotionally unavailable. Unpredictable. Providing food. Providing entertaining and fun activities. Evening caresses and snuggling and comfort. I draw towards and desire some, and withdraw from (hurt – confused – angry) some. The pattern repeats. Repeats. Repeats from childhood to now. At the end of my childhood I coped by drinking alcohol daily and then leaving, with a backpack of essentials, out into the world where I was promptly raped and then involved in the same pattern of abuse, neglect, and nurture all mixed up in a Dysfunctional Salad. Here it is again.

I can see that the extreme disconnect Luke has between his intellectual knowledge and his emotions/behaviors is a result most likely of all the feelings stirred up by my father’s death. He cared about my father. He cares about me. But all the care in the world cannot cover up the pain he must have felt as a  6 year old, abandoned by his daddy, and thrust into years of Dysfunctional Salad where nothing was ever talked about……where disconnect was the coping strategy. And then, when he was in his early 20’s, his mother died a painful death from cancer and the family coped by withdrawing from each other and themselves. In the 24 years we have lived together he has spoken of her death twice. He has spoken of her maybe a handful of times. He never speaks of his daddy.

I was hurt by his rage toward me at my father’s funeral. I withdrew and disconnected myself. I spiraled into my own madness, my own disconnect, and began to feel everything as if magnified x1,000,000,000. I knocked on his Man Cave door and sometimes he came out to talk, sometimes he came out to scream at me, and sometimes he simply never heard the knock. I asked if he would come out twice a day, for 15 minutes and he agreed. It didn’t happen. I asked if he would see a therapist (for both my own personal gain and out of fear and love for him). It didn’t happen. He keeps asking me what he can do for me, and if I request something he says he will do it, but doesn’t. He cries. He is shut down. He is unaware that his behavior is erratic and it hurts, omg it hurts.

I cried for hours two nights ago, only because he is so withdrawn from me I am lost and on my own and afraid to navigate this “episode.” I cried because I don’t want him to come into my bed at night and caress and snuggle with me, yet I do want him to come into my bed at night and caress and snuggle with me. It is the only love I can feel and it hurts and comforts me both. I am incapable of telling him not to come into my bed. Incapable because I don’t want to hurt him, incapable because I cannot resolve the push and pull of my own desires.

I am not angry with him because he can’t meet my needs in this turbulent and vulnerable time. I am angry with him because he won’t do anything about it. I am afraid of his denial. I am angry with myself because when he says “I will take care of you” I believe him and then am crushed so mightily when he doesn’t. I am afraid I can’t do this by myself. I want to leave him because I am afraid that he has tipped the balance too far for me to recover except by myself. I am afraid to leave him because that is what he is most afraid of, abandonment, and I do not want to damage him anymore. I love the caresses and I hate that he is caressing me. I am afraid I will kill myself. I am sad that he is not with me, even when he is next to me. I miss him.

Perspective

I’m trying to work on my perspective. I’m not stuck in the bottom of a deep, dark hole nor am I lost wandering in a stone cold labyrinth. Horrific images and vicious voices are relatively quiet (just mentioning them brings murmurs and scenes and I must nod at them, to acknowledge them, and they recede). But I am tired. Not exhausted, but deeply tired with sore, aching muscles that feel like they are made of lead. Even my heart feels like lead. I’m angry that I’m so tired. I wake up tired, I go to work tired and get sore, and I come home to walk the dog and eat – in pain and tired. I fall to bed when it’s still light outside, and for mid September in a far northern state that’s pretty damn early. Weekends are a mix of friend and family responsibilities punctuated with bouts of crying and long periods of bed rest. I’ve been at this for a few weeks now, and it’s not getting better but it’s not getting worse. I’ve found my rut for the next nine months.

