shock & awe: women in the military (& dadt)

I recently read "The War Within" an essay in Time magazine by Nancy Gibbs. Gibbs begins, "For too many American women in uniform...danger also comes from their male comrades." I began reading the article and was absolutely convinced that her statistics would underwhelm me. Reason being that I had heard little of this issue, which seems impossible with the press all over the war like white on rice and the ease with which we receive information these days. Unfortunately the statistics are shocking and alarming!

"80% to 90% of sexual assaults [according to Pentagon figures] go unreported," among women serving in Iraq and Afghanistan. There have been around 160,000 women deployed to these two countries. Gibbs reports that according to the Pentagon nearly 3,000 of service-women were sexually assaulted/raped in 2008. That's purported to be only 10% of the actual figure. You do the math! That's a lot of women being assaulted while on the job in an already hostile & dangerous occupation.

For a little dose of perspective she says, "when you look at the entire universe of female veterans, close to a third say they are victims of rape or assault while...serving." That is twice the rate of assaults in the civilian population. Get that? Danger of sexual assault for women in the armed forces is double that for civilian women! These stats shock me.

The report gets worse when she starts talking about how military mandates preclude a broken and dysfunctional process of reporting and prosecuting male perpetrators.

"Only 8% of cases that are investigated end in prosecution, compared to 40% for civilians arrested for sex crimes." Basically, if you're a female soldier you're now coping with the fact that there's actually little hope that your male counterpart will even be prosecuted. But before she can even decide whether to report the crime she's also thinking about the fact that her right to "anonymity" is non-existent. Civilian rights include an expectation of anonymity as well as protection against harassment, demotion, and further danger from an assailant. There is no privilege of anonymity in the military, except with a chaplain. The truth is she may lose more than the perpetrator. Worse, if she does nothing, she may be stuck fighting right alongside her assailant.

One wants to hold out hope that once a perpetrator is investigated and found guilty of the charges of his crime, he would be punished to the full extent of the law. I mean, come on. We're a modern society? Astonishingly, Gibbs says, about 80% of those convicted are HONORABLY discharged!! My mind reels at the idea! Wait, they are convicted of a crime, right? It actually disgusts me to the point of feeling sick deep in my gut. Or is that my heart?

What does this say to the soldier he assaulted against her will? Obviously the military believes their reputation, and the "war effort", would be tainted if they punish an "exemplary" soldier for sexually assaulting a female soldier. Obviously their viewpoint is that such trifle matters also take attention from the seriousness of the war effort and the fine men who are fighting it. It, in effect, "disrupts" the effort. Her honor is sacrificed for the propaganda to work.

And the sucky part?...they're right. The investigation itself does disrupt. Money, staff, time, effort. The soldiers involved would be moved around or out of the military entirely. The press might also take such astonishing statistics and spread them to the unpredictable civilian population. The more liberal of those civilians would take the stats and want to actually do something more. The liberals would call it an "injustice". The military does have justifiable (though not just) reasons for their actions...or inactions.

Meanwhile, unfortunately, the female soldiers dig deeper into their hole, thinking if they report their assailant it would be "disrupting" and "inconvenient". She's also fearful of repercussions, demotions, etc. Unfortunately, maybe her silence is the best decision for the "good of the whole".

Maybe we civilians have it all wrong. Maybe we call too much attention to injustice and the end result is a lot of disruption of more important events. Like war?

Really. I'm disgusted.

Now I am worried about the prospect of getting rid of Don't Ask Don't Tell. Maybe DADT protects the safety of gay soldiers. After reading Gibbs' essay I couldn't stop thinking about the implications this same military mind-set would have on gay soldiers if DADT was dissolved.

I cannot stop thinking of what fellow soldiers may do to an out gay soldier and what their higher authority figures will not do. Based on Gibbs' report they clearly won't investigate something if they don't find it necessary to do so. Soldiers also know they can get away with things like raping and assaulting female soldiers, so what really prevents them from doing physical harm to a gay soldier who's chosen to out him/herself. Ultimately, any soldier who does harm to a fellow soldier who is gay will more than likely end up with a honorable discharge anyway. We can see this coming a mile away.

