Recently, I was transferring my documents from one laptop to another. I found a document called "Hi", written in January of 2009. Had no idea what it could be.
I forgot that I wrote a letter to my mom. Well, was writing a letter to my mom, at least. The last conversation the two of us had, I told my mother that I had a number of serious doubts about the things I was taught as a Jehovah's Witness. She asked for specifics, and I said that it was too much to bring up at that time.
That night, I started writing her a letter. Five hours and 4200 words later, I saved the document and went to bed. I didn't even begin to explain my objections to a lot of the doctrine I had previously believed. Had no chance to get into the blood issue, or anything concerning 1914 or 607 B.C. I very quickly realized that finishing the letter was pointless. My mother probably would have never read it anyway. What was the point in writing the apostate equivalent of War and Peace?
Considering my state of mind at the time, I'm surprised at how logical I was with my writing. Didn't curse even once. Read for yourself, after the jump.
*Interesting footnote: Spell check programs do not recognize the words disfellowshipped and disfellowshipping. Interesting....
Showing posts with label my mother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label my mother. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Tat Tuesday
Thought I would try out a new weekly post (like I don't post enough, already). I have always been a huge fan of tattoos and body modifications, but I haven't found way to incorporate that into the website. Hopefully, that's where "Tat Tuesday" will come in.
"Tat Tuesday" will be a weekly post consisting of a photo or two of a tattoo or a piercing that I admire or appreciate. In the last decade, the tattoo industry has attracted a bevy of classic artists, many with college degrees in art history and theory. Tattoo artists are no longer the stereotypical biker with a tattoo gun. They are legitimate artists, using the human body as their canvas.
For this week's post, I thought I would show my latest piece of work. I had it done in May of this year by Josh at Serenity Tattoo in Tucson, Arizona. He did a wonderful job. He also did some work on my wife earlier this year. I'll probably show her piece at a later time. I had a hard time with my arm accepting the ink. There were some areas where he had to go over eight or nine times before any ink would seem to go into the skin. It also scabbed up differently than any of my previous tattoos. On a couple of the numbers, overnight most of the ink bled out. Since my last tattoo, I had been diagnosed as having Type II Diabetes. It was a night and day experience versus any tattoo I had had previously. The pain level was exponentially higher. It initially healed up "waxy", and took about six weeks or so to look normal. It's enough of a game changer to reconsider getting another tattoo until my A1C drops considerably.
If you have seen 'Donnie Darko', then you recognize the image immediately and understand it's significance. If not, let me explain.
In the movie, Donnie is visited by a bizarre looking, time traveling, six foot tall rabbit named Frank. Throughout the movie, you're not really sure at times whether Donnie's actually seeing these's things, or if he's schizophrenic. This demonic looking rabbit gives him messages throughout the film. After one of his "episodes", he wakes up on a golf course. The numbers above are written on his arm, exactly as they are on mine. Frank tells Donnie, "28 days, 6 hours, 42 minutes, and 12 seconds. This is when the world will end".
I got the tattoo for two reasons. First of all, I'm a huge fan of the movie, and I thought it would make a badass tattoo. I have never seen a full Darko piece on a forearm like that before, and I thought that it would be a cool tattoo to get.
Secondly, I got the tattoo on May 21, 2011. It was the day that Harold Camping had prophesied that the world was going to end. Doomsday prophesies are nothing new to me.
I grew up as one of Jehovah's Witnesses. Every Saturday morning, I was knocking on doors, telling people that god was going to destroy the world at the "great day of Armageddon". It was coming any day now. My mother was so sure that it was right around the corner, in fact, that she kept me out of kindergarten. Kindergarten came and went. So did twelve years of school. I was forbidden to go to college, because there would be no need for higher education in god's "new system of things". Armageddon was right around the corner, after all.
I'm 36 now. My daughter will be starting kindergarten in two years, and I'm sure my mother is still saying that Armageddon is, now more than ever, "right around the corner".
My point is, there will always be some religious zealot out there with a doomsday prophesy. Whether it be the Jehovah's Witnesses, or Harold Camping or the Mayans, the world is set to end in someone's mind about every 28 days. That is why I got the tattoo: To remind myself of what I left 15 years ago.
"Tat Tuesday" will be a weekly post consisting of a photo or two of a tattoo or a piercing that I admire or appreciate. In the last decade, the tattoo industry has attracted a bevy of classic artists, many with college degrees in art history and theory. Tattoo artists are no longer the stereotypical biker with a tattoo gun. They are legitimate artists, using the human body as their canvas.
For this week's post, I thought I would show my latest piece of work. I had it done in May of this year by Josh at Serenity Tattoo in Tucson, Arizona. He did a wonderful job. He also did some work on my wife earlier this year. I'll probably show her piece at a later time. I had a hard time with my arm accepting the ink. There were some areas where he had to go over eight or nine times before any ink would seem to go into the skin. It also scabbed up differently than any of my previous tattoos. On a couple of the numbers, overnight most of the ink bled out. Since my last tattoo, I had been diagnosed as having Type II Diabetes. It was a night and day experience versus any tattoo I had had previously. The pain level was exponentially higher. It initially healed up "waxy", and took about six weeks or so to look normal. It's enough of a game changer to reconsider getting another tattoo until my A1C drops considerably.
It healed up well though, as you can see. Pay no attention to the bruises. I'm still recovering from surgery.
If you have seen 'Donnie Darko', then you recognize the image immediately and understand it's significance. If not, let me explain.
In the movie, Donnie is visited by a bizarre looking, time traveling, six foot tall rabbit named Frank. Throughout the movie, you're not really sure at times whether Donnie's actually seeing these's things, or if he's schizophrenic. This demonic looking rabbit gives him messages throughout the film. After one of his "episodes", he wakes up on a golf course. The numbers above are written on his arm, exactly as they are on mine. Frank tells Donnie, "28 days, 6 hours, 42 minutes, and 12 seconds. This is when the world will end".
I got the tattoo for two reasons. First of all, I'm a huge fan of the movie, and I thought it would make a badass tattoo. I have never seen a full Darko piece on a forearm like that before, and I thought that it would be a cool tattoo to get.
Secondly, I got the tattoo on May 21, 2011. It was the day that Harold Camping had prophesied that the world was going to end. Doomsday prophesies are nothing new to me.
I grew up as one of Jehovah's Witnesses. Every Saturday morning, I was knocking on doors, telling people that god was going to destroy the world at the "great day of Armageddon". It was coming any day now. My mother was so sure that it was right around the corner, in fact, that she kept me out of kindergarten. Kindergarten came and went. So did twelve years of school. I was forbidden to go to college, because there would be no need for higher education in god's "new system of things". Armageddon was right around the corner, after all.
I'm 36 now. My daughter will be starting kindergarten in two years, and I'm sure my mother is still saying that Armageddon is, now more than ever, "right around the corner".
My point is, there will always be some religious zealot out there with a doomsday prophesy. Whether it be the Jehovah's Witnesses, or Harold Camping or the Mayans, the world is set to end in someone's mind about every 28 days. That is why I got the tattoo: To remind myself of what I left 15 years ago.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Sunday Confessional: The Day I Ran Away From Home...And Religion
Throughout most of 1996, I was miserable. I turned 21 in June. I was living at home. At the time, my father owned a route for a potato chip company. His job was to stock the shelves in a dozen or so grocery stores in the Phoenix area on a daily basis. I worked for him.
I was confused, and, to put it lightly, depressed. So depressed in fact, that I had been contemplating suicide on a daily basis for three to four years prior. Something about my life needed to change. Scratch that. Everything in my life needed to change...and quickly.
It was late August when I decided that I was going to run. I didn't know where. I didn't know when. I just had to run. If I had stayed, I was going to kill myself. Part of the initial "runaway" plan involved suicide, but I'll get into that later.
I was confused, and, to put it lightly, depressed. So depressed in fact, that I had been contemplating suicide on a daily basis for three to four years prior. Something about my life needed to change. Scratch that. Everything in my life needed to change...and quickly.
It was late August when I decided that I was going to run. I didn't know where. I didn't know when. I just had to run. If I had stayed, I was going to kill myself. Part of the initial "runaway" plan involved suicide, but I'll get into that later.
Monday, July 25, 2011
2009 Awake! Says 'No One Should Force You To Choose Between Religion And Family'
In what can only be described as the ultimate in hypocritical advice, the July 2009, 'Awake!' magazine tells their potential converts that no one should bully them into their beliefs. Take a look at this paragraph. Image courtesy of Saved From The Watchtower:
If you are a Witness, and later decide that you no longer believe their doctrine, or that being a Jehovah's Witness just isn't for you anymore, your friends and family members have no choice but to shun you. If they don't, they're threatened with the possibility of being kicked out of the church themselves.
Speaking for myself, I haven't seen most of my immediate family in almost six years. My father has never seen his granddaughter. My mother has only seen her once, when she was 8 months old. My little girl turned three in May. I have found out about relatives of mine that have died, only from reading obituaries online. I probably won't even get a phone call when my parents die.
Oh, but don't make us choose between our religion and our family. That's not fair. What bullshit.
"No one should be forced to worship in a way that he finds unacceptable or be made to choose between his beliefs and his family."Evidently, what's good for the goose is not good for the gander, in this case. Of course, no one should force you to worship as any religion other than Jehovah's Witnesses. But as one of Jehovah's Witnesses it's perfectly acceptable for the organization to intimidate and threaten their followers to continue to worship as they believe.
If you are a Witness, and later decide that you no longer believe their doctrine, or that being a Jehovah's Witness just isn't for you anymore, your friends and family members have no choice but to shun you. If they don't, they're threatened with the possibility of being kicked out of the church themselves.
Speaking for myself, I haven't seen most of my immediate family in almost six years. My father has never seen his granddaughter. My mother has only seen her once, when she was 8 months old. My little girl turned three in May. I have found out about relatives of mine that have died, only from reading obituaries online. I probably won't even get a phone call when my parents die.
Oh, but don't make us choose between our religion and our family. That's not fair. What bullshit.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
The First Mother's Day I Celebrated
Jehovah's Witnesses do not celebrate Mother's Day. Don't ask me why. Some believe it has it's roots in "Pagan" rituals. Others believe that setting aside a day to thank your mother for everything that she does takes away time that should be for thanking god, thus making it "idol worship". I know. Pretty ridiculous, right? So, my entire life, I have never celebrated Mother's Day. I've never given my mom a card or flowers. I have never taken her out for breakfast on the second Sunday in May.
All of that changed for me three years ago. As 12:00AM Mother's Day, 2008, approached, my wife was approximately a little over 50 hours into labor. We had checked into the Women's Hospital in Albuquerque just before 10:00PM on Thursday night, and, between the two of us, had gotten maybe an hour of sleep between then and now. We had seen probably 20 episodes of 'The X-Files' by then. We really weren't fans of the show, but overnight, that, and 'The Chronicles of Riddick' were the only two things that were on TV.
At about 1:00AM, my wife's heartbeat started to flutter. They sent in a tech to compete an EKG. At this point, she already had probably a dozen wires and tubes hooked up to her. The tech had a difficult time trying to figure out how to get around everything and get to her chest with her hospital gown tied up the way that it was. He was a little inexperienced, to say the least. Finally, he realized that the arm holes unsnapped and pulled away, so he unsnapped the three buttons on the arm and pulled the right side of the gown away to expose my wife's cleavage.
"Niiiiiiice."
He then demonstrated how the word "dude" can be a stand alone sentence, yet mean a number of different things.
"Dude!" (You misunderstood me. I was not saying, "Nice cleavage." I was saying, "It's nice that I found a way to access the area for the procedure.")
"Dude." (I am so sorry, sir. I was not making a pass at your wife.)
"Dude." (Please do not kick my ass.)
"Dude?" (Are we cool?)
Three hours later, at 4:35AM, our daughter was born. It was the best Mother's Day present my wife could have. It sure beat any Hallmark card or any bouquet of flowers I could have given her. In case you were wondering, I still gave her a card.
