Those of us too socially broken to play reindeer games, we stumble around the periphery; around the misfit toys. Not all of us are happy to be here. By process of exclusion, we are lumped together, put face to face with our flaws...and theirs. An aggregation for the otherwise and strangely.
Anyway, for a few nights, I climb out the solitude...I climb into a bar...and gravitate to a stray table.
This is New Years Eve, 2007. It's two hours till midnight. I'm trying to stay focused.
She's on the other side of the table, chain-smoking, talking. "You get cracked-out like that and you learn the hierarchy, like, quick. You learn who to go to."
Christ. I rub my eyes and nod. She continues.
"Finding the good shit, it's all about the age of the guy. It's like deer antlers. You see big, thick antlers and you're like, 'That one's been around. That one's outsmarted the hunters'. So anyway. That's the rule. Old people are the best dealers."
We're in a dark, rectangular pub. I'm in the corner. Left shoulder is crammed against the wall. Right shoulder is crammed against this other guys left shoulder. He's looking at me, smiling politely. She I've met a few times. He's new. He looks businessey, wears expensive clothes. I use peripheral vision to watch him. They talk about drugs, start bonding. I tell him, "Your shoes are absurdly unscuffed."
He's drinking too much. Every five minutes he shakes my hand and says, "What's your name again? Seriously, we have to hang out." I clench my teeth and look around. The bar is dense with people. The middle of my chest is starting to feel wrong. Like loud white noise. Like static.
I close my eyes...listen incorrectly...and start to unfocus. In this moment, in a crowd like this...it's difficult explain. It's like being at the beach:
If you sit on a beach long enough, at the edge of the water, your body begins to anticipate the waves. That moment of contact: it's repetitive...then expected...then hypnotic, like a tactile metronome. The same thing can happen with the human voice, in a crowded room. At first, the separate discussions sound like a collection of fragmented noise. The voices are random, scattered, disconnected. And then the murmur thing starts to happen. The voices slowly coalesce into one, rhythmic sound. They increase in volume, simultaneously. They decrease in volume, simultaneously. A rhythm takes hold, subjugates each voice to it's shape. Numerous dialogues become an inarticulate monologue. I'm hearing this in the bar now. I think: it's gotta be the room doing this. The room is mumbling to itself, murmuring, trying to remember something. Me and the other people, we're just vowel sounds on a thick tongue. A strange iteration...
She taps my hand. "Dude. Are you drunk?"
"Probably. Do you hear that?" I point at my ear. "The way the room sounds?"
She listens. Business-guy is staring at the floor, probably checking on his shoes. I lift my chin, get his attention. I hold my hand out, palm down. When the voices in the room grow louder, I tilt my fingers up. When the voices grow quieter, I tilt them down. Trying to mirror the volume. I say, "Up...down...up. A consistent rhythm. Why does that happen?"
"Meh. Don't know," she says.
He listens more, shakes his head. I'm starting to get into it. Like at the beach, it gets hypnotic. "It's some kind of social Morse Code. I wish I could translate this."
Business-guy holds his hand up, tilts it to the volume. He says, "Sometimes everyone goes quiet at the exact same moment. So weird." Then he looks at me and says, "Oh."
She starts digging in her purse, holds up a tissue. "He did this the other day." I tap my lip. "Christ. I haven't had nosebleeds since college. Stress bleeds. Fucking embarrassing."
One hour till midnight. I hate these people anyway, so I go home, crawl back where I should have stayed.
In bed, at the periphery, I let the stress finish bleeding me.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
found sound
Apostrophe. Apostrophe. Woo, fun word.
If you possess a very fancy award you have "a posh trophy". Which is fitting since apostrophes denote possession.
If you do not posses oars, however...and you borrow a pair...and only find out afterwards that a rental fee is applicable: you are being given "a post row fee".
Along with possession, apostrophes can mark the place of a missing letter...this is known. What is less well known is that 'apostrophe' has a third definition: it can be a rhetorical speech addressed to an imagined or absent person.
Which means that if someone dies while participating in a rowing competition...and that a very fancy award is bestowed upon the deceased at a ceremony honoring their memory: you would be, in an appropriately glowing post-catastrophe apostrophe, posthumously forgoing the post row fee for a posh trophy.
Official Thinkist of Quality...Accidental Blogger...points out this nifty apostrophe link.
If you possess a very fancy award you have "a posh trophy". Which is fitting since apostrophes denote possession.
If you do not posses oars, however...and you borrow a pair...and only find out afterwards that a rental fee is applicable: you are being given "a post row fee".
Along with possession, apostrophes can mark the place of a missing letter...this is known. What is less well known is that 'apostrophe' has a third definition: it can be a rhetorical speech addressed to an imagined or absent person.
Which means that if someone dies while participating in a rowing competition...and that a very fancy award is bestowed upon the deceased at a ceremony honoring their memory: you would be, in an appropriately glowing post-catastrophe apostrophe, posthumously forgoing the post row fee for a posh trophy.
Official Thinkist of Quality...Accidental Blogger...points out this nifty apostrophe link.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
people sketch- July 1999
I'm in a run down bus station in an unfamiliar town. It's midnight. I've got a long wait. I'm crammed in the corner, pretending to read a book.
Most of the fluorescent lights are out, leaving a dim, yellow glow to illuminate the place. I don't know why, but when you look around the room, you think "This place was built in the 70's." Something about the green of the benches, the shape of the windows, I can't quite put my finger on it.
A guy sits across from me and stares...stares...smiles. I keep my face in the book.
The police stroll in, casually chat with a guy. The guy laughs, holds his arms out. The police laugh, place him in cuffs, take him away. An amiable arrest.
Someone has a cough. It's one of those terrible sounds...so deep that it goes high pitched. Every ten to fifteen seconds, I hear a slow intake of breath...a pause...and then a single, loud hack. It sounds like a goose. Just hearing it is painful.
The guy across from me is still staring and smiling. Then I realize that he's looking at the book. It's Nietzsche's 'The Gay Science'. I want to explain, "It's 1800's gay...not current gay", but instead I put the book aside and stare at my shoes.
Elsewhere in the room, a power-struggle unfolds.
A woman walks up and down the aisles, holding a baby in her arms, whispering to it, trying to soothe it. The baby is crying, but when she stands still and swings it from side to side, it falls asleep. She keeps an eye on her other kid- a boy, five or six years old. He darts around the room, kicking trash, talking to himself, talking to people, trying to keep himself entertained.
He walks up to the mom and says a word. He's speaking in Spanish and I don't know what the word means. The mom digs in her pocket, hands him a quarter. He puts it into one of those bubble dispenser things, gets a pile of candy, and immediately crams all of it into his mouth. The candy...it's the hard candy that's shaped like fruit. Little cherries. Little oranges. Little bananas.
He goes back to the mom and repeats the word. She shakes her head no. He repeats the word and stamps his foot. They glare at one another. She relents, gives him a quarter, and he crams more candy into his mouth.
They repeat this routine once more and soon enough, the sugar kicks in. He goes ape-shit: running in circles, jumping off of benches, throwing his arms around, really going wild. Then he hops up to his mom and- yet again- says the word. She says "no". They argue. She gives him a mini-lecture in a stern tone of voice. He drops to the floor and begins screaming and kicking his feet. This wakes the baby up, which starts crying. The mom breathes out in this frustrated way and shoves a quarter at the kid. His tantrum instantly ceases. He hops up, smiling, and marches to the dispenser. He holds the quarter above his head, triumphant. He crams another pile of candy into his mouth and starts running in circles.
Then the routine gets disrupted.
He stands still and frowns very intently, as if he's contemplating something. Then...slowly...he looks at the mom. And the look he gives her...it's heartbreaking. It's the same one you see in cartoons when a character walks off a cliff. There's that moment where they are still walking straight ahead, on thin air, not realizing what they've done. Then, they look down, realize what they've done, and plummet. However...and this is the key moment: right before they plummet, the cartoon character always makes eye contact with the audience. They look right at you with those big, sad eyes...then they gulp and fall. So, that look...that moment of anticipatory regret...that's what the kid gives his mom.
Then he upchucks candy all over the floor.
The sound of it. I'm sensitive to that sort of thing, the odd little noises of a place. They tend to burrow deep, dig their way into my thinking. And vibrant, multi-colored vomit clattering onto the linoleum, bouncing in a thousand different directions...it's a very odd sound. Very distinct.
I watch this happen and a suspicion I had developed is confirmed: the kid wasn't chewing. People, on cue, lift their feet and watch little cherries roll by. Little oranges. Little bananas (which, of course, don't roll; they just shoot off in weird trajectories. The bananas are chaotic).
Mom closes her eyes for a second, fumes...then sits on a bench. She holds her baby in such way as to make room for the kid. He curls up on her lap and sleeps.
A bus station like this at midnight...there's no maintenance staff around. The tiny fruit stays where it landed. We tip-toe around it and wait.
Most of the fluorescent lights are out, leaving a dim, yellow glow to illuminate the place. I don't know why, but when you look around the room, you think "This place was built in the 70's." Something about the green of the benches, the shape of the windows, I can't quite put my finger on it.
A guy sits across from me and stares...stares...smiles. I keep my face in the book.
The police stroll in, casually chat with a guy. The guy laughs, holds his arms out. The police laugh, place him in cuffs, take him away. An amiable arrest.
Someone has a cough. It's one of those terrible sounds...so deep that it goes high pitched. Every ten to fifteen seconds, I hear a slow intake of breath...a pause...and then a single, loud hack. It sounds like a goose. Just hearing it is painful.
