She Won't Eat.

I just want her to eat. 

Something. Anything. 

 

Just a few years ago, I was saying the same thing about my mum. "I'll make you anything you want, Mum. Anything. Is there anything you could imagine eating?" Everything we tried, she just couldn't. And she was 88 lbs. when she died in January of 2012. 

My best friend for the past 10 years had a cancerous tumour removed in July. After several tests and stains, etc., the doctors couldn't give an exact answer as to what type of tumour it was and whether or not it was the type to spread. We hoped the removal of the tumour and supplements would do the job, as chemotherapy was not something I would put her through. 

Her normal weight fluctuates between 95 and 100. Just before the tumour was removed she had lost her appetite and she lost 20% of her body weight. Post-surgery I was able to get her weight up to 90 lbs. and then two weeks ago her appetite again was lost, she began losing weight, so I took her to get an ultrasound. 

Could the cancer have returned?

"Unfortunately, her stomach lining has thickened again and we found some nodules in her liver. Looks like the cancer has spread and there may be a new tumour in her stomach." She said. "You may want to talk to the oncologist and see what options you have to treat her. I'm really sorry for this bad news." 

Audrey, my best friend, is a Great Dane I adopted 10 years ago. She had been severely abused before I met her, and so had I. I suppose we rescued each other. When I was sat at the rescue organization looking at potential fur kids to take home with me, a couple was also there adopting a Great Dane puppy. 

"Can we see the mother?" They asked. 

And out came an extremely thin, hesitant black Mantle Great Dane who looked as if she would dart away if anyone were to stand up or perhaps sneeze. Her bones were protruding. She had scarring on her back legs. What was her story? She walked straight over to me and lay her head in my lap. I felt an instant connection, cried, then signed the paperwork and took her home a few days later. 

I had just recently lost a Great Dane puppy I had purchased from a breeder. Jude, a gorgeous Merlequin with crystal blue eyes, was 14 weeks old when he died due to a reaction to his immunizations that caused his immune system to attack itself. Jude went from vibrant, cheeky pup who enjoyed the crazies every now and again, chasing a ball, and jumping up on the sofa and peeing on it (grrrrr!!!) to a limp, lifeless puppy who couldn't even lift his head in the blink of an eye. He died within days at the vet's office despite treatment. "But I did everything right!" I thought. My partner and I at the time were completely gutted and still, years later, I can't hear The Beatle's "Hey Jude" without becoming emotional. 

Audrey came just in time and we had a lot of work to do. She was deathly afraid of men. She needed to put on weight and had an infection in her teats that needed treatment. When my partner took her for a walk the second day we had her, she escaped her leash and ran out to Wilshire Blvd. in Santa Monica (a very busy street) and the police had to shut it down in order for a woman who worked for a dog rescue to gently coax her and catch her. The pads on her feet were bloody and torn. She was a mess.

And then we managed to live together as best friends. She traveled with me on location when I was shooting the film Evan Almighty in Virginia. She supported me through a rough break up in which she was also separated from her "dad" and brothers, a Great Dane/Dalmatian mix named Bouj and Chihuahua, Man Lee. That was hard. It's still tough to think about.

She moved with me and healed with me in my little sanctuary in Malibu, where we lived, just the two of us, staring at the ocean and growing up together. Healing. Feeling and accepting peace. Enjoying life on our own for the first time. Hiking, walking the beach, waving to dolphins, building new friendships. 

She moved with me to Philadelphia when I moved for another job. She completely accepted my new partner as her friend and new dad. And accepted a new sister, Greta, a Coonhound from Delaware, and her brother Man Lee who came back into the picture. 

She loved and supported me through a two year bout of deep depression and the horrible death of my mum. She's never left my side.

She's become the best dog and friend I've ever met. I love her more than life. And now, here she is, thin again and won't eat. It's tearing me apart tonight. 

I'm frustrated. I'm sad. I'm angry at her for not eating. I'm angry at the still unknown cause of this disease. I don't want to lose her. I don't want her to be in pain. I don't want to lose her. 

We're trying turmeric, Essiac tea, L-Arginine, L-Glutamine, Ginger, Milk Thistle, Salmon Oil, and other alternative methods. Everyday I read something else online, run to the health store and add to our protocol. 

But she needs to eat. 

