Mental Health and Hormones

This might be an odd topic to discuss, but it’s actually very important in terms of adolescent mental health particularly if there is a biologically-based brain disorder on the table.

What happens when puberty strikes?

Let me get this off my chest.  I hate the word ‘puberty’.  I don’t know why.  It’s a weird word, isn’t it? I don’t even like to say it aloud.  “Puuuuuuuuuberty.”  No.  Just…no.

What else can I call it? Game Day? The Dawn of a New Age? Rites of Passage? Pledge Week? These all sound like terrible movies, cults, or something that happens to you at a Greek Week event.  But, isn’t that what puberty feels like? I digress…

Everyone warned me that puberty would be an über nightmare for Grace as opposed to the standard nightmare that the neurotypical folks experience because the sudden surge in hormones might possibly increase the intensity of her diagnosis–schizophrenia spectrum disorder.  I winced.  It is a valid concern because onset of puberty is often the time when schizophrenia and bipolar spectrum disorders emerge.  If you have a child who has a childhood-onset diagnosis, then what might puberty change or exacerbate?

So, how has it been?

Well, the first thing to note here is that Grace has been taking Abilify since she was 11 years-old, and Abilify affected her sexual development.  She didn’t experience any signs of puberty until she was well into her 15th year.  That’s late.  It was concerning.  We were almost referred to an endocrinologist.

The second thing to note is that her symptoms were in no way exacerbated by her diagnosis.  She was a very typical teenager if ‘typical’ is a thing.  In other words, her behavior and thoughts were well within the bell curve for what I would define as normative although she has favored emo-angsty self-expression for about a year.  It’s like living with a character from a knock-off John Hughes movie.  The month prior to menarche (another word that should never be used), however, she became an asshole, and no one knew why.

Also, she wanted to snort and mainline sugar.  I had to practically build a wall between her and the kitchen just to keep her away from anything potentially sugary–even granulated sugar! She hated everything as well.  She was rude.  She wanted to be left alone.  Everything was bad.  And, she cried all the time.  She is my third daughter.  I’ve seen all this before but not quite at this level.  A friend commented, “Wow, she just hates everything.”

Well, when her first period arrived, it all crystallized, and her mood cleared up.  It’s damn hard being a girl.

We did not, however, have any psychotic symptoms.  We did not have a surge in mania.  It was fairly typical.  Everyone in the house gets a bit moody and upset as their hormones ebb and flow.  Doireann cries.  Eadaoin gets punchy.  Grace hates everyone and everything.  I feel irritable.  It is life.  You learn to go with the flow (sorry about the pun…).

The good news? There was no apocalypse, and that means a lot because more than a few people prognosticated the end of the world for Grace when Shark Week hit.

So, should you be in a similar situation, wondering how your child will do when the surge of hormones bathes their brain in all the colors of the moody, developmental rainbow, have hope.  Sometimes things go smoothly and everything works out.

Just as you hoped it would.

 

 

Making David Sedaris Proud

It’s been a year since the girls and I have lived together sans their father here.  He moved out a year ago.  Last year was a year in transition to say the least, but everyone is emerging in very good shape.  In better shape.

Personalities are revealing themselves in ways that may not have been permitted before.  As a parent, it’s reassuring to see.  As another human being who lives here, in the fray with a 13 year-old, an almost 16 year-old, and an almost 18 year-old, I find it extremely entertaining (yeah, Grace is almost 16!).

A few weeks ago, one of our family pets, Q the parakeet, died suddenly as in he literally keeled over.  Q was a very interactive bird.  He was very loud and screechy (a trait Doireann in particular disliked), but it’s because he loved attention.  Eadaoin loved him.  She had picked him out to be her bird.

On the night he died, I recall talking to him before I showered.  As soon as I opened the bathroom door wearing nothing but a towel, Milly approached me and whispered, “Mom, look at Q.”  I immediately felt dread.  I approached his cage and looked for Q.  He was lying on the bottom of the cage in a contorted pose, his wing entangled in the cage bars.

“Oh my god, what happened?! Is he alive? I just saw him a few minutes ago!” I shouted.

I reached into his cage to try to remove him, and I found that his feet had grasped onto the bottom of the cage which prevented me from removing him.  I had to undo his tiny grip, and it wasn’t easy.  Each little birdy toe was interlaced within the slats of the bottom of the cage.   I kept thinking, “How am I going to get him out of this cage without breaking his feet?”