The guy across from me is still staring and smiling. Then I realize that he's looking at the book. It's Nietzsche's 'The Gay Science'. I want to explain, "It's 1800's gay...not current gay", but instead I put the book aside and stare at my shoes.
Elsewhere in the room, a power-struggle unfolds.
A woman walks up and down the aisles, holding a baby in her arms, whispering to it, trying to soothe it. The baby is crying, but when she stands still and swings it from side to side, it falls asleep. She keeps an eye on her other kid- a boy, five or six years old. He darts around the room, kicking trash, talking to himself, talking to people, trying to keep himself entertained.
He walks up to the mom and says a word. He's speaking in Spanish and I don't know what the word means. The mom digs in her pocket, hands him a quarter. He puts it into one of those bubble dispenser things, gets a pile of candy, and immediately crams all of it into his mouth. The candy...it's the hard candy that's shaped like fruit. Little cherries. Little oranges. Little bananas.
He goes back to the mom and repeats the word. She shakes her head no. He repeats the word and stamps his foot. They glare at one another. She relents, gives him a quarter, and he crams more candy into his mouth.
They repeat this routine once more and soon enough, the sugar kicks in. He goes ape-shit: running in circles, jumping off of benches, throwing his arms around, really going wild. Then he hops up to his mom and- yet again- says the word. She says "no". They argue. She gives him a mini-lecture in a stern tone of voice. He drops to the floor and begins screaming and kicking his feet. This wakes the baby up, which starts crying. The mom breathes out in this frustrated way and shoves a quarter at the kid. His tantrum instantly ceases. He hops up, smiling, and marches to the dispenser. He holds the quarter above his head, triumphant. He crams another pile of candy into his mouth and starts running in circles.
Then the routine gets disrupted.
He stands still and frowns very intently, as if he's contemplating something. Then...slowly...he looks at the mom. And the look he gives her...it's heartbreaking. It's the same one you see in cartoons when a character walks off a cliff. There's that moment where they are still walking straight ahead, on thin air, not realizing what they've done. Then, they look down, realize what they've done, and plummet. However...and this is the key moment: right before they plummet, the cartoon character always makes eye contact with the audience. They look right at you with those big, sad eyes...then they gulp and fall. So, that look...that moment of anticipatory regret...that's what the kid gives his mom.
Then he upchucks candy all over the floor.
The sound of it. I'm sensitive to that sort of thing, the odd little noises of a place. They tend to burrow deep, dig their way into my thinking. And vibrant, multi-colored vomit clattering onto the linoleum, bouncing in a thousand different directions...it's a very odd sound. Very distinct.
I watch this happen and a suspicion I had developed is confirmed: the kid wasn't chewing. People, on cue, lift their feet and watch little cherries roll by. Little oranges. Little bananas (which, of course, don't roll; they just shoot off in weird trajectories. The bananas are chaotic).
Mom closes her eyes for a second, fumes...then sits on a bench. She holds her baby in such way as to make room for the kid. He curls up on her lap and sleeps.
A bus station like this at midnight...there's no maintenance staff around. The tiny fruit stays where it landed. We tip-toe around it and wait.
Friday, April 18, 2008
session: january 2008
Doctor: What's the hardest part about getting out there? You know? Going from severe depression to the social realm...what's most difficult about that?
M: Emotionally?
D: No. I get that. Practically, what are some of the big changes?
M: Catching up on laundry.
D: Ah.
M: There was one day in particular recently, where I had been in bed for 13 hours. I wasn't sleeping, just immobilized and I think, "I have to get up". And I try...but there is this wall of laundry holding me back. I pushed and shoved and tried to crawl to the other side of the room and finally gave up. I was like, "Fuck it". So, that had to happen, just as a practical matter. You want to get out of a depressive state, you literally have to dig out. That's Step 1. The next day, that was my plan: try to get the laundry going. And I did load after load. It took days! I actually had to take time off from work. I called in and they asked, "Are you sick?" And I said, "No. I'm trapped in my house. Laundry is blocking the doors". For three days, I sat on the couch and watched crappy television and made sure the washer was constantly running. The dryer was my favorite thing, because...you know, it collects the lint and I kept pulling that out and smooshing it together and at the end of it all I had this gigantic lint ball. I was really proud of it. For me, it was like this weird trophy of accomplishment. It was like I won something. I wanted to show it to the neighbors. Bing Bong. "Look how much fucking laundry I did! Woo!"
D: Most neighbors take brownies over.
M: Yes. I'm very unpopular in the neighborhood.
D: So, the upkeep gets tough. What I see with a lot of clients is that the eating habits change. Whatever was happening when they were depressed...if they were eating too much or not enough...when the depression recedes, they switch. They go to the other extreme.
M: I think, with me, it's the palette.
D: I've heard that.
M: There's this point where it gets so bad that...I don't even know if this makes sense...
D: I've heard this from several clients. You lose your palette.
M: I know I'm better when all of the sudden food is really appealing. Everything is vibrant for awhile. I want to eat everything. I've never understood that. What's your psychologist explanation?
D: No idea. It's something I've come across anecdotally, but I don't understand what's going on there. I'm thinking, though, about how the body reacts to sickness. If you get a cold or a flu, you can lose your palette for a few days. It goes kind of numb. So maybe it's something along those lines, the body thinking that it's sick. And it is. The impact is comparable to a serious physical illness.
M: You're always pushing exercise...
D: Yes.
M: And to me, that's never made any difference. I run and I need to do it just to stay healthy, but it never makes me feel any better.
D: Not even when you're running?
M: No. It's actually kind of horrible.
D: Why do you do it?
M: Just...I don't know. Habit. I've always walked quite a bit. I've always had to get out and walk and walk. Now I just run...so maybe it's an efficiency thing. I run briefly so that I can walk less. It's my way of getting it over with. That doesn't really make any sense.
D: I used to run.
M: On your own? Or track stuff?
D: Track team in high school.
M: Were you fast?
D: I was fast, but I never focused on speed. I would do the endurance thing. Long, long endurance runs.
M: Ugh. That sounds unpleasant.
D: There's nothing fun about endurance running. Basically, when you're finished, you get the runners high and I liked that, but the running itself was never enjoyable.
M: Why did you do it?
D: Same as you. Habit. In college, there was this little track in the neighborhood and I would run that at night. Tracks are the best because you never really sense how much distance you've covered. It's just this loop, it all looks the same at night, so you can trick yourself into going further and further. Visually, nothing is changing so I would use that, go for that high.
M: I've never had runners high. Does that kick in while your running?
D: I felt it once I stopped. The running was brutal, then I would stop...feel that buzzing.
M: Christ that's weird. Just do drugs.
D: Meh. I haven't ran since the baby.
M: Well, to be fair, I only run metaphorically.
D: You run metaphorically?
M: From problems. With ideas. It's way easier.
D: I see.
M: *sigh* You never laugh at my jokes.
D: Sorry.
M: No, it's okay. It's...you. You're very stoic.
D: Not always. I just...when we're talking, I have a hard time knowing when it's appropriate to laugh. So I've decided to not do that in here, with you. Does that make sense?
M: I know that you're careful, if that's what you mean.
M: Emotionally?
D: No. I get that. Practically, what are some of the big changes?
M: Catching up on laundry.
D: Ah.
M: There was one day in particular recently, where I had been in bed for 13 hours. I wasn't sleeping, just immobilized and I think, "I have to get up". And I try...but there is this wall of laundry holding me back. I pushed and shoved and tried to crawl to the other side of the room and finally gave up. I was like, "Fuck it". So, that had to happen, just as a practical matter. You want to get out of a depressive state, you literally have to dig out. That's Step 1. The next day, that was my plan: try to get the laundry going. And I did load after load. It took days! I actually had to take time off from work. I called in and they asked, "Are you sick?" And I said, "No. I'm trapped in my house. Laundry is blocking the doors". For three days, I sat on the couch and watched crappy television and made sure the washer was constantly running. The dryer was my favorite thing, because...you know, it collects the lint and I kept pulling that out and smooshing it together and at the end of it all I had this gigantic lint ball. I was really proud of it. For me, it was like this weird trophy of accomplishment. It was like I won something. I wanted to show it to the neighbors. Bing Bong. "Look how much fucking laundry I did! Woo!"
D: Most neighbors take brownies over.
M: Yes. I'm very unpopular in the neighborhood.
D: So, the upkeep gets tough. What I see with a lot of clients is that the eating habits change. Whatever was happening when they were depressed...if they were eating too much or not enough...when the depression recedes, they switch. They go to the other extreme.
M: I think, with me, it's the palette.
D: I've heard that.
M: There's this point where it gets so bad that...I don't even know if this makes sense...
D: I've heard this from several clients. You lose your palette.
M: I know I'm better when all of the sudden food is really appealing. Everything is vibrant for awhile. I want to eat everything. I've never understood that. What's your psychologist explanation?
D: No idea. It's something I've come across anecdotally, but I don't understand what's going on there. I'm thinking, though, about how the body reacts to sickness. If you get a cold or a flu, you can lose your palette for a few days. It goes kind of numb. So maybe it's something along those lines, the body thinking that it's sick. And it is. The impact is comparable to a serious physical illness.
M: You're always pushing exercise...
D: Yes.
M: And to me, that's never made any difference. I run and I need to do it just to stay healthy, but it never makes me feel any better.
D: Not even when you're running?
M: No. It's actually kind of horrible.
D: Why do you do it?
