Another Year

It is Halloween today, 2006, Savant will have a birthday tomorrow.

I have an older son with problems also, but I'm trying to pull back on divulging what both my sons' issues are. I need support, but I don't want them, or anyone else to get the very wrong idea that, by writing about them, I get some kind of creepy emotional pay off. As you know, any person with very serious family issues benefits from knowing that they aren't alone.

I took my son to his doctor appointment yesterday, and after talking to him, she told me to take him directly to the hospital, where he will be for a while. And I had just written to a friend and one of my sisters, telling them how much better he seemed.

Because of his right to privacy, all the doctor told me is that: his condition is much worse than I think it is.?! How am I supposed to know what to think it is? I will see if she can arrange some family appointments, with my son's consent, because you can't deal with something when you don't know exactly what she is talking about. Today though, I'm glad I don't know. I hate when I spiral into that crummy emotionally raw place.

I was told, in the class I took when he was in the hospital for the first time, that Halloween is the worst holiday for schizophrenics. The slasher movie retrospectives for at least a week, the portrayal of scary homicidal psychos, which can heighten the fear ordinary people have of the mentally ill, the costumes and decorations, etc., can really knock schizophrenics into a place where they become very frightened.

I don't think that he is suffering because of that, but I would never have thought of it before he became sick.

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Happy Birthday Love.

What Is It About A Red Dress?

I experienced the totally puzzling red dress phenomenon first hand.

I used to work as an architect in the greater Boston area, and I had one red dress. It gave total body coverage, no cleavage or slit up the side, screaming: Look At Me! Look At Me! But I noticed that when I wore the red dress, some of the men I passed on my way into the building or on my way across the park to get to my car, felt compelled to tell me how great I looked. I got wolf whistles from passing cars. One guy even said quietly, as he passed me, "Mmm mmm, sure do look good in that dress." I felt like a cupcake with sprinkles. If I was wearing any other color: nothing.

I frequently had lunch at the cafeteria in a bank nearby. One winter day I set my tray down at an empty table, took off my coat, and sat down. I was soon joined by a man who, after greeting me said, "I want you." You guessed it, I had the red dress on. He gave me his card, a stock broker, and with puppy dog eyes asked me to call him.

I told my husband about the strange powers this dress seemed to have. He was not happy to hear about it. But he did agree that I looked really great in that dress.

I still have it and I may pass it down to my daughter so that it can journey through the generations, and maybe someday science will be able to shed light on the origin of its mysterious powers.

I've wondered if it is a regional thing or is it hard wired into the brains of men everywhere?

If anyone can shed light on this, I'd be really interested.

Trust The Mandarin

One of my earliest memories just popped into my head.

I was probably about 3 years old. I was crouched down on the sidewalk in front of our house, poking my finger into a blob of chocolate, preparing to taste it, when my brother informed me that just because it is soft and brown does not mean it is chocolate. He provided me with a short list of other possible soft brown sidewalk blobs and that was the day I decided to always believe my brother. And, to stop eating stuff I found on the ground, no matter how much it looked like candy.

*****

This might explain why one of my favorite jokes is from "Pinkie and the Brain" (they are cartoon mice). Pinkie asks the Brain, "What's brown and sticky?" The Brain is pretty sure he knows the answer, but knowing how important it is to Pinkie to fool him, says,"I don't know, Pinkie, what's brown and sticky?" and Pinkie says, " A STICK!" and Pinkie and I laugh our asses off! Everyone says the joke isn't funny, which makes me laugh even harder.

Drunkard's Dream Chauffeur Service

The drunkard's dream chauffeur service is on vacation....kind of. It is doing me a world of good to have some time to think happy thoughts! It occurred to me that I am not only dealing with Savant's mental illness, I've lost my life. He doesn't drive since he got sick, which has left me acting as his chauffeur. I can say no, but then he asks me repeatedly all day, like an impatient little child, which drives me nuts.

I want my life back. I can't really remember what it was, but I want a new, less co-dependent one. I'm not kicking myself, for giving up my architecture career, quite so often these days. Savant has been back at school for half a semester, taking one course. It is a lot of money, but it is his money, and it is worth it to give me some breathing room. Hopefully he is learning valuable life skills and becoming more independent.

But when he wants me to drive to the town the college is in because he is out of cigarettes, or some such nonsense, I get stressed and angry but I can't show it, so my nervous ticks kick in and beat me up. Stress makes Tourettes amp up to a painful ferocity. It's the answered prayer of everyone who ever wanted to kick my ass.

I still do have to drive him to his doctor's appointments, which involves a three city marathon, each way, that takes hours, but the doctors he had in M'boro sucked. It was obvious they were only interested in playing: tag the patient and collect the money. Health care got skipped in the process.