I feel sorry for myself and I’m angry. I used to enjoy life. I used to work with passion and play with passion. I used to have gusto. Now I trudge. I drum up a bit of the old gusto in the classroom, and I like to be there, figuring out what the faces of the children mean….are they understanding a new concept? Confused? Bored? Entertained? I want so much for them to learn something, to engage in the content and the process of history, to apply the content and process of history to their lives today, to get insight, to find their place, to develop opinions, to be critical of and also love and appreciate their country. I want it so much for them, as I want for myself to have that engagement in life. I could replace the words “history” and “country” in that sentence with “life” for myself. It’s what I want for myself, and so I try desperately to have a shadow of it in the classroom for me and for them. But I end up angry that it’s just a shadow, an act. I am tired and disappointed at the end of the day when I go home and instead of living with passion I plod through the evening’s routine and fall into bed, uneasy with emotion, hurting both physically and in my heart. How sad that I pretend so much. The gulf between what I portray and who I am seems as wide as ever. Not only has my life derailed, it is de-real.

I belong to an online forum for people with disabilities. The spectrum of disabilities runs from physical to emotional, from almost complete dependence on others for food/shelter/clothing to self-supporting professionals. When I read about their lives, I find a common human element that begs me to change my perspective from sorry and angry to acceptance and thankfulness. One person may write about their bad day that included a trip to the ER and worries about whether or not the food stamps will be enough to pay for food for their family for the rest of the month. Their triumph might be that their dog comforted them and they didn’t get angry with the insensitive nurse. Another might write about how their PCP was verbally abusive toward them and their PTSD kicked in but they didn’t totally lose it, and they might get another PCP to help them shower. Some of these people are completely dependent on the State and the kindness of the people who are paid by the State (in pennies, I imagine) to care for them in very basic ways, i.e. bathing, shopping for food, and taking the right medicines. Their excitement for getting a new shirt or an outing to the mall is immense and such treats are in no way in their direct control. They have trouble finding doctors, therapists, and psychiatrists that will treat them because so many don’t accept their kind of medical insurance and the ones that do have waiting lists. They have trouble finding rides to their medical appointments when they do get them and are at the mercy of public transportation. Sometimes they can’t keep time straight and miss their appointment. These problems stand out in stark contrast to the problems on the other end of the spectrum. A person might write about how the graduate program they applied to is quite expensive. Or how nobody in the fancy restaurant understands why they have a service dog because they don’t look disabled.

My brother once said that it’s not fair to compare the pain of the guy with a broken leg to the pain of the guy with two broken legs. He said that just because one guy has “more” pain, it doesn’t decrease the pain of the guy with less pain, the guy with less pain still feels pain. I struggle with this, as I struggle with where my perspective lies. It’s pretty damn easy to focus on the tiredness and soreness and lack of enjoyment in my life. And I suppose I need to validate those physical and emotional feelings. But then I read about the lives of the people on my disability forum and I can’t help but be thankful for my independence, medical insurance, and warm support of family and friends. I have financial security and a home that I love that is almost paid for. I can shower by myself and wipe my own ass. So am I supposed to focus on what I have? And when I do, what do I do with the dark, angry sarcastic ones inside that make rude comments about how wonderful it is that I can wipe my own ass? In a heartbeat I move my perspective from being thankful for what I have to feeling guilty for having negative feelings like sadness and anger. It is not long before the guilt turns to shame for who I am – an imposter, a dysfunctional monster functioning in a loving world. I appear to be a strong and independent woman helping children develop a sense of place in their world, a loving and devoted friend and wife, when really I’m a scared and depressed child clinging to her husband and her therapist for safety, searching for a reason to live another day.

Despite the fact that I own my own home and have a successful career, I’m sad and angry and tired and sore. I don’t want to be those things anymore. I want a healthy body and mind. And I am ashamed that I can’t be thankful that I can wipe my own ass.