So why are we pushing for the dissolution of DADT? Really, if I was in the military I would not want to be out even if it was "legal" for me to do so!!

What scares me the most about the idea of dissolving DADT is that the military mind-set is far from changing. The don't-rock-the-boat mind-set is as resilient as it is ancient. The belief is that having women and gays in the armed forces is potentially "distracting". They're right. Not because the belief is correct, but because the idea is so entrenched and it IS a distraction because of that.

I don't know. This makes me wonder seriously if Americans should have either women or gays in their military branches. It causes so many "problems".

So this is my sorry ass'd conclusion: at least a gay soldier can hide his/her orientation, whereas a female soldier cannot hide her gender from a male soldier set on taking what he wants from her. Maybe she has a chance... as long as she doesn't act too much like a lesbian she just might make it through the war.

orphans: part III

Of course Chris became discouraged and depressed at times. He's human. He too sometimes looked at the scope of getting children adopted out of a country in denial of the need, and felt completely incapable.

During these times I would try to boost his morale. I believed that he could do what he said he wanted to do. If you have nothing more creative to say to someone who is depressed, use their own words.

I would tell him that God wanted babies adopted more than even he did. I told him that God was tired of seeing babies die everyday, and that he was given the desire to do something about it. Not only was he given desire and passion, he would also be given the ability and the resources.

I told him that I believed he could to this despite the high and looming barriers. I told him that there was no way this task would be as impossible as it looked if the goal was to save lives.

These were the times that tested his resolve. You know those times? The times when all known inhumanity, gross genocides, injustices and all kinds of death convince you that God does not care. Chris would be overwhelmed. I would try to wade my way through it. He would come out on the other side. One day he did.

His salvation came in the form of a swaddled baby girl. He found this baby girl wrapped in a blanket and placed in a box on the sidewalk. Someone wanted her found.

I mean to say that not every family or new mother wanted their baby found. They cruelly threw them out like trash. But this baby was loved...enough. Her family could not give her what she needed if they kept her. In fact the government would penalize the family so much that their first child, mom, and dad would all suffer as a result.

She could have been the first born herself. That changes the scenario.

Baby girls were more often abandoned than boys. Chinese tradition meant that the boy, not the girl, would care for the parents when they got old. Chinese tradition also required that the girl go to her husband's family to care for them.

Unfortunately for tradition the Communist government was slowly trying to abolish these traditions. Communism was working to completely reframe the idea of family. Communism is still working to change these ancient ideas.

The ideal Communist family would look like this:

• each family would have just one child
• they would accomplish this through a "family planning" by enforcing birth control methods and abortions when needed
• when the child grows up that child marries, moves, and leaves the parents
• the parents are then taken care of by the government.

But tradition runs deep and it is hard to convince it's believers that another way is possible. So, families threw away their girls, as Chris put it, because they were useless.

We didn't know this little girl's story but I always imagined that her mother wept. I hope she wept.

Continued later...

the orphanages: part II

We rode our bikes through the loud streets of Nanchang, a city of 2.5 million (small by China standards) gradually winding our way through less and less chaotic traffic and noise. Our journey took about 1 hour from downtown. During that hour Chris and I would talk about faith and orphans. I didn't realize it then but we were doing what Jesus' brother James called a "pure and faultless" religion, to "look after orphans and widows".

Chris is a Christian. His faith was practical: take care of the orphans, get them into homes, and that is what God wants him to do.

We would often sit in the clamour of the city square, a city center designed exactly like Tienanmen Square in Beijing. It hadn't been two years since the student uprising and massacre on Tienanmen Square. I was with the first tentative and small wave of foreign teachers allowed into the country after a brief time of closed borders. International attention was negative since Tienanmen, and as I said before, China does not like unfavorable attention.

Chris and I would also spend our time in the city square discussing religious pragmatism.

"But in America you have so much money and what do you do with it?" He would ask with a provocative grin. It is really VERY easy to pick on Capitalists when you yourself are not rich in material possessions. He was poking my materialistic sensitivities and insecurities like a pro.

"Some people have a lot, I don't have a lot. I own a car...and a few other things." I answered. "I hope you aren't trying to say I'm materialistic."