Have tried raw, organic meat of all sorts, cooked organic meat of all sorts, cooked chicken, organic canned wet food, fresh eggs from our hen, cut up veggies - she's gone from eating bits to eating nothing today but two or three bites of kibble. 

So I'm writing this blog with no other point than to let my feeling explode onto "paper" while listening to Bob Dylan and eating chocolate chip cookies in a weak effort to comfort myself, just hoping and praying she'll suddenly want to eat the house and all its contents.  

The more you love the more it hurts, I find. I don't want to let go. Not this time. Not now. 

And I'll never be ready. 

Volunteering for Oppression: A Rant

If anyone can name the artist of this cartoon, please share. I'd love to give credit!

We're angry. We're furious. "They've" taken our money, our jobs, our rights. "They've" built their warehouse store in our town and screwed the economy. Since "they've" been in office, so much has gone wrong. We're being lied to. We're being robbed. We're sick of "the right" and their preposterous opinions and we're sick of "the left" and their love for higher taxes.

We're powerless, but we should stomp our feet anyway and get angry and blame each other. This is what the news media would like for us to believe. But, what's really going on?

Behind every label (liberal, conservative, 1%, 99%, neurotypical, neurodiverse, straight, gay, introvert, extrovert, etc.) is a human being with a heart, with feelings, with a family, with health concerns, with dreams, with abilities, with disabilities, with goals, with something to teach and something to learn, something to give and something to gain. But when a label is slapped onto a group of our brothers and sisters, our connection with them collapses—unless, of course, we also fit that label. It collapses because we take that one person with his or her thoughts, feelings, experiences, life stories, scars, talents, and weaknesses and group them with many, which gives the illusion of a threat—you know, that feeling one gets when walking alone down an alleyway passing a group of "others" who from the outside don't appear to relate. And the reaction is to seek and find a label that fits so as not to be bullied by the other label. And the grand illusion of separateness becomes a reality. Crips and Bloods. Democrats and Republicans. Red and Blue. Gay and Straight. Rather than seeing each other as humans that deserve fairness and equal rights, we view each other as a a label, devoid of human-ness, devoid of spirit, devoid of love. And we accept it. It's easier to buy "meat" in a pretty package in a brightly lit market than to eat a piece of a cow you saw killed in a slaughter house. Connection is always lost in the "other" label. 

Remember Aesop's fable,  The Four Oxen and the Lion? 

A Lion used to prowl about a field in which Four Oxen used to dwell. Many a time he tried to attack them; but whenever he came near they turned their tails to one another, so that whichever way he approached them he was met by the horns of one of them. At last, however, they fell a-quarrelling among themselves, and each went off to pasture alone in a separate corner of the field. Then the Lion attacked them one by one and soon made an end of all four.

Would love to give credit to artist. Please share!

The moral of the story: United we stand, divided we fall.

We cannot be divided individually—there are far too many of us, and boy, how confusing that would be for those who require putting us into categories in order to sell to us (remember, we are no longer considered "citizens" but instead "consumers"). But we can easily be divided into groups, separated, and pitted against each other like dogs in a dog fight, while the minority who we believe to be in power place bets and prosper over our blood, sweat, and tears. Fighting dogs have been trained all their lives to hate each other, yet the ones they should be hating are their abusers and those who put them in the ring to begin with. They are the same, having the same needs—food, water, shelter, and love. And any of those dogs could easily scare the hell out of all the people betting around the ring by bonding and turning against their abusers. But they don't. How are we any different? 

The good news is "they" (those who we perceive to have power) are the minority and WE (the people, all people) are the MAJORITY. Think about it for a minute. Seriously. My little town of 7,558 people outnumbers congress by 7,023! And as far as corporations go, there are only 10 major corporations in America that seemingly control everything we buy. For now. Until we wake up.

Indeed, we may all have differing opinions, beliefs, and goals in life. It's true. But I bet if we looked each other in the eyes, barring all labels, and discussed basic human rights and needs, there is a lot more we, the people, can agree upon, versus disagree. Just like those bloodied dogs in the ring.

We all want jobs. We all want to enjoy the fruits of our labor. We all want safe, affordable housing. We all want good health. We all want to love who we want to love how we want to love. We all want community. We all want privacy. We all want food and water. We all want kindness. 