Labyrinth

You may have heard of “once upon a time” but sometimes there is also “once upon a space” where the events of the fairy tale happen in the present, but in another realm. Imagine a little girl skipping through the woods enjoying the sunshine and the wind, the grass and the trees. She’s happy and she’s content. This story is about her, in another realm. Instead of grass underfoot there is stone cold and hard. Instead of trees there is a wall, again of stone, damp to the touch. It’s not a cool dampness with moss either, to be enjoyed on a hot day. It’s a never ending wall in all directions so that no air moves along the corridor and nothing grows on it. It’s a labyrinth with endless dead ends. So this little girl isn’t skipping gaily anymore, she’s trudging along in the shadow of the wall, struggling to breath, and hoping to find her way out. She’s cold and her feet hurt. At one dead end there is huge bed with blood red covers and soft pillows and she thinks perhaps she can rest a bit.

But that’s part of the nightmare of the endless labyrinth. It’s not terrible at first, lying in the bed. It seems restful. There appears a little window nearby from which a cool breeze blows. She feels as though the bed is swallowing her and it’s okay, because falling deep into the softness removes the pain. From above, miles and miles above, for the wall reaches into the sky for miles, a raven circles. It makes its way down in circles followed by another raven, and another, and another. Their tail feathers disappear into trails of choking smoke that block the bit of sun she can see. She cannot get up from the softness of the bed that now pulls her down without her permission. The ravens come ever closer until they land on her arms and legs and stomach. Some take bites of her stomach, others jump on her stomach and cut like razor blades into her.

From the distance she hears a voice that’s like a portal to another world she barely remembers, asking her to walk walk walk with him in the woods where the grass is green and the birch whisper sweet nothings in the breeze. Exhausted and open and desperate she pushes up from the bloody covers to walk. Ever the voice beckons from beyond the portal that ever moves ahead of her, just outside her reach. The ravens follow, screaming, trailing their smoky tails like demons. She stumbles on the stones beneath her feet, one foot in front of the other, blind in the present and able to see through the portal to some other place where she wants to be.

They come to a section of wall that shimmers transparent like sea polished glass. Through the wall she sees “family” breaking bread together, laughing, and handing her cake and ice cream. She reaches for it and as soon as it touches her hands it becomes ash, crumbling away to nothing and chokingly dry in her throat. “Family” doesn’t seem to notice. All the social cues tell her exhausted mind that she is there in the dining room, laughing and eating cake while her body feels the cold of the wall and her eyes see the shadow they cast. In the background the ravens scream so loud it’s like radio static being piped into her brain.

Eventually the polished glass clouds over and becomes solid again, and the child stumbles forward. It’s only in motion that she is safe from the carnivorous ravens so forward she must go. Forever moving forward, turning right then left, finding a dead end and turning around to retrace her steps. Moving into the hard coldness and crying and becoming blind even to the wall. Ahead she sees another portal with a scruffy old magician sitting in front of it. He’s kind, but he does not step aside to let her through the portal, he talks. “The ravens are addiction,” he says. And she’s so tired she can barely hope that’s true. Addiction is familiar and not so frightening as ravens that eat her bowels and slice her womb. She wants to tell him what she sees through the polished glass, but the static grows so loud she can’t find her voice. “Help me through the portal, I miss the grass and the trees” she whispers, but is not sure he hears. “I’m afraid.”

The ravens are huge and peck and slice and tear. She runs through the labyrinth in panic, seeing the “family” and hearing the voice telling her to get up and walk and finding the magician whose words echo off the wall “It’s addiction.” And finally the bed again, in a corner, soft. She falls into it and stares off into the polished glass at the “family.” She’s a child and she’s so tired of moving. Armed with a gun to fight off the ravens who morph into “family” she lies there confused like she has never been before. It occurs to her that to kill would feel good so she shoots the “family” and watches the blood seep through the walls. It doesn’t feel good, but the blood covers her like a blanket on the soft bed and reminds her of a warm womb where she can feel safe. It’s a thoughtless action that puts the gun in her own mouth and pulls the trigger, blood meeting blood. She’ll never bleed again.