Milly and Grace were hovering around me and the cage at this point.

“Is he alive? Is he alive? He can’t be dead! Eadaoin will be so upset.  Oh no…” Milly repeated.

I tried to reassure them, but I was fairly certain Q had died.  It looked like he had suffered a seizure based upon the final pose of his body.  I was having a helluva time removing him from his cage, and I noticed that my towel was slipping.

“Maybe he’s alive! Maybe he’s alive!” Milly suggested hopefully.

“Honey, I think he has probably died,” I finally said with both my hands still in the cage.

Grace was wringing her hands and trying not to cry.  My towel was going to fall off.

“What if he’s really alive?” Milly asked.

“He’s not alive,” Grace answered rather emphatically.

“He could be!” she countered.

“Look at him! He’s lifeless.  He’s dead, Milly!” Grace shouted to match Milly’s energy.

“He could be…you know…in one of those…what are they called?” Milly stammered.

“A coma?!” I answered, shocked, momentarily distracted from trying to get poor Q out of his cage.

“Oh my god, Milly, the bird doesn’t have locked-in syndrome! What in the world…he’s dead!” Grace said very pointedly.

“Well, I can hope, right?” Milly retorted, her fists balled up by her side.

“No, you can’t! You can’t hope for something to be in a coma when it’s died! That’s ridiculous…”

Interrupting the banter, I all but yelled out, “Hey! Eadaoin’s bird has died here! Stop it! And my towel is going to fall off.  Help me!”

That’s the moment I paused everything in my mind.  I observed the scenario.  Both my hands are in a bird cage while I stand almost naked, dripping wet, handling a dead parakeet while my daughters are literally yelling at each other over the possibility of our obviously dead bird having locked-in syndrome.  It was absurd.

I was eventually able to remove Q from his cage.  He had, in fact, died.  There was no doubt about it.  Everyone held him, and Milly spoke words of kindness to him as she held him: “You were always a loud bird, but we loved you.”

Eadaoin was predictably heartbroken.  She told me that she didn’t want to even see him, but, upon my suggestion that it would help her mourn him, she held him anyway.  Then, in a scene of sweet sadness, she pet his face and held him next to her heart.

Milly found a box, gently placed Q in it, and announced that she wanted to bury him in our backyard.  She also announced that she wanted to do it alone.  Eadaoin was too sad to be at his funeral, and I told Milly that I didn’t mind if she did it alone.  I could hear her singing a song to him from the kitchen.  I half expected to hear “Taps”.  She is a very serious girl.

I began to feel melancholy in observing everyone’s grief for their deceased pet.  I was sad, too, that he had died.  Milly came inside after burying Q, washed her hands, and leaned against the counter.  She looked thoughtful.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She nodded and bit her lip.

I felt myself become anxious.  Maybe I should not have honored her request.  Did I make a bad decision? I don’t always know the right things to do.  Parenting is damn hard.

“Mom…” Milly asked tentatively.

“Yes?” I replied hesitantly afraid of what she was going to ask me.

“You’re sure that he’s dead, right?” Milly asked.

Suddenly, a loud shout from the living room boomed throughout the house.

“Oh my god! He doesn’t have locked-in syndrome! He’s dead!!!!!”

Breathing out a sigh of relief, I quietly laughed.  Yeah, everyone is okay.  Everything is fine.

 

 

The Imaginary Audience

Happy 2016, one and all! I feel like asking, “How are you?” And, I hope that some of you tell me!

I have been adjusting to life as a single parent, and I have to admit that it is exhausting not to mention the Groundhog Day Effect.  I clean one room, leave it, return to it, and find that it looks just like it did before I cleaned it–all within the space of ten minutes.  So, my days are starting to feel just like Bill Murray’s in the film “Groundhog Day”.  Interminable sameness.  “Didn’t I just pick up this exact piece of paper from this exact spot yesterday?” No.  Am I losing my grasp on reality? No.  Have I bridged the space/time continuum? No.

What is going on then?