"But you are a materialist. You are an American. You have a lot available to you. Are your parent's rich?" I would take offence to this and cite that just because one is of a certain nationality does not automatically make them the stereotype of the nation's reputation.

Then I would actually answer his question.

"My parents do okay in my country. By my countries standards they are not rich. They spend most of their money on their home, insurances..." It was at this point that I realized his point (because I'm slow on the uptake). "Okay, we do spend a lot of our time and attention on our stuff. But, really, I'm poor." Which was relatively true. He was never convinced. Ever.

He would just laugh at me, light-heartedly, and turn to subjects other than materialism...usually orphans.

On our bike rides to the orphanage our conversations were purely about orphans and adoption. We would ride side by side at an easy pace speaking outloud that great dream of seeing children cared for in the context of a loving family. The scope of the idea was overwhelming to me. But Chris had a fire in his belly. I could think only of how to get people involved with the orphanage and how to help them in any way I could. I did.

Our desire and passion were emboldened every time we entered the gates of the orphanage compound. Nearly every time we arrived we would witness one baby being peddled away to be buried, and simultaneously see another new baby girl being delivered to it's gates.

We would arrive and meet the workers. Chris would talk with them and I would have little conversations with them centered primarily around pleasant greetings and whether they had eaten that day (the basic greetings in Chinese). Normally I would ask about their families as this is also customary and nearly the only other thing I could talk about in Chinese. But, many of the workers were orphans themselves who grew up and just stayed with their "family" to care for new orphans.

Sometimes I would sneak off to the building with the babies. Rooms of babies in cribs. They were separated into rooms of healthy babies and dying rooms. I would go hold the healthy babies as they rarely were held. Then I would go to the dying rooms. I would put my hand on their silent backs and I would pray to God. I don't remember my prayers but they were tearful because, well, what would you pray in a context like that?

They looked like little old people. They scared me a bit, therefore I touched them...how could I explain to them that I couldn't touch them because I was scared of death? My time with them emboldened my heart to do something, anything. I was only one person, but they told me I could do something. I wanted to pluck every one of them out of their cribs and hold and feed them and make them better. But I prayed and I touched them. They told me they were okay. God told me not to be scared, just to do what I could.

We would ask the director what the orphange needed. She usually told us they needed more medical supplies and equipment for the handicapped children --a large portion of the population was handicapped as such "damaged" children were of no use to some families who wanted a healthy child. We would talk in the courtyard and I would inevitably be distracted by the delivery of a new baby or the death of another.

Babies were found abandoned on a doorstep, in an alley, or at the gates of the orphanage.

The director liked any idea we came up with.

We always took the opportunity to visit with the older children. They had nearly bare rooms in which they "played" and learned. I have photos of their faces. They laugh at me, smile, and have behind their eyes a sadness and aged look. I would teach them Patty Cake and Chris would interpret it as best he could. I would play simple games I knew from my childhood that I'd forgotten until they were in my lap and ready for any kind of involvement.

One day Chris and I informed the orhanage director that we would be bringing "entertainment". We planned to bring several of the other American teachers who wanted to be involved. There were few of us in the city of 2.5 million. A handful. We all descended upon the facility one day, and ALL of the children were sitting outside waiting. So rare was a visit like this. Well, never had they ever experienced foreigners visiting, nor had they ever had any visitors, period.

We performed songs. We interacted with them in song and stories. And Chris did his best to translate the likes of "Matilda the Gorilla" and "Itsy Bitsy Spider". The children's laughter fanned the fire in me that kept me coming back, kept me wanting to do what I could. I could make them laugh. We all held them and cried later. We planned to do more.

Soon we were all writing letters to people trying to get medical supplies sent. The supplies that actually made it through the postal search we took to the orphanage. Some we had sent directly to the orphanage. We did what we could. Some of us were nurses.

We had friends bring classroom supplies. We assembled equipment that had only English instructions (funny huh? Usually we assemble equipment with only Chinese instructions). One time I assembled a special wheelchair with only French instructions! We did what we could.