M: Just...I don't know. Habit. I've always walked quite a bit. I've always had to get out and walk and walk. Now I just run...so maybe it's an efficiency thing. I run briefly so that I can walk less. It's my way of getting it over with. That doesn't really make any sense.
D: I used to run.
M: On your own? Or track stuff?
D: Track team in high school.
M: Were you fast?
D: I was fast, but I never focused on speed. I would do the endurance thing. Long, long endurance runs.
M: Ugh. That sounds unpleasant.
D: There's nothing fun about endurance running. Basically, when you're finished, you get the runners high and I liked that, but the running itself was never enjoyable.
M: Why did you do it?
D: Same as you. Habit. In college, there was this little track in the neighborhood and I would run that at night. Tracks are the best because you never really sense how much distance you've covered. It's just this loop, it all looks the same at night, so you can trick yourself into going further and further. Visually, nothing is changing so I would use that, go for that high.
M: I've never had runners high. Does that kick in while your running?
D: I felt it once I stopped. The running was brutal, then I would stop...feel that buzzing.
M: Christ that's weird. Just do drugs.
D: Meh. I haven't ran since the baby.
M: Well, to be fair, I only run metaphorically.
D: You run metaphorically?
M: From problems. With ideas. It's way easier.
D: I see.
M: *sigh* You never laugh at my jokes.
D: Sorry.
M: No, it's okay. It's...you. You're very stoic.
D: Not always. I just...when we're talking, I have a hard time knowing when it's appropriate to laugh. So I've decided to not do that in here, with you. Does that make sense?
M: I know that you're careful, if that's what you mean.
D: Careful, but there were specific reasons for the decision. When you started, this was something I had to step back and really think about.
M: Do you mind if I ask why?
M: Restricted.
M: It gets frustrating sometimes, when you don't laugh or whatever. I don't think I understood early on what you were doing. But no one's ever...I can't tell you how nice that's been.
D: It can be tough, not reacting. The impulse is to...you know, laugh or smile, do something to acknowledge the humor. I just always go back to the priority. I want this to be different for you.
M: What's amazing is that you really never laugh. I understand it's a conscious decision...but at some point, most people would've laughed by now, at least once. I mean, if someone hears what is obviously intended to be a joke...most people, at some point, would show some sort of reaction, even if it's just out of politeness. Anyway. The way you can decide something and stick to it, even at the level of a gesture...it's impressive. You have this uncanny composure thing going on.
D: I'm kind of cheating a little bit...I'm sort of a still person by nature. They taught composure in school...therapist postures, therapist gestures...and I was already there. You just have to make sure you're cognizant of your reactions.
M: The first psychologist, he was very inconsistent. He would have Neutral Therapist Posture during the first ten minutes of any session. But the more he talked, the more animated he became, and after that he was an open book. I could always see his reactions, the positive ones, the negatives ones, they were apparent.
D: Did you tell him that?
M: Not really. I was antagonistic towards him generally, I didn't think analyzing his posture would help things. And the day he laughed at me...I mean, he laughed because he thought I was telling a joke. He genuinely did not understand that I was being serious. So it was another moment where I could clearly see his thought process. "Yikes. He's confused."
D: I could be wrong, but my understanding is that he had never worked with Asperger's. And I think, from what you're telling me, he approached it just...ugh.
M: Well, he was into power games. For me, that was the problem. He kept cycling through theories, telling me that the problem was "this" then "that". And when I pointed out that some of these ideas were in contradiction to one another, he would just discard my statements and keep trying out new theories. It took me a few sessions, but I finally realized that he was looking for leverage.
D: Because you already know, I don't mind telling you this, but that is very much in keeping with his reputation. He likes to dominate the discussion.
M: He tried that. To me, that was the biggest error on his part. When he laughed...I didn't really care about that. That just made him look bad. But when he tried to talk circles around me, that made the power struggle apparent. It was like this little window into his mindset. Not that my mindset was much different. I did my part to make things bad. But when someone lectures you about crap you are more than familiar with, it's hard not to...I don't know. Talk back, have a little fun. Still...because it makes me feel better, I am going to blame him. During the first session he asked general questions about my education history...but he never asked for specifics. So later on, when he broke out the Buddhism, the philosophy, the Jung...and I'm able to place everything he's saying within it's proper historical context and question him...he didn't seem thrilled with that.
D: What struck me is that he began to proselytize.
M: Right. After about five sessions of evasive rambling, he began to talk about the New Testament. About Jesus. I played along for about twenty minutes, out of boredom. I asked questions, pretended to listen. But finally I told him, "Dude...I was in seminary for two years. Got an earful of this horseshit."
D: And what I'm thinking about is...he gave you like a taped sermon or something?
M: Yes.
D: He's given that to other clients as well...when it was not something the client had expressed interest in. I can't even begin to tell you how inappropriate that is.
M: Given the sequence of our discussion, the idea that a bible lecture was the way to go...very strange. Have you met him before?
D: No. We've never met. I just know his reputation.
M: I'm extremely curious. What's his reputation?
D: It's mixed. It tends to go either way. People either really like him or really hate him.
M: I could see why people would like him. That paternalistic crap he pulls, it's good shtick. Some people really go for that kind of thing. I wasn't one of those people. Which, at some point, he seemed to know and not be comfortable with. It was like, "Wait...you're supposed to be charmed by all of this."
D: I've wanted to ask about this...
M: Okay.
D: Just on a personal level, do you think he liked you?
M: Umm...I could be wrong, but I think he was neutral at first...like for two sessions...and then I think there was personal animosity. Which again, I have to take a lot of the blame for. Once his core beliefs were just out in the open, I went at them in this very passive aggressive way. We were both contributing to the problem. I think. I've never really known how to categorize it. I mean, I have to meet the other person half way, but that leaves him the other half.
D: Just sounds like a bad match.
M: Yeah. So no, I don't think he liked me. His lecture mode was a problem. I'll put up with that if it's beneficial in some way. Like, in a classroom setting: talk down to me and the pay off is that I'll repeat what you've been saying on a test and score points. In therapy...there are no points. It's just me sitting there, emotionally exposed, probably not in a good mood.
D: I doubt he was prepared for the response he got...the verbal comprehension. Not something you see every day. I was a little more prepared for it. I had warning.
M: From him? You never told me this.
D: We never communicated. The psychiatrist who referred you...we talked. She came into my office one day and described your situation. "Depressed, AS, been socially isolated for years". At the end she said, "By the way, he'll remember everything you say. He'll be throwing your words back at you. Good luck!"
M: I really only did that with the first guy.
D: Still...it was a little nerve-wracking. You have to put yourself in my shoes. When I met you, I had been practicing a grand total of five weeks. By law, you cannot practice independently during your first year, so a supervisor was overseeing all of my cases. And I told her, "I have adult AS coming in." She said, "Great." We looked at your tests, writing samples...she said, "Refer him".
M: You never told me this!
D: She had never worked with any spectrum clients. I had only worked with kids. What we were hearing and seeing, with the writing samples, the tests...and the fact that you were resistant to therapy...we discussed finding someone in the area who had experience with high IQ adult clients.
M: I can't believe you almost referred me.
D: Oh yeah. That was the thinking before I met you. After I met you? I told my supervisor: "He's rejecting everything. He has to go. I can't help him."
M: Holy crap. I didn't pick up on any of that. So what made the difference?
D: Soft skills.
M: Ugh. That's like...niceness? I stayed because you were nice?
D: Maybe. With adult clients, that's one of the options. Soft skills. Compassionate voice, overtly empathetic statements.
M: Jesus.
D: Overwhelm them with "niceness". So, knowing your IQ and it's verbal emphasis, I went with the soft skills.
M: Christ. Obviously my IQ was not such that I could pick up on what you were doing. And I was really watching closely, trying to figure out your approach, over-thinking everything you said and did. Turns out...niceness. You were just being really nice.
D: Fire with water.
M: Yeesh.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Session: mid-2006 (VI)
Doctor: Good morning. You have a book with you today.
M: Proust! I had mentioned him last week and I wanted to read a few things if that's okay.
Doctor: Of course.
It's the second volume of Proust's novel, In Search of Lost Time. I open it up and start reading, I'll re-print a few of the passages here.
In the first one, he's describing his loathing of changes in routine...the way they heighten both his perceptions and his discomfort. The narrator is beginning a vacation and has just, for the first time, entered the hotel room where he will be staying (p-245):
"As our attentiveness furnishes a room, so habit unfurnishes it, making space in it for us. In that room of mine at Balbec, 'mine' in name only, there was no space for me: it was crammed with things which did not know me, which glared my distrust of them back at me, noting my existence only to the extent of letting me know they resented me for disturbing theirs. Without letup, in some unfamiliar tongue, the clock, which at home I would never have heard...went on making comments about me, which must have sounded offensive to the curtains, for they stood there without a word in a listening posture, looking like the sort of people who will shrug their shoulders to show they are irked by the mere sight of someone...And in the part of me that is more private than those used for seeing and hearing, the part where one is aware of shades of smell, almost inside the self, an assault by perfume threw me back on my deepest defenses as I tried to repel it, in my tiredness, with a pointless, repeated and apprehensive sniffing. Deprived of my universe, evicted from my room, with my very tenancy of my body jeopardized by the enemies about me, infiltrated to the bone by fever, I was alone and wished I could die."