We must awaken to the fact that "they" (the people perceived to be in power) cannot exist without us. Corporate executives and elected officials are in parasitic positions—benefiting only at the expense of our life energy. Yet time and again and on a daily basis we hand over our power to them, then complain and raise our fists in the air citing injustice, when we volunteered to be oppressed by buying that thing, eating that food, complaining only on social networking sites, and keeping our real voices down, and fighting with our neighbors over the labels slapped onto us like we're stuck sitting on the discounted shelves of a Wal-Mart. We scream "they" and at that moment become their victims. 

And back to work we go. 

We're taught to believe in this false paradigm since grade school so it just might take some work to convince us of the fact that we, as the people, have the power. We are the majority. Your neighbor hanging his American flag each morning is not your uptight, conservative enemy; he wants fairness, safety, and love, just as you do. Your neighbor sporting the Tibetan prayer flags and burning incense is not your dirty hippie liberal enemy; she wants fairness, freedom, and community just as you do. The gay couple down the road adopting their first child is not your enemy; they want safety, education, and love for their child, just as you do. The autistic woman walking to the bus stop is not so strange; she wants to make a living and experience kindness, just as you do. 

It's time to take back our power, one penny, one decision, one kind, loving act at a time. Our actions are our votes. We must find the sameness, not the differences, in our neighbors. Stop playing victim and realize the truth: your voice as well as your neighbor's counts and every action we take together is more powerful than any political or corporate agenda could ever be. 

*Tough As Nails

Photo credit: Black Heart Creatives

I've never been clear as to how she found out the state of our living situation, but she did, and she, my temporary savior, came to pull me out of the circus tent that evening.

Aunt Norma was certainly a tough disciplinarian, but I didn't mind. Strict rules felt safe. She brushed my hair and put it into a ponytail, which I loved as it was out of my face—I never like the irritating, scratchy feel of hair on my cheeks. It drove me crazy. We had dinner at the same time each night. It felt like someone was looking out for me and I didn't mind her telling me I had to be in the house before the street lights went on and I had to stay in the yard. 

She had children of her own, my twin cousins Natalie and Nicole. They were quite young at the time, not much older than three, making this arrangement for me a temporary one; her hands were full. 

For my brief stay, I certainly felt loved and cared for but still my heart sunk. I missed Mum. I worried about her. I missed Tony. I felt a constant sickness in my stomach and chest, and had a hard time eating without feeling like it would come back up, though I forced it with my mind to stay down as I didn't want to get in trouble for wasting food. I fought tears as I realized no one would be there to look after my mother. Who was going to make sure she was up for work on time, eating dinner, and breathing? Would I ever see my brother again?

Aunt Norma didn't like when I barked, so I ceased doing it around her. She didn't need to be protected anyway. Tough as nails, she was. 

Mum sounded as if she were very angry with Aunt Norma that night, but I couldn't understand why. I was obviously an obstacle in her new relationship with Bill and surely Lynn the prostitute had loftier things to do than to dress me up in her leather and spikes on a Tuesday morning. 

Excerpt from Chapter Fifteen: Changes | Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir

It Is Mother's Day.

Mum, each day that passed since you've been gone I learn a little more, I grow a little more, I accept a little more. I'm coming to understand you as I can now see you in me. I love you and miss you more than I could ever say. I cannot say "Happy Mother's Day", because that would be a lie, and you know well I've never been a good liar. So instead I'll just acknowledge it for what it is, and say, "Today is Mother's Day. I'm thinking of you today and everyday. Wish you were here for Breakfast with The Beatles." 

Love and miss you Mum. 

Blackbird, fly. 

Good Intention? Autism Awareness vs. Acceptance

I happened upon a video today posted by a well-known autism "support" website. The video was titled Army of Autism Awareness Angels Flash Mob - World Autism Awareness Day 2012. I knew when I clicked on it that "Flash Mob" and "Autism" couldn't necessarily mesh well, but I was willing to take the risk. Hey—I was bored. And it had been shared 21,582 times, so it must be worth it. Right?

Oh my. 

Let me begin by saying I am confident this group of people were very well intentioned and must have incredibly loving hearts to coordinate such a large scale event. It was quite impressive.

With so any people. 

In such a public place. 