My wife had a rough delivery. I couldn't have been more proud of her. She was stronger than I ever would have imagined. Since her water broke almost 48 hours earlier, she had developed an infection. Our daughter was also born with pneumonia. My little girl was in the NICU for 8 days, while my wife was hospitalized for 3 days following the delivery. Unfortunately, she was not able to see Lennon until the following day. The nurses in the NICU took Lennon's picture and had it framed as a Mother's Day present for my wife. Looking back at the photo today, it's hard to imagine that our little girl is the same one that was hooked up to the monitors under the blue lamps. That today, she's walking up to everyone in the house, hugging them, and saying, "Happy Mother's Day". Wow. Has it been three years already?
Mother's Day will always hold a special place in my heart. Oddly enough, for the rest of my life, when I think of that day, my own mother will likely be the last woman I think of...if I even think of her at all.
All of that changed for me three years ago. As 12:00AM Mother's Day, 2008, approached, my wife was approximately a little over 50 hours into labor. We had checked into the Women's Hospital in Albuquerque just before 10:00PM on Thursday night, and, between the two of us, had gotten maybe an hour of sleep between then and now. We had seen probably 20 episodes of 'The X-Files' by then. We really weren't fans of the show, but overnight, that, and 'The Chronicles of Riddick' were the only two things that were on TV.
At about 1:00AM, my wife's heartbeat started to flutter. They sent in a tech to compete an EKG. At this point, she already had probably a dozen wires and tubes hooked up to her. The tech had a difficult time trying to figure out how to get around everything and get to her chest with her hospital gown tied up the way that it was. He was a little inexperienced, to say the least. Finally, he realized that the arm holes unsnapped and pulled away, so he unsnapped the three buttons on the arm and pulled the right side of the gown away to expose my wife's cleavage.
"Niiiiiiice."
He then demonstrated how the word "dude" can be a stand alone sentence, yet mean a number of different things.
"Dude!" (You misunderstood me. I was not saying, "Nice cleavage." I was saying, "It's nice that I found a way to access the area for the procedure.")
"Dude." (I am so sorry, sir. I was not making a pass at your wife.)
"Dude." (Please do not kick my ass.)
"Dude?" (Are we cool?)
Three hours later, at 4:35AM, our daughter was born. It was the best Mother's Day present my wife could have. It sure beat any Hallmark card or any bouquet of flowers I could have given her. In case you were wondering, I still gave her a card.
My wife had a rough delivery. I couldn't have been more proud of her. She was stronger than I ever would have imagined. Since her water broke almost 48 hours earlier, she had developed an infection. Our daughter was also born with pneumonia. My little girl was in the NICU for 8 days, while my wife was hospitalized for 3 days following the delivery. Unfortunately, she was not able to see Lennon until the following day. The nurses in the NICU took Lennon's picture and had it framed as a Mother's Day present for my wife. Looking back at the photo today, it's hard to imagine that our little girl is the same one that was hooked up to the monitors under the blue lamps. That today, she's walking up to everyone in the house, hugging them, and saying, "Happy Mother's Day". Wow. Has it been three years already?
Mother's Day will always hold a special place in my heart. Oddly enough, for the rest of my life, when I think of that day, my own mother will likely be the last woman I think of...if I even think of her at all.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
I'm Not Hiding Anymore
When I stopped communicating with my mother a few years ago, I practically went into hiding. When it came to my personal beliefs, I had stopped considering myself a Jehovah's Witness by the latter part of 1996.
In August of that year, I took the last $600 I had in my bank account and purchased a one-way airline ticket from Phoenix, Arizona, to Las Vegas. It was my intention to indulge myself in all of the vices that I was forbidden to do as a Witness in the previous 21 years of my life, and when my money had run out, commit suicide. Within three hours of touching down at the airport, I had smoked, drank, and gambled for the first time in my life. An hour later, I lost my virginity.
Sufficed to say, I didn't commit suicide. The "wicked world" that I had suddenly found myself in wasn't so wicked after all. I encountered one stranger after another that offered their generosity to me. Four months later, I returned to live in my parents' home, but I never stepped foot into a Kingdom Hall again.
For the better part of the next ten years, I did the same thing I had done for the previous ten. I led a double life. Being out of the church gave me the freedom to live the life that I wanted, to some degree. But, in order to keep an ongoing relationship with my immediate family, my personal life was an unspoken agreement of "Don't Ask Don't Tell". I was never disfellowshipped from the congregation, and I did not submit a formal letter of disassociation. I just stopped showing up. As far as my mother's conscience was concerned, as long as she didn't know any details of my personal life, or of any of the "gross sins" I was committing, she wasn't obligated to cut off communication with me.
It's one thing to have to keep your private life a secret from the people that you work with. It's another to have to keep it from the people that are closest to you. What made it exceptionally hard for me was the fact that, for a number of years, my family were my coworkers. I was forced to act like I was still a "good Christian boy" practically 24/7. It finally became too much to handle.
I quit the family business, and speaking to my family, in January of 2006. When that happened, as I said, I pretty much went "off the grid". I changed all of my email addresses. I changed my phone number. I wanted to make sure that if I posted something online, it couldn't be traced back to me if my mom or my brother or sister was snooping around. For those of you that are reading this that are ex-JWs, I'm sure you can understand where I'm coming from. Especially if you were raised in the organization, and grew up in the same area for a number of years, it seems like you're constantly looking over your shoulder for the first couple of years that you're out. Many times, you don't even realize that you're doing it. I've been out now for 15 years. I don't even think I would be recognizable to the people I grew up around, and I still catch myself scanning restaurants on the West side of Phoenix when I walk in.
When I had my little girl in 2008, I reached out to my mom. I wanted to give her a chance. We started communicating by email. Then by phone. She even came out to Phoenix to see my daughter when she was around 8 or 9 months old. Then her "conscience" kicked in. Keep in mind, nothing had changed between the time that we had stopped talking in '06 and when she came out in early '09. She started saying that she wasn't sure that she could trust me because of "what I've done". She also started to refer to me as an "apostate". She admitted that she had no knowledge of any derogatory things I was saying of the organization, and I told her that I had not spoken negatively about JWs or their doctrines. She said she believed me, but due to the fact that I was baptized as a Witness, and no longer believed in the church's teachings, that made me an "apostate".
She had a solution to her dilemma. She said that she no longer felt comfortable talking or associating with me, but she wanted to continue communication with my wife and my daughter. In fact, she asked if it was possible for me to send her some pictures of my little girl, she would appreciate it. Um...yeah, no. I tried to explain to her, and to this day she doesn't understand, that when it comes to my family, we don't come "a la carte". You either have to take us all, or you get none of us. You can't pick and choose how you can and can't keep. That's not the way my family works.
So, we stopped talking. I started this blog in September of 2009...anonymously. I didn't reveal any names or locations. I didn't give any specifics about myself or my family. I went into hiding again. This time, I hid behind my moniker. For the next year and a half, I was Twitch. It wasn't my name, it was one of my conditions. My picture across the internet became a stuffed Domo, with all of my daily medications spilled out in front of it. In fact, if you Google my name, you'll find my Domo before you find my actual picture. My mother thought I was an apostate before? Just imagine what she would have thought of The Daily Twitch.
In time, I found my confidence. I found my voice. I found the support of all of you out there on the net. I realize now that I don't have to hide anymore. Odds are, my mom has been reading my blog for months. If not, she knows who I am by now anyway. About six months ago, I sent her an email telling her about my PTSD diagnosis due to the child abuse I received from her and my dad. I also came out as bisexual. It felt like coming up for air after being underwater for years. I have no secrets anymore. I have no reason to hide. So here I am.
My name is Adam Hall. I live in Mesa, Arizona, with my wonderful wife, Jessi, and my daughter Lennon. It's nice to finally meet you all. I still plan on writing under the name of Twitch. The name of the blog is The Daily Twitch, after all. I have made the decision, however, to not publish any photos of my daughter. Not only do I want to protect her from my mother and that crazy religion, but I also know how desperate my mother is to see her. I'm not blackmailing her by any means. I just believe that you cannot conveniently select which family members are worthy of your affection. It may be tough for her to swallow, but some lessons in life are.
In August of that year, I took the last $600 I had in my bank account and purchased a one-way airline ticket from Phoenix, Arizona, to Las Vegas. It was my intention to indulge myself in all of the vices that I was forbidden to do as a Witness in the previous 21 years of my life, and when my money had run out, commit suicide. Within three hours of touching down at the airport, I had smoked, drank, and gambled for the first time in my life. An hour later, I lost my virginity.
 |
| August 24, 1996 Room 1614 of the Las Vegas Hilton - Don't ask me how I remember the date and the room number of the hotel I lost my virginity in. I guess when you're looking forward to an event for so many years, you tend to remember some of the details. |
For the better part of the next ten years, I did the same thing I had done for the previous ten. I led a double life. Being out of the church gave me the freedom to live the life that I wanted, to some degree. But, in order to keep an ongoing relationship with my immediate family, my personal life was an unspoken agreement of "Don't Ask Don't Tell". I was never disfellowshipped from the congregation, and I did not submit a formal letter of disassociation. I just stopped showing up. As far as my mother's conscience was concerned, as long as she didn't know any details of my personal life, or of any of the "gross sins" I was committing, she wasn't obligated to cut off communication with me.
It's one thing to have to keep your private life a secret from the people that you work with. It's another to have to keep it from the people that are closest to you. What made it exceptionally hard for me was the fact that, for a number of years, my family were my coworkers. I was forced to act like I was still a "good Christian boy" practically 24/7. It finally became too much to handle.
I quit the family business, and speaking to my family, in January of 2006. When that happened, as I said, I pretty much went "off the grid". I changed all of my email addresses. I changed my phone number. I wanted to make sure that if I posted something online, it couldn't be traced back to me if my mom or my brother or sister was snooping around. For those of you that are reading this that are ex-JWs, I'm sure you can understand where I'm coming from. Especially if you were raised in the organization, and grew up in the same area for a number of years, it seems like you're constantly looking over your shoulder for the first couple of years that you're out. Many times, you don't even realize that you're doing it. I've been out now for 15 years. I don't even think I would be recognizable to the people I grew up around, and I still catch myself scanning restaurants on the West side of Phoenix when I walk in.
When I had my little girl in 2008, I reached out to my mom. I wanted to give her a chance. We started communicating by email. Then by phone. She even came out to Phoenix to see my daughter when she was around 8 or 9 months old. Then her "conscience" kicked in. Keep in mind, nothing had changed between the time that we had stopped talking in '06 and when she came out in early '09. She started saying that she wasn't sure that she could trust me because of "what I've done". She also started to refer to me as an "apostate". She admitted that she had no knowledge of any derogatory things I was saying of the organization, and I told her that I had not spoken negatively about JWs or their doctrines. She said she believed me, but due to the fact that I was baptized as a Witness, and no longer believed in the church's teachings, that made me an "apostate".
She had a solution to her dilemma. She said that she no longer felt comfortable talking or associating with me, but she wanted to continue communication with my wife and my daughter. In fact, she asked if it was possible for me to send her some pictures of my little girl, she would appreciate it. Um...yeah, no. I tried to explain to her, and to this day she doesn't understand, that when it comes to my family, we don't come "a la carte". You either have to take us all, or you get none of us. You can't pick and choose how you can and can't keep. That's not the way my family works.
So, we stopped talking. I started this blog in September of 2009...anonymously. I didn't reveal any names or locations. I didn't give any specifics about myself or my family. I went into hiding again. This time, I hid behind my moniker. For the next year and a half, I was Twitch. It wasn't my name, it was one of my conditions. My picture across the internet became a stuffed Domo, with all of my daily medications spilled out in front of it. In fact, if you Google my name, you'll find my Domo before you find my actual picture. My mother thought I was an apostate before? Just imagine what she would have thought of The Daily Twitch.