I'm laughing as I read this, at how self-deprecating it is, but the second quote is more difficult because it touches upon the subject of detachment. In it, the narrator has met a fellow vacationer named Robert (p-316):
"It was very soon agreed between us that we had become firm friends forever, and each time he said 'our friendship' it was as though he spoke of some important and delightful entity existing outside of ourselves...Such talk saddened me in a way, and I never knew how to respond to it: for, in spending my time chatting with him, I felt none of the happiness I was capable of deriving from being without company...It was only when I was alone that I would be swept on occasion by one of those impressions that brought with them such deeply satisfying feelings. But I only had to be in the presence of someone else- talking with a friend, for example- for my mind to face the wrong way; and thoughts going in that other direction never afforded me any enjoyment. No sooner had I left the company of Robert than I sought words with which to tidy up the disordered minutes I had just spent with him: I assured myself that I had a close friend and that a close friend is a rarity; yet what I felt was the exact opposite of the mode of enjoyment natural to me, the opposite of the pleasure that could come from finding something lying deep within myself, from bringing it out of its inner darkness and into the light of day."
The last two sentences from this passage kill me:
"I had no difficulty in convincing myself that I should really be happy about all this, and my hope that such happiness would never leave me was as strong as my knowledge that I had never in fact felt it. The joys we most dread losing are those that have remained outside us, beyond the reach of our heart."
I won't quote them here, but I read from two more sections before finishing.
Doctor: One of those in particular sounds pertinent.
M: Right. The friend.
Doctor: What was it you used to say? "I like the idea of being around people, never the reality."
M: Also I thought the bit at the hotel room was nice, especially in reference to AS: The fear of change, the yearning for sameness. He was supposed to be on vacation, relaxing, yet he was plagued by this paranoid animism. "The clock is talking about me." It's a funny section, but it's...I don't know.
Doctor: Familiar. Thanks for sharing that, I'm glad you brought it. Is there anything in particular you were wanting to discuss in reference to it? You've never brought in a book before...I'm just wondering if there's a specific goal you had in mind.
M: There's no goal. I just thought you might enjoy some of the sections that relate to our discussion. It's always nice to find inner experiences crystallized in a good description. Speaking of that...
I hand the Doctor a few typed pages.
M: I'm so sick of how resistant and repetitive I've been and I wanted to try a thought experiment. I re-wrote our last session and put all of my words into the mouth of Pinocchio.
[it's the discussion in the post before this one].
Doctor: You know, that story never even occurred to me.
M: Me neither...and it's strange we haven't referenced that. A marionette who hates his condition, wants to become a "real" boy? So I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if the Blue Fairy were to push self-acceptance instead of magic.
Doctor: Did you want to read this today?
M: I just wanted to give you a copy. I'm trying to think of it as an exorcism, a way of getting the toxins out; put all that crap on a fictional character.
I start laughing. I'm talking about "getting the toxins out"- I'm trying to be more positive- but I'm also thinking of the history behind the writing of Pinocchio.
M: Do you know anything about the story? How it was originally supposed to end?
Doctor: I don't.
M: Pinocchio was not supposed be a children's book. It was very grim, very bleak, and the first version of the story ends with Pinocchio's murder.
Doctor: Wow. Was he transformed at that point? Was he killed as a marionette or a child?
M: He was a marionette. Which sort of seems less dark, since he wasn't a kid, but on the other hand he dies having never achieved his one goal. All he wants is to be a real boy and he's killed before that can happen. I'm trying to remember what happens at the end. He has these gold coins or something and these thieves beat him, steal his gold and execute him. They hang him from a tree. Actually, this scene is still in the book. It's Chapter 15. It was supposed to end there, but apparently the author was talked into continuing the story and ending it in a happier, more saccharine way. Like an editor or somebody talked him into making it an upbeat children's book. Ugh.
Doctor: A story with two endings. I wonder which one M prefers?
I stare at the back of my hand.
Doctor: You mentioned feeling "repetitive".
M: Right. Reading my journal, I seem determined not to change my mind about things. Every statement I make is really just a variation on the same idea: that I don't like the way I am, that I can't change, etc. I understand that this is a long process, but I still have to put effort into meeting you half-way. It's a waste of your time if I'm just going to come in here and stall and drag my feet.
Doctor: I understand you feel stuck...but are you saying that you feel I'm frustrated?
M: I don't have any sense at all of how you react. I'm just saying that I'm frustrated and I know that if I were in your shoes I would feel the same way. I would have to be wondering why this person keeps showing up when they do nothing but knock down every constructive idea. So I guess I'm apologizing in a round-about way. That's why I'm reading stuff today and bringing you this Pinocchio deal. I'm just wanting to do something different so that you'll know I want to be participating, even if I'm unable to alter the way I think about myself.
Doctor: Do you think I enjoy the time I spend with each client?
I have to think about this for a bit.
M: I would assume that you have normal reactions to people. I mean, no matter how a person strikes you, you're professional, you'll focus on the job. But I have to imagine that there are frustrating days, off-putting clients, that sort of thing.
Doctor: Okay, good. You're right. I'm a psychologist but I do have normal reactions to people. You mentioned feeling "resistant", but I see clients that really do have no desire to be here. I have clients that are vindictive and hateful towards me. It's a part of the job, but I'm human and there are interactions that I do not look forward to and that I do not like. Do you understand what I'm saying?
M: You're saying you're not a robot, that you have normal reactions...
Doctor: Huh. You've told me before that I'm physically composed and I forget how confusing that is for a person with AS. My assumption was that you knew that I enjoyed speaking with you.
M: I guess I've not had a sense of it either way. My mind tends to cannibalize itself with assumptions.
Doctor: That's why I'm being explicit here. I do not enjoy every session with every client, but you are someone I enjoy speaking with. I'm telling you my human reaction, M.
I stare at her.
Doctor: And I wouldn't have that reaction if I felt like you were being difficult or resistant.
I don't understand why she's not addressing the fact that I say the same things over and over. I've already stared at both her and the back of my hand, so I try staring at my shoe for a bit.
Doctor: Now you question my judgment.
M: What?
Doctor: Come on, what was that Groucho Marx quote you told me? You called it your motto.
M: Oh. "I would never join a club that would have someone like me as a member."
Doctor: In other words, if someone responds positively to you there must be something wrong with them. And now you know that I enjoy talking with you. So what does that say about me?
She is saying this in a flat, monotone voice and it actually takes me a minute to realize she's teasing.
M: Well, anyone who's okay with me clearly has "issues". I'm afraid I'll have to confiscate your license.
Doctor: Hee. There's another thing you just said that I want to return to. Watch this.
The Doctor stands up. She holds her arms out to her side, stands on one foot and begins leaning over side-ways. She's almost at a 45 degree angle and she's wobbling back and forth, trying to steady herself. At this point in time (September of 2006) she's about 8 months pregnant, making her stance a mildly alarming spectacle.
Doctor: What do you see?
M: You're tilting.
Doctor: And what else? What do you see?
M: You're...tilting. Leaning sideways.
She smiles and sits back down.
Doctor: I do that with a lot of my clients. Do you know how most people answer that question? They say, "You're unsteady", or "You're about to fall". Ninety-nine percent of the people I've asked say something along those lines.
She waits for me to respond. She's playful today!
M: I think I'm not getting it. What's the right answer?
Doctor: You had it exactly right. I was tilting. And you had it right because your answer was an observation and not an assumption. Had you said, "You're about to fall"...that would've been an assumption. And I knew you would get it right because observation is something you are good at...with others. You observe and process information very well when it doesn't relate to you. However, when an observation does relate to you, you over-burden yourself with assumptions. Your future, the consequences of your mistakes: you view these in a distorted and inaccurate way and it's because you assume far too much. You let your depression inform your sense of the future and it's one reason you're so self-loathing. You had stated that your mind "cannibalizes itself" with assumptions, so I just wanted to make a point about that. And I really like that Groucho quote, it's a great example of the relationship between assumption and self-fulfilling prophecy.
M: It's been difficult, but I am trying to convince myself that the future is unknown. I do feel like it's a lost cause. This fucking diagnosis...finding out now about Asperger's...I mean, the disappointment about the basic stuff I've missed out on, it's making things tough. But.
I pause. Pull at my hair.
M: I'm trying to really grasp that hopelessness is a form of certainty and, generally, I hate certainty. The idea that things can't change...I'm trying to counter that. I hate it when other people speak in absolutes, it's an arrogant mindset, so I'm trying to practice uncertainty.
Doctor: Which is why I do the "leaning sideways" example. I want people to understand that fear-based statements are inaccurate. Because someone worries I might fall, their perceptions tell them I'm about to fall, which isn't the case. I'm tilting...and that's it.
M: Er. Simplicity is a difficult thing to get ones head around, but it really is...I don't know.
Doctor: Simplicity is accurate. Not knowing is accurate. Possibility- though difficult to believe in- is accurate.
I close my eyes and rub my face and listen to the session end.
[Here's a link to the 15th chapter of Pinocchio, what was supposed to be the original ending. The discussion, in that chapter, between him and the little girl is particularly haunting. Here is a wikipedia description]
M: Proust! I had mentioned him last week and I wanted to read a few things if that's okay.
Doctor: Of course.
It's the second volume of Proust's novel, In Search of Lost Time. I open it up and start reading, I'll re-print a few of the passages here.