The answer? I have three daughters at home, and they don’t observe a lot outside of K-Pop, manga, their insatiable desire for savory snacks, and their obsessions du jour.  Okay, okay, there are other things going on as well, but you get the picture.  I will admit that relaxing into it seems to be the way to go.  I’m not pushing the river, so to speak, when it comes to the culture at home.  With the atmospheric oppression lifted, I have wanted to see how the girls would expand in their own right.  What might evolve in terms of family culture in our home? Doireann is living on campus now so the home dynamic has changed.  Everyone living at home carries a DSM diagnosis.  We have three biologically-based brain disorders at play.  What might emerge?

The first thing that happened was a kind of collective deep breath followed by the predictable release of emotions.  Everyone had been walking on eggshells around my ex-husband (their father).  No one knew any peace in the home due to fear.  When safety and predictability were finally established, everyone freaked out.  We had crying jags, externalized emotional expressions of fear, anger, confusion, and expression for the sake of expression.  Just because they could.  There was an outpouring of verbal expression that sounded a lot like hatred: “I hate him!”  It’s rooted in feelings of betrayal, confusion, and profound emotional pain.  There was a month, after he moved out, in which the girls refused to see him.  To his credit, he did not push them.  Doireann, however, has cut him out of her life.  She has her reasons, and they are valid.  This is her journey now.  She is almost 19 (can you believe that?).

Grace began high school, and Milly began middle school so the school year, in a word, has sucked.  They are, however, developing resiliency, and that is what I have wanted for them.  It is difficult as a parent to watch our kids swim through the shark tanks of both middle and high school.  We remember what it was like.  I’ve only met one person in my entire life who liked high school.  No one looks back on middle school fondly.  It seems that everyone turns feral during that time in adolescence.  Instinctively, I would spare them that particular suffering, but, at the same time, how will they find out what they’re made of? To quote T.S. Eliot, “If you aren’t in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?” For those of us with children with mental health issues, we walk a very fine line when it comes to helping our children develop resiliency because we are never sure of what their tipping point is.  On a good day, they can handle a lot.  On a bad day, they can’t.  And, there is no predicting in the morning if a day will be good or bad in terms of their ability to cope.

Yesterday, for example, Milly seemed okay.  I have to drive fifteen miles to her school as she is open-enrolled in another district.  We leave early so that we can hold to our morning tradition of stopping at the Caribou Coffee across the street from the school.  I get coffee, and she used her allowance to buy a drink of her choice.  Yesterday, she chose hot chocolate.

It is worth noting for the sake of this story that when Milly was younger she would never speak in public.  She would hold onto my legs and hide behind me.  Sometimes, when I would walk, she would slip down my legs, and it would look like I was dragging her behind me.  Oh, the looks I got! She was terrified.  She was almost agoraphobic.  She is on the autism spectrum (what the DSM-IV labeled as Asperger’s Syndrome), and she has an anxiety disorder as well as a depressive disorder.  Co-morbid to this are sensory processing issues.  Milly has always been the way she is.  From Day 1.  And, she has been receiving countless kinds of interventions since she was a toddler to bring her to a place of functionality.

Yesterday, however, she marched up to the counter, ordered her drink, paid for it, and sat down at our chosen table–just like a neurotypical kid.  I almost take it for granted now.  She was talking to me about a documentary that she had watched; she is really into documentaries: “Mom, some of these documentaries are hard to watch, but I think that it is our responsibility as people to know the truth about what is happening in the world.  It is important, and part of that is feeling uncomfortable.  I feel a responsibility to know so that I can help.”  My 12 year-old said this to me! I was amazed.  As she was sharing this, she knocked her drink over, and it splashed all over her pants.

Time slowed.  I saw her face.  Her eyes widened.  She was frozen.  Tears started.  She couldn’t move or respond.  Her diagnoses came to the forefront.  I wasn’t dealing with Milly anymore.  Hello, Anxiety.  Hello, Depression.  Hello, Autism.  She was enveloped in them.  And, this was the moment to talk to her rather than try to save her.  If I could reach her, then I could get some neurons to fire.  “Hey, hey, it’s okay.  It’s just a drink.  I need you to stand up and go ask for a rag.  This isn’t a big deal.  Can you move?”  She couldn’t.  She was using all her emotional energy to hold it together.  “Can we leave? Can we leave? Can we leave? I wanna go home.  I wanna go home.”