In time, I found my confidence. I found my voice. I found the support of all of you out there on the net. I realize now that I don't have to hide anymore. Odds are, my mom has been reading my blog for months. If not, she knows who I am by now anyway. About six months ago, I sent her an email telling her about my PTSD diagnosis due to the child abuse I received from her and my dad. I also came out as bisexual. It felt like coming up for air after being underwater for years. I have no secrets anymore. I have no reason to hide. So here I am.
My name is Adam Hall. I live in Mesa, Arizona, with my wonderful wife, Jessi, and my daughter Lennon. It's nice to finally meet you all. I still plan on writing under the name of Twitch. The name of the blog is The Daily Twitch, after all. I have made the decision, however, to not publish any photos of my daughter. Not only do I want to protect her from my mother and that crazy religion, but I also know how desperate my mother is to see her. I'm not blackmailing her by any means. I just believe that you cannot conveniently select which family members are worthy of your affection. It may be tough for her to swallow, but some lessons in life are.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Sunday, October 24, 2010
I Came Out To My Mother Yesterday
Yesterday, my mother sent me an email, asking me if I could send her my address so she could send my daughter something. For some reason, she doesn't understand that if ties are severed between her and I, they're severed for my family as well. She seems to think that she'll be able to have a perfectly normal relationship with her granddaughter even if she's no longer talking to her son. I don't understand how her mind works.
In the response to her email, I told her that, considering the bang up job she did parenting me, I wanted her nowhere near my daughter. I also decided to get a number of things off of my chest. I told her for the first time about my PTSD, and that it was caused by years of child abuse that I had endured. Finally, I told her about my bisexuality.
I'm not expecting a response. I don't want to ever speak to her again.
In the response to her email, I told her that, considering the bang up job she did parenting me, I wanted her nowhere near my daughter. I also decided to get a number of things off of my chest. I told her for the first time about my PTSD, and that it was caused by years of child abuse that I had endured. Finally, I told her about my bisexuality.
Lastly, I'm bisexual. I've known this since I was about 11 years old. Growing up was pure hell in that house. I had absolutely no one I could talk to. I had no friends. I couldn't even talk to my own mother. Everyday I was getting my ass kicked, being called a fatass and a faggot. I contemplated suicide on a daily basis for most of my teenage years. And I knew that if I opened up about what I was going through, I would be bullied by my family too. Growing up, I wanted to come to you and tell you about the crushes I had on just as many boys as I did girls. It wasn't just Anne and Ambre. You have no idea how alone I was, but I knew what the consequences were if I told you.
I'm not expecting a response. I don't want to ever speak to her again.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Tourette's/PTSD Update
There have been some ups and downs in regards to my mental and physical health in the last week. First, I have noticed a steady decrease in tics since being placed on Invega by my neurologist. So far, so good. The nights of restlessness and pacing back and forth seem to be a thing of the past as well. Most nights I am still only getting 2-3 hours of sleep. I wake up anywhere between 3:10 and 3:45 in the morning. Sometimes, I am able to force myself back to sleep until a little after 5am, but most mornings, I am up for the day by then. It's a strange feeling. Feels like you're the only one in the world. No one you can call. No one online. No one you can chat with on Facebook. Just you, your laptop, and your boredom for 5 hours until the baby wakes up. You never get used to that.
Since seeing my therapist the other day, I've been having a hard time with my PTSD. I've been having more flashbacks than I've been able to count. It has been extremely tough. Something in particular has been bothering me that I haven't thought about in over a decade. It's very hard to discuss, embarrassing in fact, but I have to get it off my chest.
From the time I was in my early teens, until I was in my early twenties, roughly 8-10 years, I had a problem with bed wetting. This wasn't the occasional piddle on the sheets at night. This was something that happened every single night. I would wake up soaked in my own urine, and would have to change my sheets, find towels to soak up the mattress, and start a load of laundry to wash my underwear, sweats, pajamas(whatever I was wearing to bed that night). It was routine. I must have wet the bed thousands of times over the years. I could never figure out why.
It was the ultimate embarrassment. I wouldn't spend the night at any of my friend's houses in fear it would happen there. My family was afraid to take me on vacation. When on vacation, I would be so nervous, I would try to stay up for 3 to 4 days straight. One time I stayed up at Disneyland for 3 days straight. I finally fell asleep the third night. I woke up the next morning with the bed so soaked, my hair was wet. I was so tired, I didn't even wake myself up after wetting the bed multiple times.
I was afraid to fall asleep on the couch at home or in the living room floor. It got to the point where I wouldn't be allowed to drink anything with dinner or afterward. I still would wet the bed. I finally confided with my doctor and was given a prescription to help stop urine production at night. After my first day on the medication, I stopped wetting the bed.
The thing that is bothering me now is this, did that medication just give me a placebo effect? Was this a psychological condition and not a medical one? I was on that medication for a little over a month and haven't taken it since. That was 12 years ago. Could the reason I was wetting the bed have been because of the abuse and not because of "urine production". Was this all a way for my brain to deal with trauma. My brain basically did the same thing with my bowels back in 2000 and again this year and we just now realized that was part of the PTSD. Why wouldn't my bladder do the same?
The whole idea of this being a possibility is really upsetting me. The trauma of the bed wetting experience itself is devastating. I can't think of anything that can make a teenager feel more alone, more shamed. It's such a personal issue, that even in my mid 30s, I still feel uncomfortable talking about it. The reactions that often come from the parents and siblings often fuel that shame. There is no support. Just finger pointing, giggling, and embarrassment. My mother even made me go into the grocery store to by my own Depends once. There is no support in that.
I am now starting to wonder if, not only was I showing signs of Tourette's as a child, which I am slowly starting to have memories of, but, was I also starting to show symptoms of PTSD as early as my late teens or early twenties. If I have been going untreated for the better part of twenty years, how long will it take me to recover from this? How many hours of therapy will it take to undo the damage that has already been done?
Since seeing my therapist the other day, I've been having a hard time with my PTSD. I've been having more flashbacks than I've been able to count. It has been extremely tough. Something in particular has been bothering me that I haven't thought about in over a decade. It's very hard to discuss, embarrassing in fact, but I have to get it off my chest.
From the time I was in my early teens, until I was in my early twenties, roughly 8-10 years, I had a problem with bed wetting. This wasn't the occasional piddle on the sheets at night. This was something that happened every single night. I would wake up soaked in my own urine, and would have to change my sheets, find towels to soak up the mattress, and start a load of laundry to wash my underwear, sweats, pajamas(whatever I was wearing to bed that night). It was routine. I must have wet the bed thousands of times over the years. I could never figure out why.
It was the ultimate embarrassment. I wouldn't spend the night at any of my friend's houses in fear it would happen there. My family was afraid to take me on vacation. When on vacation, I would be so nervous, I would try to stay up for 3 to 4 days straight. One time I stayed up at Disneyland for 3 days straight. I finally fell asleep the third night. I woke up the next morning with the bed so soaked, my hair was wet. I was so tired, I didn't even wake myself up after wetting the bed multiple times.
I was afraid to fall asleep on the couch at home or in the living room floor. It got to the point where I wouldn't be allowed to drink anything with dinner or afterward. I still would wet the bed. I finally confided with my doctor and was given a prescription to help stop urine production at night. After my first day on the medication, I stopped wetting the bed.
The thing that is bothering me now is this, did that medication just give me a placebo effect? Was this a psychological condition and not a medical one? I was on that medication for a little over a month and haven't taken it since. That was 12 years ago. Could the reason I was wetting the bed have been because of the abuse and not because of "urine production". Was this all a way for my brain to deal with trauma. My brain basically did the same thing with my bowels back in 2000 and again this year and we just now realized that was part of the PTSD. Why wouldn't my bladder do the same?
The whole idea of this being a possibility is really upsetting me. The trauma of the bed wetting experience itself is devastating. I can't think of anything that can make a teenager feel more alone, more shamed. It's such a personal issue, that even in my mid 30s, I still feel uncomfortable talking about it. The reactions that often come from the parents and siblings often fuel that shame. There is no support. Just finger pointing, giggling, and embarrassment. My mother even made me go into the grocery store to by my own Depends once. There is no support in that.
I am now starting to wonder if, not only was I showing signs of Tourette's as a child, which I am slowly starting to have memories of, but, was I also starting to show symptoms of PTSD as early as my late teens or early twenties. If I have been going untreated for the better part of twenty years, how long will it take me to recover from this? How many hours of therapy will it take to undo the damage that has already been done?
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The Last Time I "Spoke" To My Mother
I knew this post was coming.
I've been thinking about it and contemplating it for a couple of weeks now and figured it is finally time to go there.
January 6, 2006, I was working in the office of the family business. My mom had just gotten home from the hospital the previous day, after spending 9 weeks practically locked in a room with a mysterious immune system disorder. The two of us got into an argument that started over furniture, of all things, and eventually, before it was over, led to me quitting the family business.
I was the operations manager of their trucking company. I did all of their dispatching, payroll, human resources, etc. I was the business. My father was out of state with a load, and my brother, still asleep at three in the afternoon. It was Thursday(payday), and times tough with the business. We didn't have enough to pay all the drivers. I really left them high and dry. So, in no uncertain terms, by leaving the business, I was also leaving the family. I was getting so tired of living a double life. By that time, I had been out of the church for 10 years, but still had to act like a Witness during the day.
I later found out that my parents had my little brother, who was 26 at the time, take over for my position with the company. They went bankrupt a little more than three months later. They lost their house, their two cars, and their fleet of trucks. He wasn't paying attention with the payroll software and inadvertently overpaid a number of the drivers tens of thousands of dollars.
I didn't speak with my mother again until the day after my daughter was born. I simply sent her an email with a picture of my little girl with her date of birth, name and weight. Two minutes later, I received an email response that simply said "Thank you".
Over the next couple of months, we slowly started exchanging email. I started to fill her in on the information on where I was and how I was now a husband and father. She started to fill me in on how they had all moved to the East Coast to be closer to my nieces during my little brother's custody battle.
Things started going well. For the most part, she kept religion out of the conversation. I kept out religion and politics. We had a couple of conversations that were surprisingly candid. She apologized for raising me the way she did. She explained that she did what she thought was right; that she did the best she could. I started to understand my mother.
I realized that all along, she had her issues as well. Looking back, she never really was all that stable mentally. She has always had issues with depression and alcoholism. I would also say that she was probably Bipolar. She needed that church as much as they needed her. It was a family to her. She needed structure, and found it there. Honestly, I think she would probably leave the church if she had the ability to think for herself, but it has been a part of her life for so long she wouldn't know what to do without it.
Occasionally, the crazy phone call or email would come through. I would get the "I'm not feeling right talking to you because you're not a Witness" line every now and then. Sometimes, she would even forget that she said that to me. Other times, she would pursue it. She thought that she would be able to end her communication with me but keep a relationship with my wife and daughter. I had to explain to her that family doesn't work that way. You can't pick and choose who you want to associate with and who you don't. My family is a package deal. It was all or none. She couldn't understand that concept. She didn't think that was fair.
Fast forward to June of this year. I'm at a movie with my wife, daughter, and my wife's nephew from out of town. I start getting text messages from my mom. She tells me that there is something she wants to tell me regarding my ex sister-in-law and an upcoming court hearing for custody. My brother and her have been fighting for those girls for years. My ex sis is OK. She really isn't that good of a mother, but when I wasn't talking to my mom for those three years, we kept in contact and she let me talk to my nieces on a regular basis.
Side note: My nieces have been through pure shit during this whole time. Their dad is an alcoholic, addict, deadbeat. Their mom lets them go to school in winter wearing shorts and sandals. My mom cares more about their well being than their parents. Their parents are in a pissing contest. Both girls are showing signs of serious mental issues already at 7 and 5. One will be pregnant at 14 and a stripper at 16...the other will end up being institutionalized.
My mom starts saying that she really wants to tell me but she doesn't trust me that I won't go and tell my ex sister-in-law. I ask her what would give her that idea. She says, "Because of what happened". "What happened", meaning me leaving the business back in January of 2006. She wants to tell me a secret, but can't trust me with information because of that day. I explain to her that I am actually in a movie theater, and that I will email her later that night.