In the first one, he's describing his loathing of changes in routine...the way they heighten both his perceptions and his discomfort. The narrator is beginning a vacation and has just, for the first time, entered the hotel room where he will be staying (p-245):
"As our attentiveness furnishes a room, so habit unfurnishes it, making space in it for us. In that room of mine at Balbec, 'mine' in name only, there was no space for me: it was crammed with things which did not know me, which glared my distrust of them back at me, noting my existence only to the extent of letting me know they resented me for disturbing theirs. Without letup, in some unfamiliar tongue, the clock, which at home I would never have heard...went on making comments about me, which must have sounded offensive to the curtains, for they stood there without a word in a listening posture, looking like the sort of people who will shrug their shoulders to show they are irked by the mere sight of someone...And in the part of me that is more private than those used for seeing and hearing, the part where one is aware of shades of smell, almost inside the self, an assault by perfume threw me back on my deepest defenses as I tried to repel it, in my tiredness, with a pointless, repeated and apprehensive sniffing. Deprived of my universe, evicted from my room, with my very tenancy of my body jeopardized by the enemies about me, infiltrated to the bone by fever, I was alone and wished I could die."
I'm laughing as I read this, at how self-deprecating it is, but the second quote is more difficult because it touches upon the subject of detachment. In it, the narrator has met a fellow vacationer named Robert (p-316):
"It was very soon agreed between us that we had become firm friends forever, and each time he said 'our friendship' it was as though he spoke of some important and delightful entity existing outside of ourselves...Such talk saddened me in a way, and I never knew how to respond to it: for, in spending my time chatting with him, I felt none of the happiness I was capable of deriving from being without company...It was only when I was alone that I would be swept on occasion by one of those impressions that brought with them such deeply satisfying feelings. But I only had to be in the presence of someone else- talking with a friend, for example- for my mind to face the wrong way; and thoughts going in that other direction never afforded me any enjoyment. No sooner had I left the company of Robert than I sought words with which to tidy up the disordered minutes I had just spent with him: I assured myself that I had a close friend and that a close friend is a rarity; yet what I felt was the exact opposite of the mode of enjoyment natural to me, the opposite of the pleasure that could come from finding something lying deep within myself, from bringing it out of its inner darkness and into the light of day."
The last two sentences from this passage kill me:
"I had no difficulty in convincing myself that I should really be happy about all this, and my hope that such happiness would never leave me was as strong as my knowledge that I had never in fact felt it. The joys we most dread losing are those that have remained outside us, beyond the reach of our heart."
I won't quote them here, but I read from two more sections before finishing.
Doctor: One of those in particular sounds pertinent.
M: Right. The friend.
Doctor: What was it you used to say? "I like the idea of being around people, never the reality."
M: Also I thought the bit at the hotel room was nice, especially in reference to AS: The fear of change, the yearning for sameness. He was supposed to be on vacation, relaxing, yet he was plagued by this paranoid animism. "The clock is talking about me." It's a funny section, but it's...I don't know.
Doctor: Familiar. Thanks for sharing that, I'm glad you brought it. Is there anything in particular you were wanting to discuss in reference to it? You've never brought in a book before...I'm just wondering if there's a specific goal you had in mind.
M: There's no goal. I just thought you might enjoy some of the sections that relate to our discussion. It's always nice to find inner experiences crystallized in a good description. Speaking of that...
I hand the Doctor a few typed pages.
M: I'm so sick of how resistant and repetitive I've been and I wanted to try a thought experiment. I re-wrote our last session and put all of my words into the mouth of Pinocchio.
[it's the discussion in the post before this one].
Doctor: You know, that story never even occurred to me.
M: Me neither...and it's strange we haven't referenced that. A marionette who hates his condition, wants to become a "real" boy? So I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if the Blue Fairy were to push self-acceptance instead of magic.
Doctor: Did you want to read this today?
M: I just wanted to give you a copy. I'm trying to think of it as an exorcism, a way of getting the toxins out; put all that crap on a fictional character.
I start laughing. I'm talking about "getting the toxins out"- I'm trying to be more positive- but I'm also thinking of the history behind the writing of Pinocchio.
M: Do you know anything about the story? How it was originally supposed to end?
Doctor: I don't.
M: Pinocchio was not supposed be a children's book. It was very grim, very bleak, and the first version of the story ends with Pinocchio's murder.
Doctor: Wow. Was he transformed at that point? Was he killed as a marionette or a child?
M: He was a marionette. Which sort of seems less dark, since he wasn't a kid, but on the other hand he dies having never achieved his one goal. All he wants is to be a real boy and he's killed before that can happen. I'm trying to remember what happens at the end. He has these gold coins or something and these thieves beat him, steal his gold and execute him. They hang him from a tree. Actually, this scene is still in the book. It's Chapter 15. It was supposed to end there, but apparently the author was talked into continuing the story and ending it in a happier, more saccharine way. Like an editor or somebody talked him into making it an upbeat children's book. Ugh.
Doctor: A story with two endings. I wonder which one M prefers?
I stare at the back of my hand.
Doctor: You mentioned feeling "repetitive".
M: Right. Reading my journal, I seem determined not to change my mind about things. Every statement I make is really just a variation on the same idea: that I don't like the way I am, that I can't change, etc. I understand that this is a long process, but I still have to put effort into meeting you half-way. It's a waste of your time if I'm just going to come in here and stall and drag my feet.
Doctor: I understand you feel stuck...but are you saying that you feel I'm frustrated?
M: I don't have any sense at all of how you react. I'm just saying that I'm frustrated and I know that if I were in your shoes I would feel the same way. I would have to be wondering why this person keeps showing up when they do nothing but knock down every constructive idea. So I guess I'm apologizing in a round-about way. That's why I'm reading stuff today and bringing you this Pinocchio deal. I'm just wanting to do something different so that you'll know I want to be participating, even if I'm unable to alter the way I think about myself.
Doctor: Do you think I enjoy the time I spend with each client?
I have to think about this for a bit.
M: I would assume that you have normal reactions to people. I mean, no matter how a person strikes you, you're professional, you'll focus on the job. But I have to imagine that there are frustrating days, off-putting clients, that sort of thing.
Doctor: Okay, good. You're right. I'm a psychologist but I do have normal reactions to people. You mentioned feeling "resistant", but I see clients that really do have no desire to be here. I have clients that are vindictive and hateful towards me. It's a part of the job, but I'm human and there are interactions that I do not look forward to and that I do not like. Do you understand what I'm saying?
M: You're saying you're not a robot, that you have normal reactions...
Doctor: Huh. You've told me before that I'm physically composed and I forget how confusing that is for a person with AS. My assumption was that you knew that I enjoyed speaking with you.
M: I guess I've not had a sense of it either way. My mind tends to cannibalize itself with assumptions.
Doctor: That's why I'm being explicit here. I do not enjoy every session with every client, but you are someone I enjoy speaking with. I'm telling you my human reaction, M.
I stare at her.
Doctor: And I wouldn't have that reaction if I felt like you were being difficult or resistant.
I don't understand why she's not addressing the fact that I say the same things over and over. I've already stared at both her and the back of my hand, so I try staring at my shoe for a bit.
Doctor: Now you question my judgment.
M: What?
Doctor: Come on, what was that Groucho Marx quote you told me? You called it your motto.
M: Oh. "I would never join a club that would have someone like me as a member."
Doctor: In other words, if someone responds positively to you there must be something wrong with them. And now you know that I enjoy talking with you. So what does that say about me?
She is saying this in a flat, monotone voice and it actually takes me a minute to realize she's teasing.
M: Well, anyone who's okay with me clearly has "issues". I'm afraid I'll have to confiscate your license.
Doctor: Hee. There's another thing you just said that I want to return to. Watch this.
The Doctor stands up. She holds her arms out to her side, stands on one foot and begins leaning over side-ways. She's almost at a 45 degree angle and she's wobbling back and forth, trying to steady herself. At this point in time (September of 2006) she's about 8 months pregnant, making her stance a mildly alarming spectacle.
Doctor: What do you see?
M: You're tilting.
Doctor: And what else? What do you see?
M: You're...tilting. Leaning sideways.
She smiles and sits back down.
Doctor: I do that with a lot of my clients. Do you know how most people answer that question? They say, "You're unsteady", or "You're about to fall". Ninety-nine percent of the people I've asked say something along those lines.
She waits for me to respond. She's playful today!
M: I think I'm not getting it. What's the right answer?
Doctor: You had it exactly right. I was tilting. And you had it right because your answer was an observation and not an assumption. Had you said, "You're about to fall"...that would've been an assumption. And I knew you would get it right because observation is something you are good at...with others. You observe and process information very well when it doesn't relate to you. However, when an observation does relate to you, you over-burden yourself with assumptions. Your future, the consequences of your mistakes: you view these in a distorted and inaccurate way and it's because you assume far too much. You let your depression inform your sense of the future and it's one reason you're so self-loathing. You had stated that your mind "cannibalizes itself" with assumptions, so I just wanted to make a point about that. And I really like that Groucho quote, it's a great example of the relationship between assumption and self-fulfilling prophecy.
M: It's been difficult, but I am trying to convince myself that the future is unknown. I do feel like it's a lost cause. This fucking diagnosis...finding out now about Asperger's...I mean, the disappointment about the basic stuff I've missed out on, it's making things tough. But.
I pause. Pull at my hair.
M: I'm trying to really grasp that hopelessness is a form of certainty and, generally, I hate certainty. The idea that things can't change...I'm trying to counter that. I hate it when other people speak in absolutes, it's an arrogant mindset, so I'm trying to practice uncertainty.
Doctor: Which is why I do the "leaning sideways" example. I want people to understand that fear-based statements are inaccurate. Because someone worries I might fall, their perceptions tell them I'm about to fall, which isn't the case. I'm tilting...and that's it.
M: Er. Simplicity is a difficult thing to get ones head around, but it really is...I don't know.
Doctor: Simplicity is accurate. Not knowing is accurate. Possibility- though difficult to believe in- is accurate.