But Chris was insistant that more could and should be done. My sight was limited, but his sight was set on great things. He didn't want to just make their life bearable in the facility itself. He was ready to jump to the next rung and was becoming increasingly impatient to get children into homes in America. It would not be Chinese homes. A one child per family policy was what created the orphanage in the first place. There was going to be no placing of children in Chinese homes.

As Chris became more insistent he could do more, he also insisted we could do more.

"You are rich, there must be something you can do!" I felt helpless and could only pray for God to do something beyond my own ability. My materialism met these needs with a resounding "thud"! How could I use everything and all the prosperity I had at my disposal? How could I harness these potentials?

It wasn't just a problem of logistics and practicality. Few babies were being adopted out of China at the time. The concept did not even exist in our province. We lived in the capital of our province and there were NO babies being adopted out of the province.

But the real problem was the local government.

Early on morning one of my students came knocking at my door. She told me that Chris had been arrested. I asked why. She told me it was because of his involvement with me. At first I thought they assumed he and I had a "relationship". But as it sunk in I realized that it had everything to do with our passion for the orphanage because, well...that was our singular cause.

The police had come to his campus apartment late the night before and began interrogating him about his involvement with me. I realized that we had most likely been followed on one or more of our bike trips to the facility.

They asked him, over and over, "What are you doing going to that orphanage with that foreign woman?" as if our goal was espionage and high treason. He answered them, over and over ad nauseum, "We are helping the orphans."

"But why are you going to the orphanage with the foreigner?"

"To help the orphans."

"But why?"

"To help the orphans."

"What do you do with the foreign woman?"

"We help the orphans."

And on it went until they got frustrated with his answer and decided to take him in. There they tried to break him down and tell them why he was spending so much time with me. They eventually gave up, warned him to stop spending time with me, and let him go. He came directly to my apartment.

It was a hard time. You have to understand that as an American I am unused to being meddled with so much by the government. I didn't know what they would do to my friend. I wanted to tell them they had no right to separate my friend from me.

We laughed though. We laughed at the silly people who thought we had more dangerous purpose than the real purpose we had. To save the orphans.

For his safety I insisted that we not see one another for three weeks until the dust settled. He did not like the idea and stubbornly wanted to continue where we had left off. I did not want my friend's conviction become a barrier to his successfully seeing it through.

As it turns out this became the least danger he was ever in. Officials have constantly harrassed and arrested him in his pursuit of getting every orphaned baby in Nanchang adopted to foreign families.

Strange the journey we had while doing what we could.

TO BE CONTINUED...

the orphanages: part I

"An or-phan-age." I said too loudly to the stunned Chinese professor.

"You know, orphan children who don't have mother's or father's go to a home and people take care of them." I drew the shape of a building hoping that would jog her interest in my query.

"Oh, I don't know of such place. No, no place like that here. Not here in China." I was skeptical of her reply, based on the emphasis she put on "China" being devoid of parentless children. For I knew orphanges were in China. And I was just as sure that they were hidden from the public eye.

I was frustrated since this was the tenth Chinese national I'd talked to unsuccessfully about orphanages. I'd entered China three weeks earlier and in my 25 year old heart a passion was growing impatient. I was becoming aware of two possibilities: 1) that the people I'd inquired of about the existance of a local orphanage really did not know that orphanages existed in China because the government successful convinced the public otherwise, or, 2) my interviewees were hiding the fact for fear of trouble with the local officials if they shared any information to a foreigner (especially an American) about an orphanage.

Over time, as I eventually became involved with a local orphanage, I came to believe option number 2 was the most likely possibility due to the local government's interest and hostility towards my and any local Chinese citizens' involvement.

Why am I telling you this story? It isn't as random as it might appear. I am still seeing the fruits of the passion that led me from the Mexican orphanage, "Casa de la Esperanza", in Tijuana to the orphanage in Nanchang, China. In all humility I tell you that I became an inadvertant instigator of events far far larger than me. Though I have no further involvement I see the results even here in America, even here today, and in the lives of people I've met after I returned.

In fact today I will see my second young Chinese American adoped from the orphanage I worked in back in 1991-92. It get's better. Let me tell you the story of Chris.