Can I Get You Anything Else?

I spent two days, one night in the hospital. I had a laproscopic supracervical hysterectomy. Ouch. But that's beside the point. What I'd like to comment on is the quality of the nursing staff. They were awesome! When I pressed the big red call button they politely said "Can I help you?" And when I made my request they saw to it immediately. When they came into my room to check on me, my vitals, my drip, they invariably asked before they left "Can I get you anything else?" while looking me in the eye and actually pausing....waiting to hear if there was an answer. They tried to anticipate my needs and make me more comfortable, even if I wasn't complaining of discomfort. They joked with me. I was filled with gratitude for their attentions.

And then I got pissed. This is the very same hospital that houses me for psychiatric issues. However, the treatment I get when in for "that" is completely different. When I make a request, I am usually met with irritation and a long wait. No one ever asks if there is anything else. If a nurse joked with me on the psych ward I'd be so stunned I might think I'm hallucinating! No nurse ever tried to anticipate my needs or check on my comfort level. When I'm in the psych unit I feel like a blight on society, a piece of shit stinking up the hospital, a hemorrhoid on the ass of the health care system. They truly treat patients like dirt.

So, does the hospital hand pick their very worst, most insensitive staff and stick them on the psych unit? Is it a power and control issue? Has society so stigmatized the mentally ill that even in the same fucking hospital the same fucking patient gets two completely different levels of care based on what the illness is? It's infuriating!

The Myth of the Disabled Superhero (or Superman was Actually Paraplegic)

You’ve heard the stories: Man with Two Prosthetic Legs Climbs Mt. Everest, Schizophrenic Genius Teaches at Harvard, Autistic Woman Saves Beef Industry, Blind Man Sparks Scientific Revolution, WheelchairBound Man Wins World War, Woman With TBI and History of Slavery Creates Underground Railroad….the list goes on. I’m not making these up. People with disabilities have overcome their personal obstacles, achieved fantastic greatness, and made evolutionary contributions to society. People with disabilities have changed the fucking world.

And then there’s Superman. He was orphaned at a young age, never quite fit in to the human race, and had Kryptonitis – an episodic disabling condition! But he saved the fucking world, too. He worked full time, had the usual dysfunctional and stilted romantic relationship with a pretty girl, and flew, like through the air, on incredible missions to save the lives of common people. Truly, he was not DIS-abled, he was DIFFERENTLY-abled.

But then he fell off a horse and suffered a spinal injury becoming paraplegic. The world was crushed, but oh-so-ready to watch him fight the good fight, push himself to the limits of human capacity and then beyond, and overcome his disability and walk. Or, better yet, FLY. Everyone was cheering him on and everyone believed it could, would, HAD TO happen. America’s real life Superman – Christopher Reeve – just HAD TO make his way out of the wheelchair and prove that “disability” was a myth, that with the right amount of fortitude and hard work and heart and soul and blood/sweat/tears anyone could pull themselves up by their bootstraps and fucking not only walk but fly through the air like a bird or an airplane. He tried. We all watched him and cheered him on. He never got out of his wheelchair and he used a breathing apparatus. Then he died, sans fluttering cape. Everyone was super disappointed. What a fucking failure.

What a fucking mean and crushing myth – that the only good disabled person is the one that pushes themselves beyond the normal capacity of humans to achieve a superhuman power be it x-ray vision or flying with a spinal cord injury. I’ve watched the movies – A Beautiful Mind, Temple Grandin, blah blah blah. I have to admit I cry at them. I read the books too. I WROTE a book about it. But it’s a myth. The myth part isn’t that people with disabilities can achieve great things, the myth is that people with disabilities SHOULD achieve great things. Everyone celebrates the poverty stricken Mexican who crawled across the desert and slept in the streets of America only to become the dashingly handsome TV star with oodles of money and a hidden disability mitigated by his faithful service dog. Everyone celebrates the woman with MS who fights her way to the summit of Mt. Everest. The message is clear: If you have a disability then you can overcome it and not only be more than a hum-drum mortal but a fucking inspiration to hum-drum mortals. Plus, it’s your duty to do so.