Suddenly, a woman appeared with napkins.  “I saw what happened.  You clearly need help.”  She looked at Milly with kindness, and then she looked at me judgmentally as if I wasn’t helping my daughter.  I wasn’t helping her in a way that she would help.  I am accustomed to this.  I have developed some shame resiliency.  I thanked her and got up to ask for help.  Another person had already intervened on our behalf and a barista was on her way over.  Milly was able to stand up, but she was trembling.  Her bottom lip was quivering.  She ran to the door and stood there.  She was ready to bolt.  The barista cleaned up the table and chair, and I sat down.  I motioned for Milly to return, but she shook her head at me.  I mouthed, “Come here please,” and she slowly returned.  Her pants were indeed saturated with hot chocolate.  She could not go to school like that.

“Everyone is staring at me!” she said quietly starting to cry.

“Here is a secret,” I said.  “No one really cares what you are doing.  If you take care of what you are doing and carry on as if nothing worth looking at happened, then people won’t care either.  But, when you sit there in your chair frozen and rigid, refuse to help yourself, and run across the store to stand by the door, then people will stare.  Those are unusual behaviors, and people stare at unusual behaviors.”  She was able to hear that.  She made her “thinking face”.

“Oh,” she said, “so if I act like nothing happened even though it’s so hard, then people won’t really stare that much?”  she asked.

“For the most part, yes.” I answered.

“But, there was a group of kids staring at me,” she said pointing directly at them.

And, here we landed on the Imaginary Audience.  There may have been a group of kids staring at her; in fact, I don’t doubt it.  But, why is this form of social anxiety so heightened in adolescence and even more so with young people on the high-functioning end of the autism spectrum? It is due to the developmental phase characterized by the egocentric state known as the imaginary audience:

“David Elkind coined the term “imaginary audience” in 1967. The basic premise of the topic is that people who are experiencing it feel as though their behavior or actions are the main focus of other people’s attention. It is defined as how willing a child is to reveal alternative forms of themselves. The imaginary audience is a psychological concept common to the adolescent stage of human development. It refers to the belief that a person is under constant, close observation by peers, family, and strangers. This imaginary audience is proposed to account for a variety of adolescent behaviors and experiences, such as heightened self-consciousness, distortions of others’ views of the self, and a tendency toward conformity and faddisms. This act stems from the concept of ego-centrism in adolescents.[1]

Elkind studied the effects of imaginary audience and measured it using the Imaginary Audience Scale (IAS). The results of his research showed that boys were more willing than girls to express different sides of themselves to an audience. This apprehension from girls has given rise to further research on the value of privacy to girls. Imaginary audience influences behavior later in life in regards to risky behaviors and decision-making techniques. A possibility is that imaginary audience is correlated with a fear of evaluation or self-representation effects on self-esteem.[1]  

Imaginary audience effects are not a neurological disorder, but more a personality or developmental stage of life. It is not aroused by a life event; rather it is a part of the developmental process throughout adolescence. It is a natural part of the process of developing a healthy understanding of one’s relationship with the world. Most people will eventually gain a more realistic perspective on the roles they play in their peer groups as they mature. This natural developmental process can lead to high paranoia about whether the adolescence is being watched, if they are doing a task right and if people are judging them. Imaginary audience will likely cease before adolescence ends, as it is a huge part of personality development. Imaginary audience can be as simple as having to change multiple times in the morning because the adolescent still feels unsatisfactory about arriving at a destination about his/her appearance even though he/she will appear the same as everyone else. The number of adolescents who experience an imaginary audience effect cannot be described with any sort of statistics because an imaginary audience is experienced in all adolescents.” (online source)

The imaginary audience phenomenon is one reason why adolescence is so damn awful.  We feel perpetually observed and scrutinized.  For the person with autism it is even worse because of the clash between a deficiency in theory of mind and this:

“According to Jean Piaget, a Swiss developmental psychologist known for his epistemological studies with children, every child experiences imaginary audience during the preoperational stage of development. He also stated that children will outgrow this stage by age 7, but as we know now this stage lasts much longer than that. Piaget also said imaginary audience happens because young children believe others see what they see, know what they know, hear what they hear, and feel what they feel.”