After fruitless inquiries of random people, some American friends who taught at the Medical University told me, "We have a Chinese friend who is an Engligh professor here at the school. He goes to the orphanage every now and then." They introduced us and we immediately fell into a friendship. Little did I know that friendship would lead to his eventual arrest, and that our involvement with the orphanage would begin to change to course of history for thousands of orphans in the province.

Chris (which was his chosen English name) was an orpan himself. He and his sister became orphans when both of their parents were murdered during the "Cultural Revolution". The Cultural Revolution was the result of Mao Zedong's passionate desire to successfully turn China into a Communist nation. It was a bloody and sickening transition from "democracy" to communism, which resulted in deaths outside the scope of any American war or tragedy. But Mao succeeded in turning the nation into one whole equal class of people

That is, he succeeded by convincing citizens to use humiliating and deadly tactics. Citizens essentially killed or severely disgracing anyone of reput or higher class.

Chris became a success from his humble beginnings. He literally taught himself English. But he was restless. He looked like any average middle aged Chinese man, but inside of him burned a fire that was rare in the land of subdued passions.

He had a passion for orphans. Not only did he want all of them cared for, he wanted every one of them adopted...even to foreign parents!

The problem then: the Chinese government not only hid the existance of orphanages, they made darn sure foriegn nations did not see that there were such places. I don't know why, but the local officials had no tolerance for any involvement by foriegners. I assumed it was a "face" thing. China likes to look good. That means putting the lid on anything that looks less than successful. The height of Communism is a utopia. I don't think orphans are part of that picture.

I think it embarrassed them.

I only wanted to help them in any way I could while I was there, and Chris wanted to "save" them. He used to tell me he wanted to "save" them. And as you will see, he did.

To be continued...

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directionally challenged

I have a difficult time following directions.

Wait! Before you go thinking that I can't find my way around places, even places I've never been, think again. I know how to find a place. I even know how to find a place with minimal directions. My inner compass is just fine and I'm looking to get lost sometime soon because I like the journey so much better.

No, what I'm talking about is the kind of directions like, "sign this paper first, then call, then send the paper." I will read this and think, "Oh, I have to sign this paper and send it right away." I sign it, send it and then spend the next day looking for the phone number which is on its postal journey home.

Perhaps I've told you this story before. Tell me if I have.

I wrote great papers in graduate school. My writing has gradually improved regularly and annually since I was nine years old and wrote the book Country Mowse goes to the city. I don't know if I plagiarized that story or if someone stole my idea, regardless the book has been published under someone's name other than mine. My version had a lovely white vinyl cover, with graphite text and graphics, and bound with string and Elmer's. The artist was me too, so you know. My drawing has not improved as regularly or gradually.

Anyway, finally in my mid-thirties my papers in graduate school were fetching me A's and B's. I got a reputation. I did well, and worked hard on my papers. I had a reputation all right.

There was one consistent problem. I never quite followed directions given on assignments.

A conversation with one professor went like this:

"You wrote a great paper, why exactly are you here to see me about it?"

"Dr. [Psychologist/Professor] I am concerned with the grade I got."

"But you got an A."

"I see that. What concerns me is the grader's remarks."

[Professors rarely grade most of the papers they assign. They have graders who read and grade our papers. Usually the two are in such kahoots that you cannot budge the professor into changing your grade despite the grader's obvious and complete lack of reason].

"I'm sure the grader had good reason to give you that grade." He was smiling at me and trying not to giggle. I could see that!

"Yes, but you see, she says here 'Your writing is excellent and you make your case well. Good work.'"

"That sounds positive."

"Yes, but she goes on, 'However, you did not follow the assignment. It seems you did a very different assignment than the one given to you in class.'"

"Oh, I see. You do have difficulty following directions." Indeed, they HAD been talking about me. [I assume everyone talks about me]

"Shouldn't I have got a worse grade than this?!! I mean, I didn't even write the paper the way we were assigned to. I'm such a dork. I don't understand, is she just humoring me, feeling sorry for me?"

I was crying by this time because, believe it or not, I was mortified that I ONCE AGAIN had not followed directions. Who cared about the grade!

This is my life. Not only do I not follow directions I'm also completely oblivious to the fact.

He went on, "You deserve that grade and I won't change it no matter how much you cry. [at this I cracked a teary smile] However, you should know that you are an awfully good writer. Very bright. You are in the top 5% of writers in your student body."