I have a secret I’m going to let you in on. People with disabilities generally don’t climb Mt. Everest. I bet most of us don’t even really want to. People with disabilities just want to do the best they can on any given day. I wonder if Christopher Reeve ever wished he could just sit in the fucking wheelchair and “be.” I wonder if ever he was proud that he made it through another day without killing himself. I wonder if he felt obligated to try to climb Mt. Everest. To be honest, I have no desire to climb Mt. Everest and I am not particularly smart and although I wish I could save the world I only have enough energy to get myself through the day, one day at a time. Sometimes I’m proud of myself for not killing myself. But then, the myth of the disabled superhero pops into my mind and I beat myself up because that’s such a stupid thing to be proud of. I beat myself up because I not only won’t ever climb Mt. Everest, I also won’t get my Ph.D, my black belt in Tae Kwon Do, or even a leadership position in my school. I’m a failure as a person with a disability because I won’t follow my dreams, won’t achieve my life-long goals, and actually have ended up losing ground in my career. I’m a failure as a person with a disability because I’ve settled for who I am. I’m a double failure because I’m lying about settling for who I am, I actually detest myself most of the time.

If you want to heap insult onto injury, you could say I’m not only not a disabled superhero, I’m the antithesis of a disabled superhero. Christopher Reeve, though he didn’t ever “succeed” in getting out of his wheelchair, is still reluctantly honored because he “lobbied on behalf of people with spinal cord injuries, and for human embryonic stem cell research afterward. He founded the Christopher Reeve Foundation and co-founded the Reeve-Irvine Research Center.” (Wikipedia) So a nice honorable mention goes to those persons with disabilities who at least become activists for their disabilities. Only I don’t. I’m afraid to. I hide my disability because I don’t want to cause waves at work. I want to keep my job, thank you, until I retire or such a time comes that I can no longer work. According to the myth of the disabled superhero, this is the worst possible offense. It’s a disservice to quietly exist among the hum-drums, sort of blending in but not really exceeding in any way, shape or form. It’s Clark Kent without the cape.

I’m sick of the myth of the disabled superhero. I am, from this time forward, going to not stand up for Dissociative Identity Disorder except for under a pseudonym, rather anonymously in blog form. If I have the energy and I feel like it, I’ll write another book and hope it magically sells because I sure as hell am not going to publicize it. I will continue to be a mediocre teacher in a small-ish town, not because I can’t be a great teacher but because I don’t want to personally invest in my career as I’d rather use my precious free time sleeping or hanging out with people I like. From this time forward I am not going to push myself so hard I fucking resent the rest of the world, rather I will do what I can with what I have in a reasonable effort at maintaining my sanity. Furthermore, should I start losing my sanity, I’ll take a nap. I will not sacrifice myself in a bold effort to not be a burden on my friends, family, and society. Oddly enough, that usually results in me being a burden on my friends, family and society. Rather, I’ll try to be as nice to myself as I am to others when I’m feeling well. When I’m not feeling well, well, I’ll take extra meds, nap, and lean on my friends, family and society. They genuinely seem to think I’m worth it, so what the hell.

Christopher Reeve died never getting out of his wheelchair. The myth of the disabled superhero would have us believe that’s a tragedy, only mildly mitigated by the service work he did for the future of all people with spinal cord injuries. Fuck the myth of the disabled superhero. Superman was a paraplegic. Period. He hoped and hurt and tried. I’m tempted to say he never gave up, but I bet there were plenty of days he gave up and SO FUCKING WHAT. I bet there were days he cried his eyes out in despair and frustration and just plain old sat in his wheelchair. And if that’s true, then that’s what made him human. And that’s exactly what he was, human. Anything else is a myth.

I’m going to nap.