Piaget’s assessment that young children believe that others see, know, hear, and feel as they do is, in fact, the definition of a theory of mind deficiency.  This is the hallmark struggle of Asperger’s Syndrome.  If we were to recall then our own middle school experiences, we would see that one of our greatest social anxieties revolved around fear of being discovered.  “Everyone sees this.  Everyone notices this one thing that I hate about myself.  I look terrible today, and everyone sees.”  In this, we see the imaginary audience in addition to the belief that “everyone” is aware of what we are trying to mask.  Keeping in mind, every single person in our peer group is experiencing the same developmental phenomenon, it is no wonder that adolescence is a horrible experience.  It’s like squeezing hordes of porcupines into a shoebox and asking them not to prick each other.

What is the outcome?

 The extremes to which adolescents experience an imaginary audience, however, varies from child to child. Some children are considered to be more “egocentric” than others and experience more of an extreme imaginary audience or have more of an elaborate personal fable.[2] Therefore, children then subconsciously put more value on the idea that everyone cares about what they are doing at all times. This is very common in adolescents during this level of development as the child is going through Erik Erikson’s identity vs. identity confusion.[3][4]

The child is struggling to figure out their identity and formulating congruent values, beliefs, morals, political views, and religious views. So, on top of experiencing an identity moratorium in which they are exploring different identities, children feel they are constantly being watched or evaluated by those around them. This leads to intense pressure being placed on the child and may also influence later self-esteem.[2][5][3][4]

Comedian and former Saturday Night Live writer John Mulaney jokes about this here:

13-year-olds are the meanest people in the world. They terrify me to this day. If I’m on the street on like a Friday at 3 PM and I see a group of 8th graders on one side of the street, I will cross to the other side of the street. Because 8th graders will make fun of you, but in an accurate way.  They will get to the thing that you don’t like about you. They don’t even need to look at you for long, they’ll just be like, “Ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha! Hey, look at that high-waisted man! He got feminine hips!”  And I’m like,  “No!! That’s the thing I’m sensitive about!!!!”

Doesn’t this feel absolutely true?! And, it feels true because of our past developmental experience with the imaginary audience and our own theory of mind.
The point here is that our experience in adolescence of our own imaginary audience does, in fact, affect our self-esteem later on in life.  So, those odd teenaged behaviors and rituals that we as parents and caregivers observe in our kids do matter.  We are observing an identity being birthed, and it is vital that we assist in that with empathy, kindness, and nurturing.
You might not value or even like how your child is attempting to mitigate the intense pressure of the imaginary audience, but it is worth asking how you can be a support and resource while they individuate and, ultimately, differentiate.  My goal as a parent is that their self-esteem is intact, strong, and well-founded along with their sense of identity so that they don’t fear 13 year-olds walking down a street one day when they’re 30 years-old.
Is this possible? Even with our children with special needs? I believe so.  It is hard.  As hard as you expect it to be, you find yourself wishing that it were that easy.  For me, however, I have found that no moment has been wasted in my efforts to prepare my kids for the life they have today or the life awaiting them–regardless of what that life will look like or what their present limitations are today.

 

 

Meeting George Costanza

Doireann turned 18 yesterday.  I am now the mother of an 18 year-old.  I am sharply inhaling over that.  Sweating even.  I went out to breakfast with a dear friend yesterday and felt a bit of panic over this, and she kindly said, “You aren’t old enough to have an 18 year-old.  You really aren’t.”  I felt better, and then I felt silly.  Yes, yes, it’s all about me, isn’t it?

Still.  18! She’s going to college in the fall! Where did the years go? I remember everything.  It feels like a rare privilege to be given a baby, doesn’t it? And then you get to love and prepare that baby for adulthood.  Doireann is an excellent human being.  I don’t say that because I’m her mother.  She really is a wonderful person.  I even enjoy the lesser developed parts of her character.  It’s why she is who she is, and I’m going to enjoy seeing how those parts are developed.  Frankly, she’ll probably fight it every step of the way, and I’ll hear about it.

When Doireann was young, she was very obnoxious and stubborn.  I’m not one of those mothers who believes that her children can do no wrong.  On the contrary, I know exactly what’s what.  Doireann loved to push buttons and boundaries.  There was, however, one thing she liked more than anything else.  She loved being right.  She was like a little tsar trapped in the body of a toddler.  She was vengeful, too, due to her above average intelligence.  She could plot and carry out plans.  There’s a reason three year-olds should not be able to read.