This made me cry more. I was indeed struck by this figure, that he actually had me in a percentile. But I still felt like a charlatan. He ushered me out of his bookish and shrinkish office door with a "Keep up the good work" which I found absurd and funny all at once.

I continued cranking out papers in graduate school, and graders continued to give me good grades for writing the wrong papers.

I think that is the story of my life. My story is one of inadvertantly not following directions and getting away with it.

People in my life think it is interesting how I manage to do things that they had to do the "right" way. Actually they can become slightly hostile sometimes.

I figure I'll publish in the same way. It isn't like I didn't deserve those great marks I was given in school. The subjects were just wrong, not poorly written. The truth is that I got good grades for my writing, not the assignment [except for one professor who decided to be a !*%?&* and actually give me a D...the audacity]. I wrote great papers on the wrong subjects! I write well enough to publish, but I doubt my writing will get out there in the conventional way. It is obvious I can't sell myself...really, I ask for worse grades, not better.

"But," you ask, "how does this translate into real life anyway?" [glad you asked]

It translates into unconventionality. Unconventionality is my language. I am unconventional, but not purposely. I don't try to be this way, I'm just wired to see things differently. If you give me a task with directions I will immediately begin strategizing how to do a great job. Those details will certainly include 20% of the original directive. Yet 80% is composed of my own thoughts on the matter, which may or may not have any direct bering on the project.

"But," you ask, "why is it important for me to know this?"

I'm glad you asked. It isn't important. But, I think that it is very important to understand the basics about those we know. What makes them do the things they do and how they do them. Each person has some base M.O. through which they accomplish the assignments in their lives.

I thought it was gracious that all those graders gave me good grades despite the fact that I was handicapped in the area of following directions. Grace is what I hope I can learn to give more of to people in my life. If I see them following directions exactly, I must immediately stop being jealous...for example...and give them grace for being so exact and good at it.

Also, the world can be unkind to the unconventional, but remember, some of the most influencial people in history have also been the most unconventional. And I don't believe for a minute that most of them even knew exactly what they were doing, they just did it.

In the same way, I hope that God's grace will shine brightly in my own unconventional life. Because, really, I have no idea what I'm doing, I'm just trying to do the assignment.

person of integrity

Nobody is who we see them as. Even M. Gandhi. Even Elvis. Even Mother Teresa. However these folks and others had biographies written about them...so the perspective we have on them is closer to who they might have been.

I, most likely, will never have a biography written about me.

I can't say the same about you.

Anyway...

I had a friend once who said to me, "You are not the person I thought you were." I know, tell me what you think of that.

Now, I'm going to give you a big one on me...use it for good, not for evil.

I am indeed not who you think I am.

Though I prolifically dispense much information about myself, you still don't know me. It is truly remarkable to me the extent to which I freely disseminate myself and my laundry with abandon. Well, that is the price I pay. It may eventually pay off too. See, as a writer, it is my highest goal to publish. I think of it as one of my callings. From childhood. For me, I can only write what I know and experience. Therefore, the price I pay to eventually publish is to really be seen (sometimes with my undies showing).

But no matter how much I tell you, I'm still not who you think I am. I will elucidate on the matter of who I am a little later. First, I have to give you excuses.

Manic depression by it's very nature causes somewhat odd behavior that does not seem to gel with a person's personality. Often they are assumed synonymous.

If you think of manic depression as a brain disorder --just like other organic events affecting the brain's workings, such as a stroke, low blood sugar, traumatic brain damage, and the like-- you can actually understand why manifestations of shifts in personality occur.

If my brain is compromised by an organic, i.e. physical, disease, I, like a person with brain damage have difficulty discerning my own brain's shifts and fluctuations. The very organ that discerns such things is broke. Sometimes it is easier to believe that I sign off on my own instability with a wanton flip of my hand. That I do certain things on purpose. I can safely say that I must be in control. But success in managing and controling my own brain is much harder than it is for you. Know this if you know nothing else.

Personality and the brain are intimately connected. We don't like to believe that. We like to believe that our personalities are something innate and attached to our spirit more than our brain. Traumatic brain damaged individuals and stroke victims often have marked changes in personality at the onset of the damaging event.