I actually am so angry, it takes me two days to email her. I first talk to my therapist to see if it's even a good idea to say what I want to say knowing how she will likely take it. There are some things in the response that I intentionally say just to get a point across. For example, I have never, in my 34 years, purposely cursed at my mother. Here is the email in it's entirety:
"sorry i didnt get back to you yesterday.....was sort of a crazy day. about our conversation on wednesday night....the only thing i can say is whatever....
just in the last week, things have gotten to a point with jessi where she cant handle having the dog and the baby in the same room.....at the moment i have both of them crying and she's in bed.....she's lost it.....
i'm crazy on top of it all.....my life is quickly going to shit.....we cant pay our bills...our van will likely be repossessed in the next couple of weeks....we had to do a payday loan so we could buy groceries for the next week...we have $30 in the bank to last us a week and both cars are on empty and i have a therapy appt next tuesday.....
im not getting a paycheck next friday because my short term extension wont be approved until after payroll is sent out.....and jessi's is gonna be short... maybe 800 total....so we're gonna have to do another payday loan next week to pay rent.....
i have my psychiatrist and my Mayo neurologist arguing over treatment because they disagree over what i actually have....in the meantime my ticks are getting worse......and im not able to hold a job of any kind......
so....when it comes to your "moral dilemmas" or your "trust issues" with me.....i really could care....trust me or dont.....talk to me or dont....i just honestly dont have the energy or the ability to care at the moment.....that is at the bottom of my priority list right now.....ive got more important things to focus on......
go to www.youtube.com/thedailytwitch to see what's going on in my world....
i love you"
The Youtube link used to link up to an old page of mine that no longer exists. I haven't heard from her since. At this point, the ball is in her court. Since the email was sent out, I have been diagnosed with both Tourette's and PTSD. The van was repossessed. We did make the rent payment, somehow, but have struggled to make each subsequent rent payment. I am at a point in my life where I don't know if I'll ever be able to work again.
So, the email still rings true. To quote a line from Jack Nicholson in 'As Good As It Gets': "Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up here".
I've been thinking about it and contemplating it for a couple of weeks now and figured it is finally time to go there.
January 6, 2006, I was working in the office of the family business. My mom had just gotten home from the hospital the previous day, after spending 9 weeks practically locked in a room with a mysterious immune system disorder. The two of us got into an argument that started over furniture, of all things, and eventually, before it was over, led to me quitting the family business.
I was the operations manager of their trucking company. I did all of their dispatching, payroll, human resources, etc. I was the business. My father was out of state with a load, and my brother, still asleep at three in the afternoon. It was Thursday(payday), and times tough with the business. We didn't have enough to pay all the drivers. I really left them high and dry. So, in no uncertain terms, by leaving the business, I was also leaving the family. I was getting so tired of living a double life. By that time, I had been out of the church for 10 years, but still had to act like a Witness during the day.
I later found out that my parents had my little brother, who was 26 at the time, take over for my position with the company. They went bankrupt a little more than three months later. They lost their house, their two cars, and their fleet of trucks. He wasn't paying attention with the payroll software and inadvertently overpaid a number of the drivers tens of thousands of dollars.
I didn't speak with my mother again until the day after my daughter was born. I simply sent her an email with a picture of my little girl with her date of birth, name and weight. Two minutes later, I received an email response that simply said "Thank you".
Over the next couple of months, we slowly started exchanging email. I started to fill her in on the information on where I was and how I was now a husband and father. She started to fill me in on how they had all moved to the East Coast to be closer to my nieces during my little brother's custody battle.
Things started going well. For the most part, she kept religion out of the conversation. I kept out religion and politics. We had a couple of conversations that were surprisingly candid. She apologized for raising me the way she did. She explained that she did what she thought was right; that she did the best she could. I started to understand my mother.
I realized that all along, she had her issues as well. Looking back, she never really was all that stable mentally. She has always had issues with depression and alcoholism. I would also say that she was probably Bipolar. She needed that church as much as they needed her. It was a family to her. She needed structure, and found it there. Honestly, I think she would probably leave the church if she had the ability to think for herself, but it has been a part of her life for so long she wouldn't know what to do without it.
Occasionally, the crazy phone call or email would come through. I would get the "I'm not feeling right talking to you because you're not a Witness" line every now and then. Sometimes, she would even forget that she said that to me. Other times, she would pursue it. She thought that she would be able to end her communication with me but keep a relationship with my wife and daughter. I had to explain to her that family doesn't work that way. You can't pick and choose who you want to associate with and who you don't. My family is a package deal. It was all or none. She couldn't understand that concept. She didn't think that was fair.
Fast forward to June of this year. I'm at a movie with my wife, daughter, and my wife's nephew from out of town. I start getting text messages from my mom. She tells me that there is something she wants to tell me regarding my ex sister-in-law and an upcoming court hearing for custody. My brother and her have been fighting for those girls for years. My ex sis is OK. She really isn't that good of a mother, but when I wasn't talking to my mom for those three years, we kept in contact and she let me talk to my nieces on a regular basis.
Side note: My nieces have been through pure shit during this whole time. Their dad is an alcoholic, addict, deadbeat. Their mom lets them go to school in winter wearing shorts and sandals. My mom cares more about their well being than their parents. Their parents are in a pissing contest. Both girls are showing signs of serious mental issues already at 7 and 5. One will be pregnant at 14 and a stripper at 16...the other will end up being institutionalized.
My mom starts saying that she really wants to tell me but she doesn't trust me that I won't go and tell my ex sister-in-law. I ask her what would give her that idea. She says, "Because of what happened". "What happened", meaning me leaving the business back in January of 2006. She wants to tell me a secret, but can't trust me with information because of that day. I explain to her that I am actually in a movie theater, and that I will email her later that night.
I actually am so angry, it takes me two days to email her. I first talk to my therapist to see if it's even a good idea to say what I want to say knowing how she will likely take it. There are some things in the response that I intentionally say just to get a point across. For example, I have never, in my 34 years, purposely cursed at my mother. Here is the email in it's entirety:
"sorry i didnt get back to you yesterday.....was sort of a crazy day. about our conversation on wednesday night....the only thing i can say is whatever....
just in the last week, things have gotten to a point with jessi where she cant handle having the dog and the baby in the same room.....at the moment i have both of them crying and she's in bed.....she's lost it.....
i'm crazy on top of it all.....my life is quickly going to shit.....we cant pay our bills...our van will likely be repossessed in the next couple of weeks....we had to do a payday loan so we could buy groceries for the next week...we have $30 in the bank to last us a week and both cars are on empty and i have a therapy appt next tuesday.....
im not getting a paycheck next friday because my short term extension wont be approved until after payroll is sent out.....and jessi's is gonna be short... maybe 800 total....so we're gonna have to do another payday loan next week to pay rent.....
i have my psychiatrist and my Mayo neurologist arguing over treatment because they disagree over what i actually have....in the meantime my ticks are getting worse......and im not able to hold a job of any kind......
so....when it comes to your "moral dilemmas" or your "trust issues" with me.....i really could care....trust me or dont.....talk to me or dont....i just honestly dont have the energy or the ability to care at the moment.....that is at the bottom of my priority list right now.....ive got more important things to focus on......
go to www.youtube.com/thedailytwitch to see what's going on in my world....
i love you"
The Youtube link used to link up to an old page of mine that no longer exists. I haven't heard from her since. At this point, the ball is in her court. Since the email was sent out, I have been diagnosed with both Tourette's and PTSD. The van was repossessed. We did make the rent payment, somehow, but have struggled to make each subsequent rent payment. I am at a point in my life where I don't know if I'll ever be able to work again.
So, the email still rings true. To quote a line from Jack Nicholson in 'As Good As It Gets': "Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up here".
Friday, October 16, 2009
Autobiographical Songs Part IV
Jehovah's Witnesses don't believe in heaven. Well, not in the traditional sense. They don't consider it to be an option to be their final resting place. They don't believe in hell either.
They believe that when you die, you die....that's it. You become worm food. You lie in the ground. Romantic, isn't it? They believe that soon, god(yes, I am intentionally using a small G), will bring an end to all the evil and wickedness on earth in one big showdown called Armageddon. This is when he will smite all the evil ones with floods, and earthquakes, and lightning bolts shot from his arse. From what I have been taught by my mother, this is the wait awaiting myself and my family for not following god's will.
In October of 2006, My Chemical Romance released 'The Black Parade', an emo powerhouse of an album. Produced by Rob Cavallo, the producer of 'American Idiot', this was a masterpiece of a record from front to back, and easily, the best rock album of the year. Track nine was a little ditty called 'Mama', which actually had a cameo from Liza Minnelli. With the events that were occurring in my life at the time, I especially took pleasure in this track. To this day, I still have a Devilish smile every time I hear it.
Below are the lyrics and the song for those of you who haven't heard it. Enjoy.
Mama, we all go to hell.
Mama, we all go to hell.
I'm writing this letter and wishing you well,
Mama, we all go to hell.
Oh, well, now,
Mama, we're all gonna die.
Mama, we're all gonna die.
Stop asking me questions, I'd hate to see you cry,
Mama, we're all gonna die.
And when we go don't blame us, yeah.
We'll let the fires just bathe us, yeah.
You made us, oh, so famous.
We'll never let you go.
And when you go don't return to me my love.
Mama, we're all full of lies.
Mama, we're meant for the flies.
And right now they're building a coffin your size,
Mama, we're all full of lies.
Well Mother, what the war did to my legs and to my tongue,
You should've raised a baby girl,
I should've been a better son.
If you could coddle the infection
They can amputate at once.
You should've been,
I could have been a better son.
And when we go don't blame us, yeah.
We'll let the fires just bathe us, yeah.
You made us, oh, so famous.
We'll never let you go.
She said: "You ain't no son of mine
For what you've done they're gonna find
A place for you
And just you mind your manners when you go.
And when you go, don't return to me, my love."
That's right.
Mama, we all go to hell.
Mama, we all go to hell.
It's really quite pleasant
Except for the smell,
Mama, we all go to hell.
2 - 3 - 4
Mama! Mama! Mama! Ohhh!
Mama! Mama! Mama! Ma...
[Liza Minelli:] And if you would call me your sweetheart,
I'd maybe then sing you a song
[Gerard Way:] But this shit that I've done with this fuck of a gun,
You would cry out your eyes all along.
We're damned after all.
Through fortune and flame we fall.
And if you can stay then I'll show you the way,
To return from the ashes you call.
We all carry on (We all carry on)
When our brothers in arms are gone (When our brothers in arms are gone)
So raise your glass high
For tomorrow we die,
And return from the ashes you call
They believe that when you die, you die....that's it. You become worm food. You lie in the ground. Romantic, isn't it? They believe that soon, god(yes, I am intentionally using a small G), will bring an end to all the evil and wickedness on earth in one big showdown called Armageddon. This is when he will smite all the evil ones with floods, and earthquakes, and lightning bolts shot from his arse. From what I have been taught by my mother, this is the wait awaiting myself and my family for not following god's will.
In October of 2006, My Chemical Romance released 'The Black Parade', an emo powerhouse of an album. Produced by Rob Cavallo, the producer of 'American Idiot', this was a masterpiece of a record from front to back, and easily, the best rock album of the year. Track nine was a little ditty called 'Mama', which actually had a cameo from Liza Minnelli. With the events that were occurring in my life at the time, I especially took pleasure in this track. To this day, I still have a Devilish smile every time I hear it.
Below are the lyrics and the song for those of you who haven't heard it. Enjoy.
Mama, we all go to hell.
Mama, we all go to hell.
I'm writing this letter and wishing you well,
Mama, we all go to hell.
Oh, well, now,
Mama, we're all gonna die.
Mama, we're all gonna die.
Stop asking me questions, I'd hate to see you cry,
Mama, we're all gonna die.
And when we go don't blame us, yeah.
We'll let the fires just bathe us, yeah.
You made us, oh, so famous.
We'll never let you go.
And when you go don't return to me my love.
Mama, we're all full of lies.
Mama, we're meant for the flies.