I close my eyes and rub my face and listen to the session end.
[Here's a link to the 15th chapter of Pinocchio, what was supposed to be the original ending. The discussion, in that chapter, between him and the little girl is particularly haunting. Here is a wikipedia description]
Sunday, April 13, 2008
session: from mid-2006 (V)
Though the discussion actually took place, this session is different from the others. This is the Storybook Version.
Instead of a nondescript therapy setting, our tale begins on a windy day, upon a cobbled forrest path...
Pinnochio- shoulders slumped, head hung low- makes his way towards a picturesque cottage. Once there he takes his usual seat upon the couch and begins to wait. Suddenly, a bright light fills the room and the Blue Fairy magically appears on the chair across from him.
"Welcome," says the Blue Fairy, with a kind and benevolent smile. Pinnochio sighs, says "Hey."
Unsure how to begin, Pinnochio taps his foot and looks around the room nervously. The Blue Fairy finally breaks the silence by asking, "Tell me, how have you been feeling?"
"I swear to god," Pinnochio blurts, "if I were still on marionette strings I would have hung myself this week."
"Goodness!"
"Not that I would actually do such a thing!" Pinnochio adds quickly, hoping to avoid being locked away. "Certainly the ideation is there and persistent, but I've no intention of offing myself. So, you know...that's a relief. Right? Hoo."
"Still," the Blue Fairy replies, "I wonder what's caused this sudden downturn?"
"It's just...I guess there's something I've been wanting to ask you. It's been on my mind for awhile and, well...I think I'd like to be a real boy now, if that's okay."
The Blue Fairy laughs sympathetically and responds, "Oh, Pinnochio. Of course you want to be a real boy, that is quite understandable. But isn't self-acceptance a much better goal? Why must you judge yourself so harshly?"
"Because I'm a lump of wood. Seriously. Just wave your little magic wand there and make me all better."
"I do wish it were that simple, but I'm afraid the changes we seek have more to do with your mind than your body."
Pinnochio sighs in a frustrated way and says, "I've honestly lost interest in the concept of self-acceptance. I have no desire to be this way. Period. I mean, I look human. I've learned to puppet myself so that I seem human...yet I'm still just a thing. I'm sick of feeling so detached all the time and merely resembling a person is no longer enough. I need the reality."
"But why is it that you feel so detached?" asks the Blue Fairy. "Whose fault is that?"
"Oh I'll tell you whose fault it is...Geppetto. He's the one who made me this way."
"Well, I was going a different direction with that."
"I know," replies Pinnochio, "but it really is all his fault. I mean, the guy has a piece of wood that he can carve into any number of things, and what does he make? A little wooden boy?! What kind of creepy, fetishistic bullshit is that?!"
"I think we're getting off topic here."
"If it weren't for him, I might be a thoughtless, happy chair-leg right now! I wouldn't be this miserably depressed pseudo-human. Fuck I hate Geppetto."
"Okay," interrupts the Blue Fairy. "Perhaps I'll just re-phrase the question a little. Isn't your self-loathing the real culprit here? How could you ever feel different if you have so much hatred for yourself? For the way you are?"
"It's like I said, I just don't think my marionette condition is in any way bearable. I was reading on-line about these support groups for marionettes and they all talked about how wonderful the condition is. How "unique" and "special" marionettes are. I literally puked wood-shavings reading that crap. Being this way is awful. I have no desire to sugar-coat the way that I am or pretend that it's wonderful. I've lost all interest in accepting myself. I'd rather recognize this broken, non-life for what it is."
Wanting to broaden the discussion a bit more, the Blue Fairy asks, "Are you familiar with the concept of 'cognitive triad'?"
"I'm not."
"Okay. It's possible for depression- at least some forms of it- to result from three overlapping varieties of negative thinking. Specifically, negative thoughts about self, world and future. We know you hate yourself...let's focus on the other two. Is the world a place you belong?"
"Of course not. I'm a marionette. I belong in the human world, yet I've never been able to mesh with it."
"What about your future? Any hope that things will be better in the future?"
"Not if it means accepting the way I am. And, with my diagnosis, I'm apparently stuck this way, so fuck it. The future is bleak."
"Those are such powerful thoughts!" the Blue Fairy exclaims. "Self, world, future...you're pessimistic about them all. How could you be happy given the way you feel? Are you seeing what's happening here?"
"Yeah, yeah. These various thoughts strengthen and re-enforce one another. It's textbook self-fulfilling prophecy. But how am I supposed to counter these thoughts? They arise out of the fact that my life sucks beyond all knowing. More constructive thoughts never occur to me and if I just say them, it feels artificial. Like if I just repeat more positive sounding things, it doesn't fit. I need a better reality, not BS auto-suggestion."
"Oh my", says the Blue Fairy. "You sound so hopeless. Would you like to visit the Purple Fairy today? I can make an appointment with her if you like."
Pinnochio looks up excitedly. "The Purple Fairy? Does she have the magic wand that can turn me into a real boy?"
The Blue Fairy hesitates before saying, "Well...if by 'magic wand' you mean 'psychiatric medication', then yes."
"Oh." Pinnochio's spirits sink once again. "No thanks."
And the Blue Fairy lived happily ever after. Pinnochio? He pushed Geppetto down a flight of stairs and is now serving a life sentence.
The End.
Instead of a nondescript therapy setting, our tale begins on a windy day, upon a cobbled forrest path...
Pinnochio- shoulders slumped, head hung low- makes his way towards a picturesque cottage. Once there he takes his usual seat upon the couch and begins to wait. Suddenly, a bright light fills the room and the Blue Fairy magically appears on the chair across from him.
"Welcome," says the Blue Fairy, with a kind and benevolent smile. Pinnochio sighs, says "Hey."
Unsure how to begin, Pinnochio taps his foot and looks around the room nervously. The Blue Fairy finally breaks the silence by asking, "Tell me, how have you been feeling?"
"I swear to god," Pinnochio blurts, "if I were still on marionette strings I would have hung myself this week."
"Goodness!"
"Not that I would actually do such a thing!" Pinnochio adds quickly, hoping to avoid being locked away. "Certainly the ideation is there and persistent, but I've no intention of offing myself. So, you know...that's a relief. Right? Hoo."
"Still," the Blue Fairy replies, "I wonder what's caused this sudden downturn?"
"It's just...I guess there's something I've been wanting to ask you. It's been on my mind for awhile and, well...I think I'd like to be a real boy now, if that's okay."
The Blue Fairy laughs sympathetically and responds, "Oh, Pinnochio. Of course you want to be a real boy, that is quite understandable. But isn't self-acceptance a much better goal? Why must you judge yourself so harshly?"
"Because I'm a lump of wood. Seriously. Just wave your little magic wand there and make me all better."
"I do wish it were that simple, but I'm afraid the changes we seek have more to do with your mind than your body."
Pinnochio sighs in a frustrated way and says, "I've honestly lost interest in the concept of self-acceptance. I have no desire to be this way. Period. I mean, I look human. I've learned to puppet myself so that I seem human...yet I'm still just a thing. I'm sick of feeling so detached all the time and merely resembling a person is no longer enough. I need the reality."
"But why is it that you feel so detached?" asks the Blue Fairy. "Whose fault is that?"
"Oh I'll tell you whose fault it is...Geppetto. He's the one who made me this way."
"Well, I was going a different direction with that."
"I know," replies Pinnochio, "but it really is all his fault. I mean, the guy has a piece of wood that he can carve into any number of things, and what does he make? A little wooden boy?! What kind of creepy, fetishistic bullshit is that?!"
"I think we're getting off topic here."
"If it weren't for him, I might be a thoughtless, happy chair-leg right now! I wouldn't be this miserably depressed pseudo-human. Fuck I hate Geppetto."
"Okay," interrupts the Blue Fairy. "Perhaps I'll just re-phrase the question a little. Isn't your self-loathing the real culprit here? How could you ever feel different if you have so much hatred for yourself? For the way you are?"
"It's like I said, I just don't think my marionette condition is in any way bearable. I was reading on-line about these support groups for marionettes and they all talked about how wonderful the condition is. How "unique" and "special" marionettes are. I literally puked wood-shavings reading that crap. Being this way is awful. I have no desire to sugar-coat the way that I am or pretend that it's wonderful. I've lost all interest in accepting myself. I'd rather recognize this broken, non-life for what it is."
Wanting to broaden the discussion a bit more, the Blue Fairy asks, "Are you familiar with the concept of 'cognitive triad'?"
"I'm not."
"Okay. It's possible for depression- at least some forms of it- to result from three overlapping varieties of negative thinking. Specifically, negative thoughts about self, world and future. We know you hate yourself...let's focus on the other two. Is the world a place you belong?"
"Of course not. I'm a marionette. I belong in the human world, yet I've never been able to mesh with it."
"What about your future? Any hope that things will be better in the future?"
"Not if it means accepting the way I am. And, with my diagnosis, I'm apparently stuck this way, so fuck it. The future is bleak."
"Those are such powerful thoughts!" the Blue Fairy exclaims. "Self, world, future...you're pessimistic about them all. How could you be happy given the way you feel? Are you seeing what's happening here?"
"Yeah, yeah. These various thoughts strengthen and re-enforce one another. It's textbook self-fulfilling prophecy. But how am I supposed to counter these thoughts? They arise out of the fact that my life sucks beyond all knowing. More constructive thoughts never occur to me and if I just say them, it feels artificial. Like if I just repeat more positive sounding things, it doesn't fit. I need a better reality, not BS auto-suggestion."