Suffice it to say, I realized that I could only parent her so much.  Life experience was going to have to offer her another sort of parenting.  This is what I prayed for since she learns empathy experientially.  Enter Thomas.

Thomas is Doireann’s nemesis, and he has been her nemesis since ninth grade.  Doireann loathes him.  I have heard tale upon tale of Thomas’ disgusting personality, ugly face, and sadistic disposition not to mention his misogyny and intellectual snobbishness.  After almost four years of listening to the storied Clash of The Titans Misadventures of Doireann and Thomas, I had a horrible mental image of what Thomas must look like.  Surely, this must be Thomas:

images

Scut Farkus Thomas

About two months ago while Doireann was ranting about Thomas once again, I remarked that it must be quite difficult to look at the embodiment of Scut Farkus of “A Christmas Story” every day.  Joking at the time, I noted that if Ralphie eventually beat Scut up, then how was she able to control herself? She stopped.  “What? No, Thomas doesn’t look anything like Scut Farkus.”

“You mean that he doesn’t have yellow eyes and pointy teeth? My gosh, I imagined that he looked something like the devil to be honest.”

“You wanna know what the most horrible human being on Earth looks like? Oh, I’ll show you!”

Well, yes, I wanted to know.  The most horrible human being on Earth? Please show me! She immediately found a photo of him and practically shoved her phone in my face.  “This.  This is Thomas!” she declared with evident hatred.

I was ready for something hideous.  Instead I saw this:

George-Costanza

George Costanza of “Seinfeld”

Thomas looks just like George Costanza.  I wish I were kidding, but I’m not.  He apparently has the personality to match.  I couldn’t control myself.  I covered my face and started laughing.  “Oh my gosh, he’s George Costanza! He’s a schlub! Your nemesis is a schlubby George Costanza which is a redundant statement, I know.”

“Who is George Costanza?!” she asked, confused.

How can I explain “Seinfeld” to my 18 year-old daughter? How can I sum up George Costanza? Well, from how she’s described Thomas, I’d say she’s spent the entirety of her high school career getting to know George Costanza by proxy, and I can’t help but laugh.  I loved “Seinfeld”, but I really hated George Costanza for all the reasons Doireann loathes Thomas.  On Monday night, I finally asked her why she still wanted to punch Thomas in the mouth so badly.  She said:

“He is so vile, Mom, because he thinks he knows everything, and he makes other people feel bad about themselves when they don’t know something.  And he just sits there looking smug all the time.  And his fat, stupid face just annoys me.  He thinks he’s better than everyone else just because he thinks he knows things.  Intellectual snobbishness is wrong, and getting off on being right at other people’s expense isn’t right either.  You have to admit when you’re wrong!”

I listened.  I nodded.  She looked down.  She sighed.  “I know that I used to be like that.  I struggle with that, too, but I’ve seen what it does to people.  It’s wrong.  People don’t learn when someone like that is in the room.  He hurts people, and I see that now.”

Thomas’ job is done.  He no longer serves a purpose.  She learned exactly what I could never teach her, and she will never have to see him again in a few months.  This is one of the primary reasons I am against helicopter parenting.  We, as parents, can’t teach our kids everything that they need to develop in order to become good human beings.  Some character traits are developed out there in the world through adversity, and some character traits are filed and buffed away through adversity.  Doireann needed Thomas.  Thomas may have learned something from knowing Doireann although he would never admit it. What I’ve learned in observing this over the past four years is that there may be people in my own life as well who I don’t like very much, but maybe they are present to teach me something, too.

It’s an interesting thought, isn’t it?

 

The Gift of The C-Word

I can be slightly naïve at times.  Well, not naïve.  Optimistic perhaps.  I tend to believe the best about people and circumstances, and, when people behave like absolute asshats, I’m almost always surprised.  It’s as if I did, in fact, just fall off that turnip truck because I was indeed born yesterday; and, there I am lying helpless in the road wondering how I got there.  Oh, right, I was shoved.

I am being tongue-in-cheek because it’s fun.  The very minor incident to which I am not so subtly alluding was annoying but, at the same time, surprising to me.

An anonymous person posted a comment to my blog a few days ago.  He wrote:

You are a cunt!

Classy, right?

Yes, yes, this is a troll, and there is one mantra that we should all follow when it comes to trolls:

Do not feed the trolls!