Notice the verbiage "damaged" and "victim" and the lack of such compassionate verbiage connected with manic depression. Note this.

I worked at a head injury rehabilitation facility. Most of the families, if the resident had any family at all involved in their "rehab" --for brain damage results are often irreversible--, indicated significant changes in personality. These changes are frequently intolerable for friends and family. The brain trauma changed who they were to those around them.

Often brain damage in trauma and stroke manifests in poor anger control, shifts in mood, and memory problems. This is a familiar list to me.

So, my point being, I have an excuse for not being the person everyone expects me to be. I don't use this as an excuse, it is just simply an explanation. If you expect anything less than frustrated expectations, if you insist on being black & white, lack insight and understanding, then you can persist in thinking you know who I am. I, on the otherhand, have to be very flexible with myself. Any other viewpoint is deadly.

On a lighter note, let's talk about me, so you aren't surprised when you find these things out, traumatically, in the future. Save you the drama and trauma.

1. I frequently stop at 7-11 and purchase a large blue raspberry Slurpee and three jalapeno Toquitos. I like that my tongue turns blue.

2. I like NPR radio. Talk radio that even bores my mother.

3. I flip people off on the road. My mother worries about this with great consternation as she envisions me being a victim of road rage. I assure her, "I don't do it very often," but that doesn't seem to alleviate her terror.

4. When you ask me what I'm thinking --which is rare because I've usually already shared everything with you-- I will tell you something like, "I was thinking about the Roosevelt administration and how amazing it was." When, in all actuality, I was repeating the last inane sentence over and over in my head (because I am pretty sure I am undiagnosed autistic --maybe borderline at least). Such repetitions may be something like, "the mustard bottle", Or, "crank the wrench." It's always somewhat relevant to what I am doing whether eating bratwurst or fixing the lawn mower. The rhythm of such repetition is often soothing.

5. I do not like brushing my teeth and I don't do it for myself or even to assure a future with teeth. I do it for you. You should be grateful.

6. I'm not as cool as people say I am. Most of the cool things I do are so that you will think I am cool.

7. I do as little as possible to get good grades in school. I also rarely stay focused on the subject. I tend to go in my own direction absolutely convinced that I am following directions. Most of my professors marked my papers, "You completely missed the point of the assignment. However, the writing was excellent." And they would either give me an A or a B. If you think I am intelligent, it has few practical purposes. In fact, I rarely follow directions. Keep this in mind so that in the future you can say, "Hey, she told me this would happen. Maybe I should refrain from assuming it is a direct affront to me personally."

8. Many people have called me "bright". This really irritates me. I always think of bright as being just a level above mentally handicapped.

9. For that matter, I used to think I was retarded and no one would ever tell me. I think I was in college at the time.

10. I like Survivor. I know this is profoundly disappointing. I am disappointed in myself.

11. There are few things that irritate me more than my own fat rolls. I think fat is a terrible terrible injustice. I also think it is an unjust consequence to lack of exercise and eating foods high in fat.

12. I love alternative music, the kind that makes me girate in my car seat and sing nonsensical words because I can't understand the real words.

13. I would like a gun. I like shoting because I'm good at it. I have great control and can hit my target frequently. It is understandable that a gun gives me a sense of focus and control I do not have in any other area of my life. I like that.

14. I like to talk and write. If you don't like that, then we probably shouldn't be pals. You can just read my book.

15. I do not like being manic depressive. I like it sometimes because I like being consumately creative. I'd like that creativity to extend to my odd and shifting moods & behavior. I don't like being manic depressive. I like the company I keep though: Churchill, V. Woolf, Lincoln, Jim Carrey.

To be continued...

my peeps & asking

While in the hospital, two of my 9th floor cohabitants were sitting in the window overlooking the city. Hands in my pockets (as I'd finally been given my street clothes in lieu scrubs) I walked up behind them, assuming the same posture of observing as they were. I saw nothing particularly strange outside.

"What are you looking at?"

"We're counting people," as if this was a common game.

"Oh," I said. Then I succeeded in convincing one of them that a game of chess was far more entertaining.