And right now they're building a coffin your size,
Mama, we're all full of lies.
Well Mother, what the war did to my legs and to my tongue,
You should've raised a baby girl,
I should've been a better son.
If you could coddle the infection
They can amputate at once.
You should've been,
I could have been a better son.
And when we go don't blame us, yeah.
We'll let the fires just bathe us, yeah.
You made us, oh, so famous.
We'll never let you go.
She said: "You ain't no son of mine
For what you've done they're gonna find
A place for you
And just you mind your manners when you go.
And when you go, don't return to me, my love."
That's right.
Mama, we all go to hell.
Mama, we all go to hell.
It's really quite pleasant
Except for the smell,
Mama, we all go to hell.
2 - 3 - 4
Mama! Mama! Mama! Ohhh!
Mama! Mama! Mama! Ma...
[Liza Minelli:] And if you would call me your sweetheart,
I'd maybe then sing you a song
[Gerard Way:] But this shit that I've done with this fuck of a gun,
You would cry out your eyes all along.
We're damned after all.
Through fortune and flame we fall.
And if you can stay then I'll show you the way,
To return from the ashes you call.
We all carry on (We all carry on)
When our brothers in arms are gone (When our brothers in arms are gone)
So raise your glass high
For tomorrow we die,
And return from the ashes you call
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Autobiographical Songs Part III
On January 6, 2006, I quit my job with the family business, and, a couple of weeks later, stopped all communication with my family altogether. This caused major mental and emotional issues to develop since the situation was a long time coming. Instead of walking away from my family, it was more like a "mutual disowning". I was no longer a Jehovah's Witness, and had gotten to the point where I was not going to play along with their requirement of living a double life any longer.
I was hurt and confused. I felt like I had done something wrong. I was grieving the loss of my family, especially my mother. Throughout my life, she had been my best friend and the one that had always been there for me. I had set her up on a pedestal for so many years, and I felt as if I had let her down.
In July of 2006, Blue October released the single, 'Hate Me'. I had heard it on the radio a time or two and instantly thought of my mother. I thought of how much I had let her down, and how disappointed she had to be in me.
Later that next month, Jessi, my girlfriend at the time, and I were watching something on TV. Something came on that reminded me of my mother and I started to cry. I cried about the situation quite a bit during that time, but this time was different. My whole upper body jerked, as if I had been hit with defibrillator paddles but I didn't have a bed behind me to catch my shoulders or head.
"Are you OK?"
"I don't kno..." BAM...It happened again.
"What's going on hun?"
"I have no idea"....BAM.....BAM..BAM BAM...By now I'm hysterically crying and jerking uncontrollably. The tics are coming about once every 2-3 seconds, the next more violent than the last. By now my hands are shaking. I know it has to be stress induced.
Jessi draws a hot bath for me. I'm still crying, ticking, shaking....but now rocking front to back. I keep saying to Jessi, "I fucking hate her. I fucking hate her. How can you do this to your own fucking child?"
"I don't know hun. I don't know."
That was the night that I had my first Tourette's tic. I was diagnosed almost three years later, and then diagnosed with PTSD 5 weeks after that. I have had a total of 5 days without a tic since that night in the bathtub. Needless to say it was a pretty memorable night.
So what does this have to do with the song? That was also the night where the role of "Monster" in my mind was played by my mother instead of by me. I used to think that I was the black sheep, the odd man out. I realized that night that I was the one that finally said no to the years of brainwashing an manipulation and abuse at the hands of my mother. The song initially had a meaning to me of "sorry I'm not who you wanted me to be, so I'll drive as far as I can away from you so I can't hurt you anymore". Then, overnight, it became a "look what you tried to do to me, but I was stronger than you, so I'll drive as far as I can away from you so you can't hurt me anymore with what you consider love".
To be honest, the song still throws up some very bad memories. So many, in fact, that I can't even listen to the song without going into a breakdown. I used to sing it all the time at karaoke, but it's to heavy of a song to sing. Still a damn good song. That being said, I haven't previewed the clip below, so forgive me if it is not complete.
Interesting side note: The "in house" portion of the video, where it follows the lead singer through the house, was filmed in one take. They sped the audio track up during filming 300% to get the slow motion effect. The video was filmed in the house he grew up in as a teenager.
I was hurt and confused. I felt like I had done something wrong. I was grieving the loss of my family, especially my mother. Throughout my life, she had been my best friend and the one that had always been there for me. I had set her up on a pedestal for so many years, and I felt as if I had let her down.
In July of 2006, Blue October released the single, 'Hate Me'. I had heard it on the radio a time or two and instantly thought of my mother. I thought of how much I had let her down, and how disappointed she had to be in me.
Later that next month, Jessi, my girlfriend at the time, and I were watching something on TV. Something came on that reminded me of my mother and I started to cry. I cried about the situation quite a bit during that time, but this time was different. My whole upper body jerked, as if I had been hit with defibrillator paddles but I didn't have a bed behind me to catch my shoulders or head.
"Are you OK?"
"I don't kno..." BAM...It happened again.
"What's going on hun?"
"I have no idea"....BAM.....BAM..BAM BAM...By now I'm hysterically crying and jerking uncontrollably. The tics are coming about once every 2-3 seconds, the next more violent than the last. By now my hands are shaking. I know it has to be stress induced.
Jessi draws a hot bath for me. I'm still crying, ticking, shaking....but now rocking front to back. I keep saying to Jessi, "I fucking hate her. I fucking hate her. How can you do this to your own fucking child?"
"I don't know hun. I don't know."
That was the night that I had my first Tourette's tic. I was diagnosed almost three years later, and then diagnosed with PTSD 5 weeks after that. I have had a total of 5 days without a tic since that night in the bathtub. Needless to say it was a pretty memorable night.
So what does this have to do with the song? That was also the night where the role of "Monster" in my mind was played by my mother instead of by me. I used to think that I was the black sheep, the odd man out. I realized that night that I was the one that finally said no to the years of brainwashing an manipulation and abuse at the hands of my mother. The song initially had a meaning to me of "sorry I'm not who you wanted me to be, so I'll drive as far as I can away from you so I can't hurt you anymore". Then, overnight, it became a "look what you tried to do to me, but I was stronger than you, so I'll drive as far as I can away from you so you can't hurt me anymore with what you consider love".
To be honest, the song still throws up some very bad memories. So many, in fact, that I can't even listen to the song without going into a breakdown. I used to sing it all the time at karaoke, but it's to heavy of a song to sing. Still a damn good song. That being said, I haven't previewed the clip below, so forgive me if it is not complete.
Interesting side note: The "in house" portion of the video, where it follows the lead singer through the house, was filmed in one take. They sped the audio track up during filming 300% to get the slow motion effect. The video was filmed in the house he grew up in as a teenager.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
A Personal Coming Out Story
With today being National Coming Out Day, I thought I would give the story of the day someone very close to myself and my family came out of the closet. That day is today, and that individual is me. I am bisexual. My story starts out confusingly enough, many years ago....
My mother's way of teaching sex education was almost encyclopedic. Her methods of explaining "the birds and the bees" were so technical and used so many "appropriate" words, that, until the age of 14, I actually thought that a vagina was the female word for the butt. I remember asking my mom what was wrong about being gay. Her response was, "They do it up the butt". I thought, "Well, doesn't everyone"?
I remember being fascinated with breasts at an early age. It didn't matter how big or small, how perky or round, count me in. But again, it wasn't until the age of 14 that I found out what made a woman...well, a woman. I was taking the trash out to the alley dumpster. The next door neighbor kid had thrown away part of his porno stash, and, on the top of the pile, was a copy of Penthouse Genesis. Genesis was the magazine Penthouse released at the time that showed the things that Penthouse couldn't get away with.
I opened the magazine up and was disgusted. "Oh my god. This girl is deformed. She has two asses. So does this one.....and this one. Oh. My. God....These. Are. VAGINAS? I'm supposed to put mine in THERE? NO WAY. NO THANK YOU." But I hid the magazine anyway. I was a "straight" kid. That's what I was supposed to do.
Throughout my teens, I fantasized about every girl I knew. Boys weren't even an option. Masturbated like a rabid wolverine. Sex education class was offered in high school health class. Of course, my mom refused to let me stay in class to participate. She felt that it did nothing but "encourage young people to have sex". I was hoping it would explain to me how sex worked. I remember seeing the pictures on the doctor's office wall of the male and female bodies split in half with everything labeled, and I still couldn't find most of the parts ON MY OWN BODY.
My health teacher was a little, old, Native American woman, who loved to inflict punishment on the two or three Jehovah's Witness kids that refused to take sex ed in her class every year. She had us go to the library every day for that period. Our alternative assignment was a 60 page, hand written, single spaced report on the health topic of our choosing. Just to be a smart ass, I chose to write my paper on sex. Most of my source material came from a Witness book called 'Questions Young People Ask: Answers That Work', which supposedly dealt with the moral and ethical issues involving sex and dating, but was mostly the perspective of a bunch of 80 year old men on the current teenage sex and dating scene. Got an A.
Anyway....moving on. As I was finishing high school and becoming an adult, all of my "worldly" (non JW) friends were saying "Come on, man. Just come out already." But I felt that I was firmly 100% straight. I had known other people in the church that were flamboyantly gay that had families and felt sorry for them. But me, no sir, straight as can be. At the time, I was still very homophobic, and had a hatred for gays and lesbians. I was brought up to hate them. My parents even taught me, "Don't call them Gay...that's their word. Call them homosexuals. That's what God calls them".
I started working at Chase Bank in '98. They were a very diverse company. At the time I worked there, I believe 38% of the employees on the campus were LGBT. That really opened my eyes. When all 3 of my supervisors, my Director, and two of my cubical mates were gay men, you can't help but break down that wall. You start to realize, "What is everyone so scared of. Why are these people a threat"? That was just the beginning of my experience with the gay community.
I answered a personal ad around the same time(I had stopped practicing as a Witness in 1996), and met a girl for lunch. Her name was Angel. We met at a sub shop. She walked in with steel toe boots, a tank top, shaved head and a pierced nose. It was love at first sight. At the end of our meal, she said, "Just to let you know, I'm lesbian."
"I sorta figured".
"My girlfriend cheated on me with some dude and I thought I would get back at her by doing the same. I can't go through with it though".
"That's cool".
We were best friends from that moment on. She took me to her favorite hang out, Ain't Nobody's Biz, a lesbian bar in Central Phoenix. We would go for karaoke every Monday night. Angel eventually started telling me, "Dude, you need to come out". This is when it got really confusing.
I placed an application at a local gay book store and gift shop, the Obelisk, as a cashier/stock person. I figured the best way to know if I'm gay is to immerse myself in the community. During the interview, the owner asked me how long I had been out to my parents. I told him I was straight. He said, "You realize, this is a GAY book store. You're going to have days where all you'll do is alphabetize the GAY PORN or GAY EROTICA". I explained to him my confusion and my dilemma. I told him, that to me, this was the most logical way to figure things out. He hired me on the spot.
My god, what an experience. First, to realize that gay people just weren't Puerto Ricans in pink feather boas...but old committed couples, gentlemen that reminded you of your grandpa, businessmen, the girliest of men, and the most embarrassed manly high school football players coming in after school to pick something up for their boyfriends.
The owner taught me so much. He was never to busy to answer a question. "What's Stonewall? Who's Harvey Milk? What's the deal with the rainbow? Why are the fat, hairy guys into me?" One thing he said to me, something I'll never forget, is this: "Adam, so many people classify themselves based upon who they're fucking. Being gay, or straight, or bi, is a lifestyle. It's in here(points to heart) and here(head). To base your whole life upon who you're sticking your dick into...that's just sad". I really took that to heart. I realized that I was physically attracted to women but I thought like a gay man.
Around that same time, Angel took me to my first gay club. I walked in and looked around. I then sat down on a couch and started crying. It was the first time I had been somewhere where I felt like I belonged, like I fit in, like I wasn't going to be judged or looked at funny. Angel leaned over and said, "I know honey. It's ok. Welcome home".