Trolls know how to take the piss, don’t they? Calling a woman a bitch isn’t so bad.  How many women have been called that and worse for ignoring the clumsy gropes of some drunk guy at a bar? I have.  My girlfriends have.  Accidentally cut someone off in traffic and some angry person will yell, “Bitch!” Women are finally beginning to reclaim that word in order to rob it of its power.  The C-word, on the other hand, feels altogether different, doesn’t it?

Why?

Well, Tina Fey tackled this issue on 30 Rock in the “C-Word” episode when her character Liz Lemon overheard Lutz, one of her writers, call her the dreaded C-word behind her back.  Her response? She wanted to fire him.  Yep.  That’s how most women I know feel about being called the C-word.  We have a visceral response to it, and if we could fire the person who spoke that word over us, then we just might.  Liz Lemon ran to her producer and shouted, “We need to fire Lutz! Fire him!” When she explained her reasons, both Pete, her producer, and Frank, one of the writers, grimaced.  They, too, know of the C-word’s power.  And, why does this word hold so much power? What was the conclusion? It is so powerful because there is nothing that a woman can call a man that is as degrading.  As misogynistic and, well, defiling as the C-word is to women, there is no linguistic match for a man.

My husband and I sat around one night and tried to come up with an equivalent if you can believe that.  We came up with one, but it lacks the punch that the C-word packs.  I think that Tina Fey is right.  This is why trolls love this word so much.  This is why people aiming to shock and hurt women love to use this word.  It degrades and defiles in a way that few other words do.  There are erotica authors who have decided that it’s time to reclaim this word, I’m concluding, to rob it of its powerful punch to the female gut.  They freely use it in their writing.  It’s a jarring read to be sure, but it’s interesting to watch the linguistic evolution of this word.  Where might this word be in another generation? Will it feel as truly disgusting as it does now? Will I want to plug my ears and cry, “Lalalalalala!” when I hear it in 25 years?

Why write a post about the C-word? Firstly, to be frank, it pisses me off that there are people out there who find trolling entertaining.  It’s a complete waste of time, and it can hurt very vulnerable people.  Secondly, I have four daughters, and I’m a woman.  This sort of behavior is not acceptable no matter its form.  I blackholed that comment, but how does one feel empowered after reading something like that? It’s insidious.  That’s why trolling is potent.  Words are infinitely powerful.  The written word, when aimed directly at a person, can carry the weight of an anvil, and that is the take away.  Words can be weapons, or they can be shields.  They can edify and build a person up higher than the highest skyscraper.  They can also destroy a life.  We get to choose.  Isn’t that incredible? How many things in life do you actually get to choose freely?

You always get to choose your words.

That is a brilliant thought.  Many of us are caregivers to very vulnerable people.  We know just how weighty each word that we speak is because we have seen just how destructive other people’s words have been.  I am going to try to pay more attention to my words this year.  That is the gift of the dreaded C-word.  It’s potency inversely teaches us just how powerfully good we could be when we choose the better words instead.

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Incidentally, the brilliant comic The Oatmeal has attempted to rob the awful C-word of its “terribleness” in his wonderfully irreverent and funny comic The Terrible C-Word.  For a good laugh, you simply must read it!

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The Oatmeal’s The Terrible C-Word

 

 

Finally…

I feel like a Who from Dr. Seuss’s Horton Hears a Who.  I need to shout, “I am here! I am here!”  There is one word that describes the past month: exhaustion.  This Lupus thing is no joke.  Plain vanilla exhaustion.  All. The. Time.

I think raising teenagers is adding to that sense of exhaustion.  “Oh look, I folded a towel and parented a teenager.  I need to lie down.”  I might say this with a little cheek, but my husband’s recent antics might be adding to the inordinate fatigue.

“Why is there a drunk man in our living room at 1 in the morning?”

“Well, Hank was driving us home from the client dinner.”

“Where is Hank?”

“He got arrested…for DUI.”

“How did you get here…with Paul?”

“The cops dropped us off.  I’m calling Paul a cab.”

“Wait, you let a drunk Hank drive you home?”

“I didn’t know he was drunk.  He looked completely sober.”