"Oh my", says the Blue Fairy. "You sound so hopeless. Would you like to visit the Purple Fairy today? I can make an appointment with her if you like."
Pinnochio looks up excitedly. "The Purple Fairy? Does she have the magic wand that can turn me into a real boy?"
The Blue Fairy hesitates before saying, "Well...if by 'magic wand' you mean 'psychiatric medication', then yes."
"Oh." Pinnochio's spirits sink once again. "No thanks."
And the Blue Fairy lived happily ever after. Pinnochio? He pushed Geppetto down a flight of stairs and is now serving a life sentence.
The End.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Knowledge. Now with brevity.
It did happen that the first psychologist I visited diagnosed AS...and then began to proselytize. It was very strange. I've had positive interactions with religion, but when therapy mode became converting mode...really, that was no fun. Also, I was familiar with the basics of the bible, so an additional lecture really wasn't necessary.
So...in the event that this happens to you, I've prepared a little summary of the bible. I've only completed ten chapters of Genesis so far, but it can be helpful. If someone starts to preach and you're not in the mood, you can just tell them, "No thanks. I'm familiar with the material." Its' an info-bailout, if you will.
Here, then, are the first ten chapters of the Holy Bible...condensed for your approval.
Chapter 1:
God craps out the universe, invents nudists.
Chapter 2:
Whew, that was exhausting. God takes a nap.
Chapter 3:
Serpent talks nudists into stealing fruit from God's magic garden. The Lord God freaks. To calm him down, the nudists invent guilt and pants.
Chapter 4:
Said pants are promptly removed as baby-making needs prevail. Eldest child kills his brother, inventing both murder and the dysfunctional family.
Chapter 5:
Rutting, fucking, coitus ( i.e. generations go by).
Chapter 6:
Humanity sucks. Well, Noah is sort of okay. God gives him a crash course in boat design.
Chapter 7:
God calls do-over, floods the planet.
Chapter 8:
Noah survives with his family and two of every animal. In a move that probably confuses even God, Noah leaves the boat...and begins sacrificing animals to the Lord! Dude! Cut that out!
Chapter 9:
God regains his composure, apologizes for that whole genocide thing. Two inventions by Noah, the vineyard and booze, result in an unfortunate third invention: streaking.
Chapter 10:
Generations go by in yet another NC-17 chapter.
and so on...
So...in the event that this happens to you, I've prepared a little summary of the bible. I've only completed ten chapters of Genesis so far, but it can be helpful. If someone starts to preach and you're not in the mood, you can just tell them, "No thanks. I'm familiar with the material." Its' an info-bailout, if you will.
Here, then, are the first ten chapters of the Holy Bible...condensed for your approval.
Chapter 1:
God craps out the universe, invents nudists.
Chapter 2:
Whew, that was exhausting. God takes a nap.
Chapter 3:
Serpent talks nudists into stealing fruit from God's magic garden. The Lord God freaks. To calm him down, the nudists invent guilt and pants.
Chapter 4:
Said pants are promptly removed as baby-making needs prevail. Eldest child kills his brother, inventing both murder and the dysfunctional family.
Chapter 5:
Rutting, fucking, coitus ( i.e. generations go by).
Chapter 6:
Humanity sucks. Well, Noah is sort of okay. God gives him a crash course in boat design.
Chapter 7:
God calls do-over, floods the planet.
Chapter 8:
Noah survives with his family and two of every animal. In a move that probably confuses even God, Noah leaves the boat...and begins sacrificing animals to the Lord! Dude! Cut that out!
Chapter 9:
God regains his composure, apologizes for that whole genocide thing. Two inventions by Noah, the vineyard and booze, result in an unfortunate third invention: streaking.
Chapter 10:
Generations go by in yet another NC-17 chapter.
and so on...
Saturday, April 5, 2008
session: mid '06 (IV)
[lost the date for this...it was around september '06]
Doctor: I would like to work on defining your strengths and weaknesses a little more. I want to get a better sense of your boundaries, what you can work with and what you can't. Social language, for example. You've taught yourself body language, how to read it. What about another persons thoughts? That seems to be a real problem for you.
M: It is. I've mentioned that composed people confuse me...people like you...because there's no data to work with. I never know how to interact with composed people. People are things- separate things- and I've never understood how to know what others are thinking.
Doctor: Is that something you can get better at? Can you learn how to understand the way others think? Because to me you've shown an above average ability to describe behavioral patterns and processes.
M: I don't think it's an issue of "understanding". I just can't...I don't know how to put it. I don't get people when I'm interacting with them. They confuse me. I can observe people and eventually start making deductions, but I don't understand what's going on in the moment. Basically I can talk to a person and posit theories about them and, over time, arrive at assumptions that are broadly accurate. I'm just unable to do this in the midst of a conversation. The marionette metaphor that I use to describe myself also applies to other people. To me, they're a marionette too. I can see their limbs moving, I can watch their body language. But I have no idea who is manipulating the marionette and it takes me awhile to figure out who they were and what they were wanting. Have I mentioned that one relationship? The one where I didn't realize I was in it?
Doctor: That sounds familiar. You...what happened?
M: A classmate and I started talking outside of class. In the hallways. Then she invited me to talk in other places...like bars and restaurants. Then, after about a month, she confused me. She kissed me. I thought, "Where the hell did that come from?!" And only then did it occur to me that this talking thing we were doing, at all of these public locations...these were dates. It was painfully obvious in retrospect, but nothing had been explicitly stated so I was totally unaware of it. I dated someone for a month before I even realized that we were dating.
Doctor: Did you tell her what you were thinking? About your confusion?
M: Um...not in words. It was obvious that I was caught off guard. Uncomfortable.
Doctor: Do you mind if I ask what happened?
M: I'm just making a point about intentions, how I can miss them. The rest of it...I'm not ready to talk about that. About any of it.
Doctor: Okay.
M: But was I uncomfortable.
Doctor: How did she respond?
M: She was good about it. She knew that I was shy...and she knew that I'd struggled with the way I feel around people. It was something we had talked about. We were both studying Sartre and a lot of our conversations had revolved around experiences of otherness, so I didn't mind sharing some of my reactions to people, in a general way.
Doctor: You told her this before she tried to kiss you?
M: Yes. It just came up a few times, in the flow of the conversation. I referenced discomfort. But since I can mask a lot of what's going on, I don't think she realized that these difficulties were current.
Doctor: So she was good about it. Did her acceptance make it easier?
M: No. I've never really understand the concept of acceptance. If I don't like certain aspects of myself, what value would another persons reaction have?
Doctor: The value would be that you can live your life. You can put less effort into concealing yourself and more effort into living.
M: What about the things that I am capable of hiding? The discomfort I feel around people...I can hide that for the most part. When I'm confused about intentions...I've learned to wing it. I hate lights...I stay in dark settings. It just seems like...if it's possible to hide something, then hide it.
Doctor: You have a sensitivity to light?
M: A minor one. And not with all lights, just...
Doctor: Why haven't you told me that? You've been in here for..this is what? Your 34th visit with me and you've never mentioned the light sensitivity. Like, right now... does it bother you?
M: I'm only here for one hour. You have to be here all day so it seems like your preference is more relevant.
Doctor: But it does sound like the lights in here bother you.
She turns the lights off.
Doctor: I don't care either way about the lights. You could have just asked me and we could have discussed it. How does that feel now?
M: It is nice.
Doctor: You know, given the hours you work, I should have picked up on that. I didn't even make the connection. How long have you worked the overnight shift?
M: Eight years. With the lights off...it's quiet all of the sudden! Like eerie quiet.
Doctor: Er. It is. It's amazing how important those little white noise sound are. Did you hear that?
M: What?
Doctor: My voice just echoed.
M: Should we turn them back on?
Doctor: No, M. And I want you to understand: this is a big deal. This is a perfect example of you attending to others but doing everything you can to suppress yourself. 34 sessions with the light in here hurting your eyes...
M: If it were hurting, I probably would have said something. It's just...an odd feeling.
Doctor: 34 sessions, then, with discomfort.
She stares for a bit. I stare back.
Doctor: I just learned something about you. Part of M is visible now. This is what you need to be working on, making yourself more visible.
M: How do people know how to do that? Like, I honestly didn't even think of asking to have the lights off. Never occurred to me. In conversations, I have no clue what I'm supposed to talk about, when it comes to sharing stuff. I don't see how anyone copes with the shapelessness of their mind.
Doctor: Practice. It's just going to take lots and lots of practice and today we found a perfect example. When you experience discomfort, say so. Okay?
M: Math makes me uncomfortable.
Doctor: I'll take long-division off the agenda. I had mentioned wanting to get a better sense of your strengths and weaknesses. So here's a weakness: you are confused about what other people are thinking...what you are and are not supposed to share in a conversation. Knowing this, we can return to it when necessary, it's something we can start really focusing on. We need a short little phrase for it though, an easier way of referencing it. You struggle with...what? Social...
M: Peoplehood. Humandom.
Doctor: I want to say the opposite of "social fluency"...what's the opposite of fluent? Non...hmmm, I can't think of it.
M: Huh. Non-fluent doesn't work. I have a social inability, so that makes me influent. Influential. Enormously, powerfully influential.
Doctor: No.
M: I am affluent.
Doctor: Nope.
M: I have influenza. Oh my god I'm contagious.
Doctor: We'll have thought of something by next week.
Doctor: I would like to work on defining your strengths and weaknesses a little more. I want to get a better sense of your boundaries, what you can work with and what you can't. Social language, for example. You've taught yourself body language, how to read it. What about another persons thoughts? That seems to be a real problem for you.