I was counting people too though. Not people out on the streets below our hospital perch, but people I knew. People who were on the outside of my mental lockup. People who were THERE in the best possible sense of the word.

I was, and am still, finding out that people want to help me.

I don't like asking for help. Who does? But let me tell you --and then a few other people I know will confirm this-- I really don't like asking for help!

It has always profoundly embarrassed me that I need help. Asking for help in some areas is mortifying. I try to get on my feet as soon as I can when things go badly, because to do anything other than that implies too much.

Staying down for the count implies that I am weak. It implies that I am broken. It implies that I want to be successful less than I want to be a burden. It implies that I am weaker, the weak link, the guy who gets voted off the island first.

The reality is that my condition, not unlike that of any other physical condition, requires me to seek help and assistance. I have manic depression, and I do need help. I just rarely ask for it.

But the simple fact, for all of us, is that there are always people who want to help and we're always in need of assistance. Fortunately for me, these are people I know. People who know me. They have waited, and waited (for years in some cases), for me to ask for their help and assistance.

That's the golden ring...asking.

I didn't go calling every person I'm close to. Mind you, I was in the psychiatric unit. My energy was limited, and my time was spent attending to my brokenness. Not every person who cares for me knew I was in the hospital. For the time I was in the hospital, that crucial time, I relied heavily on the care, advocacy, and concern of those who knew where I was and those professionals devoted to my getting better.

My peeps.

If I take all the essential elements of life into consideration, I am blessed and highly favored by the Lord God.

Again, my peeps.
Let's take my cousin for example.

Let us just call her my sister from here on out, since neither of us has siblings anyway. She was there to guide me, by way of listening to what I needed, from the moment I asked for help. She advocated for me in the ER. She called me every day. She visited me almost every day.

Mind you...I have NEVER asked her for help before. Not this kind anyway.

It wasn't easy for her either. When the ER psychiatric doctor came back saying he wanted me to go into outpatient care, I cried. Why? I wanted the security of a psychiatric unit! I knew I had looked too good...that maybe I should have acted more crazy!

She said to him, in her straight-forward manner, "Are you not admitting her because she seems less needy? Don't let her fool you. She's used to looking better than she is."

"Well," he said...and then tried to explain something that sounded an awful lot like they wouldn't admit me because I didn't have insurance.

"I'm sorry," she said in a less than apologetic tone, "did you just say that you won't admit my cousin because she doesn't have insurance?"

And then she said some more things on the subject that made the doctor sort of stammer and then excuse himself to go, "make a phone call."

When he reappeared at the door a half hour later, excusing my "sitter" (all psych patients are sure to get a sitter in the ER) he informed us that I was admitted into the hospital. I cried again, because they heard me.

We celebrated too, which, I guess is sort of an unusual response in these cases, as the ER staff looked at us strangely, not knowing whether to celebrate for us.

But it was a moment to be celebrated! I had asked for help and I was getting it. I was so scared I would not get the help I so needed.

That is precisely why I don't like asking for help.

My sister/cousin came and saw me almost every day. Even when I was nearly comatose she came and spent time with me...I think. See, her work was just down the road and she had literally picked that particular hospital due to it's proximity to where she was everyday.

I know that my stay took a toll on my family. I think they must have been scared. I know they would not have let me know that they were. But for the first time, ever, they were involved in my crisis and recovery. Their involvement was frightening for me! They could disown me, or question me, or not understand at the very least. But it turned out very well! They all supported and still support me.

Inside.

On the inside swarmed many a professional who cared, with a Socratic oath, that I get better. My doctor was a man who smiled and joked with me. He also gave me drugs that finally worked. Nurses, OT's, and social workers hovered around me with refreshing boundaries and appropriate sentiment. They laughed with me and told stories. They sat with me when I was hardly there and they played games with me when I finally came to.

You may never know what this is like. But for me they were life savers!

Who are your peeps? Do you let them know when you need help and assistance? Are you embarrassed by your needs in some areas? Let me be your star in this matter --as Emerson said to "hitch your wagon to a star". I don't know if I'm a red dwarf star or a super nova, but you can heed my words when I tell you...ask for help.

It may very well be the best move you ever make!