“Oh my god…”

Perhaps it’s Milly’s Canine Drama.  Her upper canine has been loose but refusing to come out.  She’s been yanking on that stubborn tooth for days and days and then complaining, “It huuUUUUUuuuuurts!”  Finally, in the car yesterday after picking her up from school, she shouted, “It came out! I can’t find it!” Blood was pooling in her mouth so it sounded more like, “Ih ame ou..I an’t ind it!” And then the crying started because she was bleeding not to mention she couldn’t spit out the blood.  She looked like a little vampire what with all the blood starting to stream down the sides of her mouth.  I was driving while simultaneously trying to find a tissue.  I then spied just what I needed! One of my older girls left a maxi pad in the car for some reason.  I think it fell out of a purse or backpack.  I grabbed it, opened it, and said, “Here! This is perfect! Spit out the blood onto this!” Eadaoin shouted, “Oh, yeah, actually that will work!” Milly looked horrified.  She held it out in front of her like it was a dead animal.  I was highly amused, looking in the rearview mirror to see my daughter with a pad sticking out of her mouth.

Of course, Grace is having terrible migraines again except she is experiencing prosopagnosia with them now.  What a weird thing.  That’s been going on for a week.  We are going to the specialty hospital today for a Toradol injection and quick neurological check.  I also get the feedback from Eadaoin’s neuropsychological profile at the same time! So, do you know what I did? I told my husband that he had to come.  He has never been to any meeting or appointment where Grace is concerned.  Not once.  I put my foot down.  Guess what? He’s coming.  So, he’ll go with Grace while I go to the feedback session.  He gets to meet her neurologist.  Finally.

He also finally saw a psychiatrist and had his first intake last week.  Another ‘finally’.

We are off to the races this morning, and all I want to do is lie down.  I can do it.

Right? Right.  ::whimper::

 

How To Wake Up A Teenager

Like most teens, Eadaoin ignores her alarm clock.  She hits the snooze button several times every morning.  It’s sort of endearing the first few times it happens.  As an adult you see yourself in this.  “Aaaw, look at that.  We’re related.”  After a few months of this, it’s not cute in any way.  It’s just annoying.  “Look at that.  She won’t get up on her own for anything.  Wild horses probably can’t drag her out of bed.  We’re related.”

Well, I don’t have any wild horses around to attempt to drag Eadaoin out of bed, and I’m tired of tromping up the stairs every morning to poke and prod her.  “Eadaoin…Eadaoin…Eadaoin…Eadaoin.  Wake up.  Wake up.  Dear Lord…Is she dead?”

When asked later why she ignores her alarm, she justifies herself with an answer we adults have all used.  “I sleep through it.  I don’t hear it.  I can’t help it.”  What am I going to say to that? I slept through Hurricane Alicia when I was 8 years-old and three ensuing tornadoes! Who am I to criticize?

So, how do you wake up a teenager?

I figured it out.  MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh boy, did I!

Every adolescent I’ve ever met is programmed to one sound.  They’ll hear it a mile away.  “I have a text!”  That sound.  The sound of incoming flirting, socializing, and gossip.  Ah the text notification.

I have used it for evil.  Eadaoin has a very annoying text notification sound.  It’s a fairy from The Legend of Zelda saying, “Hey listen!” It drives Doireann nuts.  “Hey listen! Hey listen! Hey listen!” Every time a text arrives.  “Hey listen!” This morning, I got up and realized that Eadaoin had once again ignored slept through her alarm.  She is supposed to get up at 6 AM.  She was still in bed at 6:35.  I decided to do something different.

I grabbed my cell phone and sent twenty texts to her phone.  “Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey…” I could hear her phone from downstairs.  “Hey listen!” repeatedly.  I heard Doireann yell, “Eadaoin! Your phone!!!!” I heard Eadaoin’s feet hit the floor.  She ran down the stairs holding her phone and saw me innocently sipping my coffee at the dining room table.  “Mom! Why?! What…Mom!” “Oh good.  You’re up!”

If looks could kill…

She returned to the table a little later dressed and obviously upset.  “You sent me over twenty texts.  Doireann is mad.”

I just sipped my coffee feeling a bit of Schadenfreude.

“I’m getting up on my own tomorrow.  That is a horrible way to wake up.  I don’t wanna wake up like that again.  I wanna throw my phone into the sun.”

I just looked at her while I sipped my coffee.  My husband looked at me with admiration.  Doireann looked at me like I was evil incarnate.

That’s how you wake up a teenager.