That night, I must have had a dozen guys come up to me. Poor Angel would step in and say, "Sorry, he's one of us, but he's not one of us just yet". Over the years, with Angel by my side, I made out with a couple of guys. I enjoyed it. But nothing much has happened other than that.
Since Angel and I had parted ways, I kept the secret to myself. Then came my wife. We got to a point in our relationship where I knew I could completely be myself and nothing I could say or do would scare her away. We would talk about our fantasies, and I would test the waters. We would be watching TV and I would test the waters and say something like, "Damn Taye Diggs looks hot", and she would be cool. Then we got to talking.
She wants me to be myself, just like I want her to be herself. I know she's not the country girl she was sort of pretending to be the night that I met her. She's told me she loves the fact that she has someone that can love her and be romantic with her and still have those times where she feels like she has that gay best friend.
I've been involved, in some way or another, supporting the LGBT community for a number of years now. In Albuquerque, I DJ-ed at Pride two years in a row. I'm proud to say today that I an now officially part of that community, that they are my brothers and sisters, and that together we will fight for the rights we all deserve.
My mother's way of teaching sex education was almost encyclopedic. Her methods of explaining "the birds and the bees" were so technical and used so many "appropriate" words, that, until the age of 14, I actually thought that a vagina was the female word for the butt. I remember asking my mom what was wrong about being gay. Her response was, "They do it up the butt". I thought, "Well, doesn't everyone"?
I remember being fascinated with breasts at an early age. It didn't matter how big or small, how perky or round, count me in. But again, it wasn't until the age of 14 that I found out what made a woman...well, a woman. I was taking the trash out to the alley dumpster. The next door neighbor kid had thrown away part of his porno stash, and, on the top of the pile, was a copy of Penthouse Genesis. Genesis was the magazine Penthouse released at the time that showed the things that Penthouse couldn't get away with.
I opened the magazine up and was disgusted. "Oh my god. This girl is deformed. She has two asses. So does this one.....and this one. Oh. My. God....These. Are. VAGINAS? I'm supposed to put mine in THERE? NO WAY. NO THANK YOU." But I hid the magazine anyway. I was a "straight" kid. That's what I was supposed to do.
Throughout my teens, I fantasized about every girl I knew. Boys weren't even an option. Masturbated like a rabid wolverine. Sex education class was offered in high school health class. Of course, my mom refused to let me stay in class to participate. She felt that it did nothing but "encourage young people to have sex". I was hoping it would explain to me how sex worked. I remember seeing the pictures on the doctor's office wall of the male and female bodies split in half with everything labeled, and I still couldn't find most of the parts ON MY OWN BODY.
My health teacher was a little, old, Native American woman, who loved to inflict punishment on the two or three Jehovah's Witness kids that refused to take sex ed in her class every year. She had us go to the library every day for that period. Our alternative assignment was a 60 page, hand written, single spaced report on the health topic of our choosing. Just to be a smart ass, I chose to write my paper on sex. Most of my source material came from a Witness book called 'Questions Young People Ask: Answers That Work', which supposedly dealt with the moral and ethical issues involving sex and dating, but was mostly the perspective of a bunch of 80 year old men on the current teenage sex and dating scene. Got an A.
Anyway....moving on. As I was finishing high school and becoming an adult, all of my "worldly" (non JW) friends were saying "Come on, man. Just come out already." But I felt that I was firmly 100% straight. I had known other people in the church that were flamboyantly gay that had families and felt sorry for them. But me, no sir, straight as can be. At the time, I was still very homophobic, and had a hatred for gays and lesbians. I was brought up to hate them. My parents even taught me, "Don't call them Gay...that's their word. Call them homosexuals. That's what God calls them".
I started working at Chase Bank in '98. They were a very diverse company. At the time I worked there, I believe 38% of the employees on the campus were LGBT. That really opened my eyes. When all 3 of my supervisors, my Director, and two of my cubical mates were gay men, you can't help but break down that wall. You start to realize, "What is everyone so scared of. Why are these people a threat"? That was just the beginning of my experience with the gay community.
I answered a personal ad around the same time(I had stopped practicing as a Witness in 1996), and met a girl for lunch. Her name was Angel. We met at a sub shop. She walked in with steel toe boots, a tank top, shaved head and a pierced nose. It was love at first sight. At the end of our meal, she said, "Just to let you know, I'm lesbian."
"I sorta figured".
"My girlfriend cheated on me with some dude and I thought I would get back at her by doing the same. I can't go through with it though".
"That's cool".
We were best friends from that moment on. She took me to her favorite hang out, Ain't Nobody's Biz, a lesbian bar in Central Phoenix. We would go for karaoke every Monday night. Angel eventually started telling me, "Dude, you need to come out". This is when it got really confusing.
I placed an application at a local gay book store and gift shop, the Obelisk, as a cashier/stock person. I figured the best way to know if I'm gay is to immerse myself in the community. During the interview, the owner asked me how long I had been out to my parents. I told him I was straight. He said, "You realize, this is a GAY book store. You're going to have days where all you'll do is alphabetize the GAY PORN or GAY EROTICA". I explained to him my confusion and my dilemma. I told him, that to me, this was the most logical way to figure things out. He hired me on the spot.
My god, what an experience. First, to realize that gay people just weren't Puerto Ricans in pink feather boas...but old committed couples, gentlemen that reminded you of your grandpa, businessmen, the girliest of men, and the most embarrassed manly high school football players coming in after school to pick something up for their boyfriends.
The owner taught me so much. He was never to busy to answer a question. "What's Stonewall? Who's Harvey Milk? What's the deal with the rainbow? Why are the fat, hairy guys into me?" One thing he said to me, something I'll never forget, is this: "Adam, so many people classify themselves based upon who they're fucking. Being gay, or straight, or bi, is a lifestyle. It's in here(points to heart) and here(head). To base your whole life upon who you're sticking your dick into...that's just sad". I really took that to heart. I realized that I was physically attracted to women but I thought like a gay man.
Around that same time, Angel took me to my first gay club. I walked in and looked around. I then sat down on a couch and started crying. It was the first time I had been somewhere where I felt like I belonged, like I fit in, like I wasn't going to be judged or looked at funny. Angel leaned over and said, "I know honey. It's ok. Welcome home".
That night, I must have had a dozen guys come up to me. Poor Angel would step in and say, "Sorry, he's one of us, but he's not one of us just yet". Over the years, with Angel by my side, I made out with a couple of guys. I enjoyed it. But nothing much has happened other than that.
Since Angel and I had parted ways, I kept the secret to myself. Then came my wife. We got to a point in our relationship where I knew I could completely be myself and nothing I could say or do would scare her away. We would talk about our fantasies, and I would test the waters. We would be watching TV and I would test the waters and say something like, "Damn Taye Diggs looks hot", and she would be cool. Then we got to talking.
She wants me to be myself, just like I want her to be herself. I know she's not the country girl she was sort of pretending to be the night that I met her. She's told me she loves the fact that she has someone that can love her and be romantic with her and still have those times where she feels like she has that gay best friend.
I've been involved, in some way or another, supporting the LGBT community for a number of years now. In Albuquerque, I DJ-ed at Pride two years in a row. I'm proud to say today that I an now officially part of that community, that they are my brothers and sisters, and that together we will fight for the rights we all deserve.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Punk Rock Changed My Life
As someone who grew up as one of Jehovah's Witnesses, I grew up in a very isolated and controlled environment when it came to music. Many songs, artists, and even entire genres were banned from the house without reason. My musical education did not come until long into my early twenties.
As a teen, I became a member of the Columbia House/"12 for a penny" record clubs. If I was expecting a shipment, let's just say hopefully I would make it home before the package did. If the artist was anything other than Michael Bolton or Kenny G, it was immediately considered contraband. Strange sounding band names (Toad the Wet Sprocket, Depeche Mode), immediately confiscated, lyrics reviewed for content, and shredded if there was so much as one word my mother disapproved of. Gay artist? (Elton John, Pet Shop Boys, Erasure, George Michael), immediately destroyed. My mom believed that their "gay influence" could turn me gay, which I thought was funny. Especially in the case of Elton John. Bernie Taupin, a straight man, wrote all of his lyrics. Elton only wrote the music. So, with that logic, the right set of chords should have me sucking dicks I guess. Hip Hop, Rap, most R&B, most Rock (especially Hard Rock), and Punk...without question Punk, were banned like pornography from my house growing up.....not because the content....but because "they sounded" like they were no good for me.
During my senior year of high school, a kid in one of my business classes regularly wore a Bad Religion t-shirt. It was just the one with their standard, slash across the Christian cross logo. I had no idea who Bad Religion was. I thought he was an atheist. It wasn't until the next summer that I got my first taste of that band.
By the summer of 1994, the world had fallen in love with Green Day. And, although they, along with MTV, was banned from the house, I had heard them enough on radio to get an idea of what the 1994 version of "punk" was. It was fast. It was catchy. But it didn't have anything meaningful behind it. It was about smoking pot and masturbation. Then, the same summer, Bad Religion released '21st Century Digital Boy'. It was the most intelligent song I had heard in my life up until that point. And with my very short exposure with the punk genre, I realized, this was true punk. Green Day was "pop-punk".
Bad religion....21st century digital boy
endika|MySpace Videos
This song opened my sheltered eyes. 1996 comes along. By this time, I am no longer living with the book burners, and I happen across another Bad Religion song: 'Come Join Us'. The band claims it's about anti-conformity, but even around Witness circles, it's believed to be an anti-Jehovah's Witness song. Rumor is that the lead singer was raised as a JW as a child and wrote the song based upon his experiences. I have heard him in interviews discussing the song. He will not say it outright, but he definitely does not paint the Witnesses in a very good light based upon his experiences. The song moves pretty fast, and it is quite witty, so I am also posting lyrics:
so you say you gotta know why the world goes 'round
and you can't find the truth in the things you've found
and you're scared shitless 'cause evil abounds
come join us
well I heard you were looking for a place to fit in
full of adherent people with the same objective
a family to cling to and call brethren
come and join us
all we want to do is change your mind
all you need to do is close your eyes
come join us
come join us
come join us
don't you see all the trouble that most people are in
and that they just want you for their own advantage
but I swear to you we're different from all of them
come join us
I can tell you are lookin' for a way to live
where truth is determined by consensus
full of codified arbitrary directives
come join us
all we want to have is your small mind
turn it into one of our kind
you can go through life adrift and alone
desperate, desolate, on your own
but we're lookin' for a few more stalwart clones
come join us
come join us
come join us
we've got spite and dedication as a vehement brew
the world hates us, well we hate them too
but you're exempted of course if you
come join us
independent, self-contented, revolutionary
intellectual, brave, strong and scholarly
if you're not one of them, you're us already so
come join us
come join us
come join us
come join us
come join us
Again, when I first heard it, it amazed me the vocabulary that came through in the song. Sadly, I had to look up some of the words, with my public school education. I later found out that, Greg Graffin, Bad Religion's lead singer, has a masters in geology and a Ph.D. in zoology from Cornell University. When he isn't recording or touring with the band, he is lecturing and teaching life sciences and paleontology at UCLA. We're not talking about you're average musicians.
Until Bad Religion, I had no idea who the Ramones were, or the Sex Pistols, or Elvis Costello, Social Distortion or Iggy Pop. I didn't know any of the newer bands like NOFX, Pennywise, Flogging Molly and Dropkick Murphys. Hell, all my dad listened to was country, and I wasn't as familiar with Johnny Cash like I am now.
I'm not saying I'm a punk now by any means. I'm a poser most days. I still listen to the 'Garden State' Soundtrack and wear my Beatles t-shirt. But punk music opened my eyes. It got me thinking. If it wasn't for those right songs at the right time in my life, I probably wouldn't have gauged my ears, or have gotten my lip pierced. I wouldn't have had the courage to say "Fuck it", and give myself a cobalt blue mohawk at the age of 32. Punk gave me the courage to piss people off, to live life on my terms, to be the person I wanted to be. So I may not be 100% punk, but I have just enough in me to get by.