M: It is. I've mentioned that composed people confuse me...people like you...because there's no data to work with. I never know how to interact with composed people. People are things- separate things- and I've never understood how to know what others are thinking.
Doctor: Is that something you can get better at? Can you learn how to understand the way others think? Because to me you've shown an above average ability to describe behavioral patterns and processes.
M: I don't think it's an issue of "understanding". I just can't...I don't know how to put it. I don't get people when I'm interacting with them. They confuse me. I can observe people and eventually start making deductions, but I don't understand what's going on in the moment. Basically I can talk to a person and posit theories about them and, over time, arrive at assumptions that are broadly accurate. I'm just unable to do this in the midst of a conversation. The marionette metaphor that I use to describe myself also applies to other people. To me, they're a marionette too. I can see their limbs moving, I can watch their body language. But I have no idea who is manipulating the marionette and it takes me awhile to figure out who they were and what they were wanting. Have I mentioned that one relationship? The one where I didn't realize I was in it?
Doctor: That sounds familiar. You...what happened?
M: A classmate and I started talking outside of class. In the hallways. Then she invited me to talk in other places...like bars and restaurants. Then, after about a month, she confused me. She kissed me. I thought, "Where the hell did that come from?!" And only then did it occur to me that this talking thing we were doing, at all of these public locations...these were dates. It was painfully obvious in retrospect, but nothing had been explicitly stated so I was totally unaware of it. I dated someone for a month before I even realized that we were dating.
Doctor: Did you tell her what you were thinking? About your confusion?
M: Um...not in words. It was obvious that I was caught off guard. Uncomfortable.
Doctor: Do you mind if I ask what happened?
M: I'm just making a point about intentions, how I can miss them. The rest of it...I'm not ready to talk about that. About any of it.
Doctor: Okay.
M: But was I uncomfortable.
Doctor: How did she respond?
M: She was good about it. She knew that I was shy...and she knew that I'd struggled with the way I feel around people. It was something we had talked about. We were both studying Sartre and a lot of our conversations had revolved around experiences of otherness, so I didn't mind sharing some of my reactions to people, in a general way.
Doctor: You told her this before she tried to kiss you?
M: Yes. It just came up a few times, in the flow of the conversation. I referenced discomfort. But since I can mask a lot of what's going on, I don't think she realized that these difficulties were current.
Doctor: So she was good about it. Did her acceptance make it easier?
M: No. I've never really understand the concept of acceptance. If I don't like certain aspects of myself, what value would another persons reaction have?
Doctor: The value would be that you can live your life. You can put less effort into concealing yourself and more effort into living.
M: What about the things that I am capable of hiding? The discomfort I feel around people...I can hide that for the most part. When I'm confused about intentions...I've learned to wing it. I hate lights...I stay in dark settings. It just seems like...if it's possible to hide something, then hide it.
Doctor: You have a sensitivity to light?
M: A minor one. And not with all lights, just...
Doctor: Why haven't you told me that? You've been in here for..this is what? Your 34th visit with me and you've never mentioned the light sensitivity. Like, right now... does it bother you?
M: I'm only here for one hour. You have to be here all day so it seems like your preference is more relevant.
Doctor: But it does sound like the lights in here bother you.
She turns the lights off.
Doctor: I don't care either way about the lights. You could have just asked me and we could have discussed it. How does that feel now?
M: It is nice.
Doctor: You know, given the hours you work, I should have picked up on that. I didn't even make the connection. How long have you worked the overnight shift?
M: Eight years. With the lights off...it's quiet all of the sudden! Like eerie quiet.
Doctor: Er. It is. It's amazing how important those little white noise sound are. Did you hear that?
M: What?
Doctor: My voice just echoed.
M: Should we turn them back on?
Doctor: No, M. And I want you to understand: this is a big deal. This is a perfect example of you attending to others but doing everything you can to suppress yourself. 34 sessions with the light in here hurting your eyes...
M: If it were hurting, I probably would have said something. It's just...an odd feeling.
Doctor: 34 sessions, then, with discomfort.
She stares for a bit. I stare back.
Doctor: I just learned something about you. Part of M is visible now. This is what you need to be working on, making yourself more visible.
M: How do people know how to do that? Like, I honestly didn't even think of asking to have the lights off. Never occurred to me. In conversations, I have no clue what I'm supposed to talk about, when it comes to sharing stuff. I don't see how anyone copes with the shapelessness of their mind.
Doctor: Practice. It's just going to take lots and lots of practice and today we found a perfect example. When you experience discomfort, say so. Okay?
M: Math makes me uncomfortable.
Doctor: I'll take long-division off the agenda. I had mentioned wanting to get a better sense of your strengths and weaknesses. So here's a weakness: you are confused about what other people are thinking...what you are and are not supposed to share in a conversation. Knowing this, we can return to it when necessary, it's something we can start really focusing on. We need a short little phrase for it though, an easier way of referencing it. You struggle with...what? Social...
M: Peoplehood. Humandom.
Doctor: I want to say the opposite of "social fluency"...what's the opposite of fluent? Non...hmmm, I can't think of it.
M: Huh. Non-fluent doesn't work. I have a social inability, so that makes me influent. Influential. Enormously, powerfully influential.
Doctor: No.
M: I am affluent.
Doctor: Nope.
M: I have influenza. Oh my god I'm contagious.
Doctor: We'll have thought of something by next week.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
found sound
1981. I'm five. Mom is letting me play outside for the first time in quite awhile. We live in a small apartment, in the middle of a sprawling complex. A few months prior to this our neighbor had been shot to death during a robbery. A year before, our house had been broken into, twice. Next year, we will be driving home from church and come across a guy lying in a ditch, still breathing, but with a stab-wound in his side. He'll die before the ambulance arrives. I won't see any of this because mom will be holding me and covering my eyes.
So, with things bad, I've been kept inside, under lock and key. Today my mom sits on the steps that lead up to the back door. She says, "Go and play. I'll be right here. I'll be watching, okay?"
The area past the steps is a parking lot, so I run around in that, darting one way, then the other. I hold my arms out to my sides and spin in circles. I jump and yell.
The pavement is old and covered in spider-web cracks. Grass is poking through most of it. I yank out a handful of the grass, stick it into my mouth and start chewing. Mom yells, "M! Take that out of your mouth. M! Right this second!" She begins to stand up, so I spit it out and run in circles. I yell over and over, just to hear the sounds I can make.
It's too sunny. I hear traffic in the distance, from the highway.
I stand still to catch my breath. A bug flies by. It's a dragonfly, but I'm suspicious. It might also be a robot and I've always wanted a robot, so I chase after it, trying to grab it. It gets away.
The running is my favorite thing, because of the wind it makes. I like the way it feels: a caress without being touched. I sit down next to a parked car and start feeling the grooves in it's tires. I imagine that they're little hallways and that my finger is a tiny person running through them.
"M!" It's mom again. "Don't play next to the cars! Just...play closer, okay?"
There is a tree in the middle of the parking lot, in the middle of this grassy island thing, so I sit next to that and start feeling the bark. I press my fingernails into it and stare at the indentions they make. I make indentions at different angles and spell out my name. M. Beside me, I see the shadow of a little bird. I turn around. There are lots of birds. Sparrows. They are strolling around...laughing...coming closer.
A few minutes later, I am running in circles again, holding my arms out, feeling the wind. Mom stands up, stretches. She says, "Let's go inside, sweetie. Come on. Hold my hand." I take her hand and it feels good. I love her so much. I tell her that I just made marks in bark and that bark backwards sounds like crab and that dogs bark and that god is a backwards dog. Mom laughs and says, "Woo, listen to you. What happened out there, kiddo?"
So, with things bad, I've been kept inside, under lock and key. Today my mom sits on the steps that lead up to the back door. She says, "Go and play. I'll be right here. I'll be watching, okay?"
The area past the steps is a parking lot, so I run around in that, darting one way, then the other. I hold my arms out to my sides and spin in circles. I jump and yell.
The pavement is old and covered in spider-web cracks. Grass is poking through most of it. I yank out a handful of the grass, stick it into my mouth and start chewing. Mom yells, "M! Take that out of your mouth. M! Right this second!" She begins to stand up, so I spit it out and run in circles. I yell over and over, just to hear the sounds I can make.
It's too sunny. I hear traffic in the distance, from the highway.
I stand still to catch my breath. A bug flies by. It's a dragonfly, but I'm suspicious. It might also be a robot and I've always wanted a robot, so I chase after it, trying to grab it. It gets away.
The running is my favorite thing, because of the wind it makes. I like the way it feels: a caress without being touched. I sit down next to a parked car and start feeling the grooves in it's tires. I imagine that they're little hallways and that my finger is a tiny person running through them.
"M!" It's mom again. "Don't play next to the cars! Just...play closer, okay?"
There is a tree in the middle of the parking lot, in the middle of this grassy island thing, so I sit next to that and start feeling the bark. I press my fingernails into it and stare at the indentions they make. I make indentions at different angles and spell out my name. M. Beside me, I see the shadow of a little bird. I turn around. There are lots of birds. Sparrows. They are strolling around...laughing...coming closer.
A few minutes later, I am running in circles again, holding my arms out, feeling the wind. Mom stands up, stretches. She says, "Let's go inside, sweetie. Come on. Hold my hand." I take her hand and it feels good. I love her so much. I tell her that I just made marks in bark and that bark backwards sounds like crab and that dogs bark and that god is a backwards dog. Mom laughs and says, "Woo, listen to you. What happened out there, kiddo?"
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