As a teen, I became a member of the Columbia House/"12 for a penny" record clubs. If I was expecting a shipment, let's just say hopefully I would make it home before the package did. If the artist was anything other than Michael Bolton or Kenny G, it was immediately considered contraband. Strange sounding band names (Toad the Wet Sprocket, Depeche Mode), immediately confiscated, lyrics reviewed for content, and shredded if there was so much as one word my mother disapproved of. Gay artist? (Elton John, Pet Shop Boys, Erasure, George Michael), immediately destroyed. My mom believed that their "gay influence" could turn me gay, which I thought was funny. Especially in the case of Elton John. Bernie Taupin, a straight man, wrote all of his lyrics. Elton only wrote the music. So, with that logic, the right set of chords should have me sucking dicks I guess. Hip Hop, Rap, most R&B, most Rock (especially Hard Rock), and Punk...without question Punk, were banned like pornography from my house growing up.....not because the content....but because "they sounded" like they were no good for me.
During my senior year of high school, a kid in one of my business classes regularly wore a Bad Religion t-shirt. It was just the one with their standard, slash across the Christian cross logo. I had no idea who Bad Religion was. I thought he was an atheist. It wasn't until the next summer that I got my first taste of that band.
By the summer of 1994, the world had fallen in love with Green Day. And, although they, along with MTV, was banned from the house, I had heard them enough on radio to get an idea of what the 1994 version of "punk" was. It was fast. It was catchy. But it didn't have anything meaningful behind it. It was about smoking pot and masturbation. Then, the same summer, Bad Religion released '21st Century Digital Boy'. It was the most intelligent song I had heard in my life up until that point. And with my very short exposure with the punk genre, I realized, this was true punk. Green Day was "pop-punk".
Bad religion....21st century digital boy
endika|MySpace Videos
This song opened my sheltered eyes. 1996 comes along. By this time, I am no longer living with the book burners, and I happen across another Bad Religion song: 'Come Join Us'. The band claims it's about anti-conformity, but even around Witness circles, it's believed to be an anti-Jehovah's Witness song. Rumor is that the lead singer was raised as a JW as a child and wrote the song based upon his experiences. I have heard him in interviews discussing the song. He will not say it outright, but he definitely does not paint the Witnesses in a very good light based upon his experiences. The song moves pretty fast, and it is quite witty, so I am also posting lyrics:
so you say you gotta know why the world goes 'round
and you can't find the truth in the things you've found
and you're scared shitless 'cause evil abounds
come join us
well I heard you were looking for a place to fit in
full of adherent people with the same objective
a family to cling to and call brethren
come and join us
all we want to do is change your mind
all you need to do is close your eyes
come join us
come join us
come join us
don't you see all the trouble that most people are in
and that they just want you for their own advantage
but I swear to you we're different from all of them
come join us
I can tell you are lookin' for a way to live
where truth is determined by consensus
full of codified arbitrary directives
come join us
all we want to have is your small mind
turn it into one of our kind
you can go through life adrift and alone
desperate, desolate, on your own
but we're lookin' for a few more stalwart clones
come join us
come join us
come join us
we've got spite and dedication as a vehement brew
the world hates us, well we hate them too
but you're exempted of course if you
come join us
independent, self-contented, revolutionary
intellectual, brave, strong and scholarly
if you're not one of them, you're us already so
come join us
come join us
come join us
come join us
come join us
Again, when I first heard it, it amazed me the vocabulary that came through in the song. Sadly, I had to look up some of the words, with my public school education. I later found out that, Greg Graffin, Bad Religion's lead singer, has a masters in geology and a Ph.D. in zoology from Cornell University. When he isn't recording or touring with the band, he is lecturing and teaching life sciences and paleontology at UCLA. We're not talking about you're average musicians.
Until Bad Religion, I had no idea who the Ramones were, or the Sex Pistols, or Elvis Costello, Social Distortion or Iggy Pop. I didn't know any of the newer bands like NOFX, Pennywise, Flogging Molly and Dropkick Murphys. Hell, all my dad listened to was country, and I wasn't as familiar with Johnny Cash like I am now.
I'm not saying I'm a punk now by any means. I'm a poser most days. I still listen to the 'Garden State' Soundtrack and wear my Beatles t-shirt. But punk music opened my eyes. It got me thinking. If it wasn't for those right songs at the right time in my life, I probably wouldn't have gauged my ears, or have gotten my lip pierced. I wouldn't have had the courage to say "Fuck it", and give myself a cobalt blue mohawk at the age of 32. Punk gave me the courage to piss people off, to live life on my terms, to be the person I wanted to be. So I may not be 100% punk, but I have just enough in me to get by.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Where The Wild Things Are
Over the last three to four months, my wife and I have developed a morning and nighttime ritual. It never changes. I wake our daughter up in the morning, say our "good mornings", talk about our dreams, change her, and get her dressed for the day. This gives my wife and extra 15-20 minutes of sleep each day.
At night, I make the baby her bottle, mom changes her into her pajamas, and reads her her bedtime stories before putting her to bed. A couple of nights ago, we were able to switch roles.
I have been seeing the trailer for the 'Where The Wild Things Are' motion picture for the last two weeks, and it looks amazing. I REALLY WANT TO SEE THIS MOVIE. Funny thing is, I have never read the book. I was never allowed to. Don't ask me why. I don't know. Maybe it was the "monsters". I honestly don't know.
Jehovah's Witness parents are like paranoid schizophrenic Amish. They will deny the simplest things to their children for the most ridiculous reasons. The following are a small list of things that were banned from my house:
Smurfs - magic (and the cat's name was also the name of a demon)
Rainbow Brite - magic
G.I. Joe - Armed Forces
Water Guns - looked like guns
'Star Wars' - mom thought "the Force" was a religion
He Man - no fucking clue, magic I think
'Wizard of Oz', 'Sleeping Beauty', 'Snow White', 'Sword and the Stone' - all because of magic
Hell, I had a close friend that wasn't allowed to watch 'Beauty and the Beast' because her mother felt it promoted bestiality.
By the time I became an adult, I still wanted to read 'Where The Wild Things Are', but I felt weird ravaging through the children's section at the local library in order to read it. When I started seeing the previews for the movie, I became determined. Both myself, and my daughter, would get to know this book. So, I went to the library and picked up a copy.
When I read it to my daughter at bedtime, she loved it. So did I. I really do not know what my mom was so afraid of. It just proved that all of her decisions that she made were done blindly.
It was such a pleasant book. A little boy is in his wolf suit and is causing trouble at home. He's sent to his room without dinner. He travels to an imaginary place where he becomes "King of the Wild Things". He becomes homesick after smelling dinner and travels back to his room. HOW ON EARTH IS THAT HARMFUL ON AN IMPRESSIONABLE YOUTH? My daughter loved it. She kept pointing to all the pictures. After reading the book, she climbed on top of me and fell asleep on my shoulder. I love being an open minded dad.
At night, I make the baby her bottle, mom changes her into her pajamas, and reads her her bedtime stories before putting her to bed. A couple of nights ago, we were able to switch roles.
I have been seeing the trailer for the 'Where The Wild Things Are' motion picture for the last two weeks, and it looks amazing. I REALLY WANT TO SEE THIS MOVIE. Funny thing is, I have never read the book. I was never allowed to. Don't ask me why. I don't know. Maybe it was the "monsters". I honestly don't know.
Jehovah's Witness parents are like paranoid schizophrenic Amish. They will deny the simplest things to their children for the most ridiculous reasons. The following are a small list of things that were banned from my house:
Smurfs - magic (and the cat's name was also the name of a demon)
Rainbow Brite - magic
G.I. Joe - Armed Forces
Water Guns - looked like guns
'Star Wars' - mom thought "the Force" was a religion
He Man - no fucking clue, magic I think
'Wizard of Oz', 'Sleeping Beauty', 'Snow White', 'Sword and the Stone' - all because of magic
Hell, I had a close friend that wasn't allowed to watch 'Beauty and the Beast' because her mother felt it promoted bestiality.
By the time I became an adult, I still wanted to read 'Where The Wild Things Are', but I felt weird ravaging through the children's section at the local library in order to read it. When I started seeing the previews for the movie, I became determined. Both myself, and my daughter, would get to know this book. So, I went to the library and picked up a copy.
When I read it to my daughter at bedtime, she loved it. So did I. I really do not know what my mom was so afraid of. It just proved that all of her decisions that she made were done blindly.
It was such a pleasant book. A little boy is in his wolf suit and is causing trouble at home. He's sent to his room without dinner. He travels to an imaginary place where he becomes "King of the Wild Things". He becomes homesick after smelling dinner and travels back to his room. HOW ON EARTH IS THAT HARMFUL ON AN IMPRESSIONABLE YOUTH? My daughter loved it. She kept pointing to all the pictures. After reading the book, she climbed on top of me and fell asleep on my shoulder. I love being an open minded dad.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
My Baby Brother Turned 30 Today
I have been shying away from a lot of the topics this blog was intended for (PTSD, Tourette's, abuse, family, growing up as a JW, etc.), and putting a lot of funny or "fluff" type postings in instead. Truth is, I am really nervous to bring up a lot of stuff. I know that it's going to feel better to get it out of my head and on paper, so to speak, but there are so many things that, looking back, I can't even believe, I know it will be hard for you to believe them as well.
My little brother turned 30 today. In any normal life, that wouldn't be much of an accomplishment. For Ben, it's one hell of a milestone. As a child there were dozens of times when his body tried to shut down and squeeze the life out of him, and, for one reason or another, he wouldn't give up.
He developed severe asthma as an infant. He was hospitalized and in the ICU for the first time at 4 months of age. He spent most of the next five years in the hospital. Usually 2-3 weeks in, 1 week out. When he was four, his doctor told my parents to move him to a drier climate or he wouldn't see his fifth birthday. Without hesitation, my father quit his job at Sears that he had held for 21 years, loaded up everything we could fit into a 24 foot U-Haul truck, and left Columbus, OH, for Phoenix, AZ.
We arrived in Phoenix on Valentine's Day, 1984...homeless, and with my father unemployed. My dad eventually found a job making $5.25 an hour at a warehouse. My mom was a stay at home mom. Our rent payment was $450 a month. You do the math. We were on welfare, food stamps...even qualified for the government cheese and peanut butter. OK....I'm getting off topic. Sorry.
We got to Phoenix, and things for my brother started to improve, but not by much. By now, he had been on one form of steroid or another since he was six months old. His visits to the hospitals became fewer and farther between....mostly, I think, because we were without insurance. He qualified for State run health care, but it didn't cover much. He received a discount on his inhalers, discounts on the dozen or so pills he had to take throughout the day, but that was about it. By first grade, he had his own nebulizer, or what we called his "breathing machine". His doctors in Phoenix eventually told us that the drier air probably did help his asthma a bit, but the pollution in the city counter balanced what positive effect it would have had. All in all, it really didn't make much of a difference whether we moved or not.
Years passed. My brother had missed so many school days per year between the fourth and the sixth grade, about 40-60 per school year, it was as if he never showed up. It was at this point that my mother decided to take him out of public school and home school him. That sounded like a good idea at first. Two weeks later, "home schooling" amounted to sleeping in and fiddling around on the computer.
It was around this same time that my brother had developed an acute reaction to chemicals, any chemicals. Scented deodorant, perfumes and colognes, candles, hand lotion, floor cleaner....the list went on and on. The slightest scent would instantly close his airways. He couldn't go shopping, or to church, or even have friends over for that matter. Everything in our home, including our laundry detergent and dryer sheets had to be unscented. He became a hermit.
It was also around this same time that I tell people that my brother died every night. We shared a bedroom. At least once a night, sometimes two or three times, my brother would wake up having a massive asthma attack. Most times it would wake me from my sleep. I would scream from across the hallway for my mom to wake up and come help. Sometimes, unfortunately, I was a heavy sleeper and wouldn't wake up until the lights were on in the bedroom and my mother was screaming at me to wake up. Jesus, why she didn't have a baby monitor in our room....why she relied on me...I still to this day do not know. I had a routine. I could run to the kitchen, get a coffee mug from the cabinet, fill it with tap water, put about a teaspoon of cherry Jello powder in the water for flavor, stir it, nuke it in the microwave for 45 seconds and be back in the bedroom in 1:15.
The reason why I say he died every night is because the hot water never worked. His bronchial tubes were so tight that his lips would turn white, his face a cold, ice blue, and he would go unconscious. That would give his lungs a chance to calm down and take a normal breath. My mom would turn his breathing machine on and strap his mask against his head, he would regain consciousness, and within minutes, everything would be fine. THIS HAPPENED EVERY FUCKING NIGHT. For probably two years. I was 15 or 16 years old and I had to deal with the possibility of watching my brother die every night for two years. LOL....anyway.....moving on.
Because of being on steroids continually from the time he was 6 months old until he was in his late teens, his adrenal glands never developed properly. He never developed muscle mass the way that he was supposed to. Long story short...he never hit puberty. It's pretty much the same thing that happened to Gary Colman. I am 6'4" tall. My brother is just under 5'2". As an adult, the asthma seemed to go away, but a multitude of problems took its place.
He has either Crohn's disease or Ulcerative Colitis. It is to such a degree that it cannot be determined. At the moment, he bleeds so much from his colon, stomach and intestines, that they cannot stop the bleeding long enough to complete the testing and get an accurate MRI or CT of his abdomen. He is currently going through chemotherapy to stop the bleeding. If that doesn't work, they are discussing a colectomy.
He also has a myriad of mental issues. My brother is very intelligent. A genius in fact. I don't think I have ever personally known anyone smarter. That is part of the problem. He has delusions of grandeur. He thinks he knows better than anyone else how to do something. He over thinks everything. The last time I shot a game of pool with him it was taking him 10 minutes plus to make his shots to figure out the angles and trajectories.
Due to his years of isolation, he had no social skills. He had no ability to hold a conversation. He met a girl online, another Witness, in Ohio. The corresponded for months via email and instant message. Finally, they met, and my brother was in love. They got married just before his 21st birthday. By then he had already attempted suicide multiple times. Strange how your body will fight to stay alive in one situation, but you choose to end your life in another.
Once, when he was 14, he programmed his computer to call 911 with instructions to remove his body and not to disturb our grandmother down the hall. The rest of the family was at church at the time. He didn't follow through. There was another time when him and his wife first moved into their own apartment, out of my parents house. My then sister in law woke up and noticed he wasn't in bed. She searched the apartment. He wasn't there. She started walking through the property. She found him sitting on the pool deck near the deep end. He was using duct tape and nylon rope to tie weights around his ankles. He was going to jump in. He was maybe less than two minutes from jumping in. Honestly, I could write a book....and probably will with the stories I could tell.
He moved back to the Cleveland area, and had two daughters with his wife. Two amazing little girls. God, I miss them so much. That's when he really went off the deep end. Ben had always been a drinker. I have never seen anyone drink so much in my life. It was impressive by frat boy standards. He would regularly drink sometimes two bottles of Captain Morgan a day. When the girls were born, I think that's when the PTSD set in. He got to the point where he couldn't make a left hand turn if he was driving. He would have to plan his route so that he could drive in a large spiral or corresponding right turns to get to his destination. If someone touches him, he screams and starts climbing the wall. He has since become a heavy pot user and has started using meth.
He got to the point where he thought his wife was trying to kill him. He refused to eat anything in the house. He wouldn't sleep. My mom and dad convinced him to come back to
Arizona to get better. Convinced him to abandon his children. I don't understand it. When he got off the plane, he weighed about 90 pounds, and was an ashy shade of gray. He looked like an AIDS patient close to death or a concentration camp prisoner. He stayed with my folks for almost two years, smoking weed in his bedroom with a vaporizer the whole time. They then decided as a family to return to Cleveland and fight for custody.
When it comes to custody, neither my ex sister in law or my brother are fit parents. My brother has never worked a day in his life. Most days when the girls are visiting, he locks himself in his room and works on his computer. Contrary to what my mother insists, he is not a good father. My ex sister in law is far from a good mother. She sends the girls to school in the winter in shorts and sandals. She lets them eat Oreos for breakfast. The girls are on the verge of going into foster care. If my brother wins custody of his children, my mother will raise them, try to make them model Witnesses. This means they'll either be in therapy the rest of their life or strippers by the time they're 16....or both.
So...he made it to 30. Like I said, it's one hell of a milestone. 20 years ago, I would have said that it was a blessing. Now, it's looking more like a curse. It's a very harsh thing to say about my little brother. But Ben, in all my life, the only thing I have ever wanted was peace for you. I love you.
My little brother turned 30 today. In any normal life, that wouldn't be much of an accomplishment. For Ben, it's one hell of a milestone. As a child there were dozens of times when his body tried to shut down and squeeze the life out of him, and, for one reason or another, he wouldn't give up.
He developed severe asthma as an infant. He was hospitalized and in the ICU for the first time at 4 months of age. He spent most of the next five years in the hospital. Usually 2-3 weeks in, 1 week out. When he was four, his doctor told my parents to move him to a drier climate or he wouldn't see his fifth birthday. Without hesitation, my father quit his job at Sears that he had held for 21 years, loaded up everything we could fit into a 24 foot U-Haul truck, and left Columbus, OH, for Phoenix, AZ.
We arrived in Phoenix on Valentine's Day, 1984...homeless, and with my father unemployed. My dad eventually found a job making $5.25 an hour at a warehouse. My mom was a stay at home mom. Our rent payment was $450 a month. You do the math. We were on welfare, food stamps...even qualified for the government cheese and peanut butter. OK....I'm getting off topic. Sorry.
We got to Phoenix, and things for my brother started to improve, but not by much. By now, he had been on one form of steroid or another since he was six months old. His visits to the hospitals became fewer and farther between....mostly, I think, because we were without insurance. He qualified for State run health care, but it didn't cover much. He received a discount on his inhalers, discounts on the dozen or so pills he had to take throughout the day, but that was about it. By first grade, he had his own nebulizer, or what we called his "breathing machine". His doctors in Phoenix eventually told us that the drier air probably did help his asthma a bit, but the pollution in the city counter balanced what positive effect it would have had. All in all, it really didn't make much of a difference whether we moved or not.
Years passed. My brother had missed so many school days per year between the fourth and the sixth grade, about 40-60 per school year, it was as if he never showed up. It was at this point that my mother decided to take him out of public school and home school him. That sounded like a good idea at first. Two weeks later, "home schooling" amounted to sleeping in and fiddling around on the computer.
It was around this same time that my brother had developed an acute reaction to chemicals, any chemicals. Scented deodorant, perfumes and colognes, candles, hand lotion, floor cleaner....the list went on and on. The slightest scent would instantly close his airways. He couldn't go shopping, or to church, or even have friends over for that matter. Everything in our home, including our laundry detergent and dryer sheets had to be unscented. He became a hermit.
It was also around this same time that I tell people that my brother died every night. We shared a bedroom. At least once a night, sometimes two or three times, my brother would wake up having a massive asthma attack. Most times it would wake me from my sleep. I would scream from across the hallway for my mom to wake up and come help. Sometimes, unfortunately, I was a heavy sleeper and wouldn't wake up until the lights were on in the bedroom and my mother was screaming at me to wake up. Jesus, why she didn't have a baby monitor in our room....why she relied on me...I still to this day do not know. I had a routine. I could run to the kitchen, get a coffee mug from the cabinet, fill it with tap water, put about a teaspoon of cherry Jello powder in the water for flavor, stir it, nuke it in the microwave for 45 seconds and be back in the bedroom in 1:15.
The reason why I say he died every night is because the hot water never worked. His bronchial tubes were so tight that his lips would turn white, his face a cold, ice blue, and he would go unconscious. That would give his lungs a chance to calm down and take a normal breath. My mom would turn his breathing machine on and strap his mask against his head, he would regain consciousness, and within minutes, everything would be fine. THIS HAPPENED EVERY FUCKING NIGHT. For probably two years. I was 15 or 16 years old and I had to deal with the possibility of watching my brother die every night for two years. LOL....anyway.....moving on.
Because of being on steroids continually from the time he was 6 months old until he was in his late teens, his adrenal glands never developed properly. He never developed muscle mass the way that he was supposed to. Long story short...he never hit puberty. It's pretty much the same thing that happened to Gary Colman. I am 6'4" tall. My brother is just under 5'2". As an adult, the asthma seemed to go away, but a multitude of problems took its place.
He has either Crohn's disease or Ulcerative Colitis. It is to such a degree that it cannot be determined. At the moment, he bleeds so much from his colon, stomach and intestines, that they cannot stop the bleeding long enough to complete the testing and get an accurate MRI or CT of his abdomen. He is currently going through chemotherapy to stop the bleeding. If that doesn't work, they are discussing a colectomy.
He also has a myriad of mental issues. My brother is very intelligent. A genius in fact. I don't think I have ever personally known anyone smarter. That is part of the problem. He has delusions of grandeur. He thinks he knows better than anyone else how to do something. He over thinks everything. The last time I shot a game of pool with him it was taking him 10 minutes plus to make his shots to figure out the angles and trajectories.
Due to his years of isolation, he had no social skills. He had no ability to hold a conversation. He met a girl online, another Witness, in Ohio. The corresponded for months via email and instant message. Finally, they met, and my brother was in love. They got married just before his 21st birthday. By then he had already attempted suicide multiple times. Strange how your body will fight to stay alive in one situation, but you choose to end your life in another.
Once, when he was 14, he programmed his computer to call 911 with instructions to remove his body and not to disturb our grandmother down the hall. The rest of the family was at church at the time. He didn't follow through. There was another time when him and his wife first moved into their own apartment, out of my parents house. My then sister in law woke up and noticed he wasn't in bed. She searched the apartment. He wasn't there. She started walking through the property. She found him sitting on the pool deck near the deep end. He was using duct tape and nylon rope to tie weights around his ankles. He was going to jump in. He was maybe less than two minutes from jumping in. Honestly, I could write a book....and probably will with the stories I could tell.
He moved back to the Cleveland area, and had two daughters with his wife. Two amazing little girls. God, I miss them so much. That's when he really went off the deep end. Ben had always been a drinker. I have never seen anyone drink so much in my life. It was impressive by frat boy standards. He would regularly drink sometimes two bottles of Captain Morgan a day. When the girls were born, I think that's when the PTSD set in. He got to the point where he couldn't make a left hand turn if he was driving. He would have to plan his route so that he could drive in a large spiral or corresponding right turns to get to his destination. If someone touches him, he screams and starts climbing the wall. He has since become a heavy pot user and has started using meth.
He got to the point where he thought his wife was trying to kill him. He refused to eat anything in the house. He wouldn't sleep. My mom and dad convinced him to come back to
Arizona to get better. Convinced him to abandon his children. I don't understand it. When he got off the plane, he weighed about 90 pounds, and was an ashy shade of gray. He looked like an AIDS patient close to death or a concentration camp prisoner. He stayed with my folks for almost two years, smoking weed in his bedroom with a vaporizer the whole time. They then decided as a family to return to Cleveland and fight for custody.
When it comes to custody, neither my ex sister in law or my brother are fit parents. My brother has never worked a day in his life. Most days when the girls are visiting, he locks himself in his room and works on his computer. Contrary to what my mother insists, he is not a good father. My ex sister in law is far from a good mother. She sends the girls to school in the winter in shorts and sandals. She lets them eat Oreos for breakfast. The girls are on the verge of going into foster care. If my brother wins custody of his children, my mother will raise them, try to make them model Witnesses. This means they'll either be in therapy the rest of their life or strippers by the time they're 16....or both.
So...he made it to 30. Like I said, it's one hell of a milestone. 20 years ago, I would have said that it was a blessing. Now, it's looking more like a curse. It's a very harsh thing to say about my little brother. But Ben, in all my life, the only thing I have ever wanted was peace for you. I love you.
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