With so many bright lights. 

With such incredibly loud, obnoxious music. 

[Closing eyes and covering ears, hoping for Scotty to beam me up . . . ]

If this group of people in the video were "aware" at all about autism and one of its main ingredients, sensory sensitivities, they would have realized this was an incredibly ridiculous spectacle. Sensory overload, at its finest. 

A crowded mall with its bright, buzzing, florescent lighting, crowds of people, strong perfume, and a different genre of music playing in each store passed has the potential to push anyone (on or off the spectrum) into a full blown meltdown. Then you add the crowd, dancing, jumping, woo-hooing, and clapping next to an ESCALATOR (am I the only one that still gets a fright from these beastly things?) — I'd need an escape plan - pronto. They put children (not sure if they were autistic or not) in the middle of a circle and danced around them, clapping and woo-hooing (I'd have been on the floor at this point covering my ears, hoping anyone, the most evil of serpents even, would pull me through the floor to get some quiet in his warm bowels). And the grand finale: a group of hot, young girls ride down the escalator in tiny red t-shirts, short shorts, and high heels (seriously) holding small signs displaying the words "Army of Autism Awareness Angels". Did anyone even see the signs? Likely not, with the red colored shirts (which everyone knows the brain cannot NOT see the color red) - oh, and the hot girls, naturally. 

This event would get a 10 in my book . . . if it were a demonstration of what causes an autistic to meltdown and isolate from the rest of society. A 10 if it were a demonstration to parents as to why their daughter is screaming and covering her ears, or why their son is hiding in the clothes rack in Macy's and won't come out.  

Being "aware" that autism exists isn't helping anyone, nor is it even necessary. I think we've down-right saturated the media with knowing the word "autism". Even the label itself isn't really helping anyone as every autistic is different and it certainly isn't helping when the actual difficulties the autistic is having aren't even being considered (such as the numerous non-verbal children who consistently displayed head-banging behavior before finally being diagnosed with severe ear infections; or the kid who screams incessantly while covering his ears in Costco because the florescent lights are buzzing and blinking creating a sensory tornado in his brain and body). 

Children and adults, verbal and non-verbal alike, are often drugged, set aside, and not considered when it comes to our own feelings, wants, needs, and desires. Silly when something like a baseball cap in Costco does wonders (it does for me). Earplugs-brilliant. 

Einstein (who many believe today would be diagnosed as being somewhere on the autism spectrum) didn't speak until he was four. In fact, mathematics historian Otto Neugebauer once told a rather charming, inspiring story about young Einstein. 

As he was a late talker, his parents were worried. At last, at the supper table one night, he broke his silence to say, "The soup is too hot." 

Greatly relieved, his parents asked why he had never said a word before.  

Albert replied, "Because up to now everything was in order."

Imagine if young Albert had been institutionalized, drugged, or simply not listened to?  

Imagine a group of people decided to do a flash mob for "poor people awareness". Imagine them paying to have hundreds of t-shirts made to advertise the event, handing out food and drinks for the dancers, and holding the event in a place like Beverly Hills, California (not a very poor-friendly place). And imagine Victoria's Secrets models walking out in lingerie (nice to look at but inappropriate!) holding hand written "Army of Angels for the Poor" signs above their heads. How is any of this helping the poor? All the money and energy spent getting t-shirts made, food prepared, and money to pay the models could have easily gone to feeding or housing the poor. But no one asked the poor what would help. And we're all quite aware that the poor exist. Capishe?

As good intentioned as these folks must have been, I don't think they realized at the time the contrast of their actions to what they were trying to raise awareness for. It is my hope that Autism Acceptance is the message more widely spread. It is my hope that all people, as good hearted as we often are, take more time to listen, to understand, to learn from one another. I'd much prefer someone take an interest in me as a person rather than spread the word about my overgeneralized label. 

The Truth About Gurus

"Guru" chasers and "spiritual teacher" seekers: you know how amazing it feels when you meet someone for the first time and he or she says something that you would have liked to have said, or that you'd always wanted to say? Your heart beats a bit faster, your eyes twinkle, your smile cannot be hidden and you may even sigh with relief. "Finally, someone I can believe in." You then sort of bond for life. A mirrored thought, feeling, or belief creates a heartfelt connection — a friendship is born. 

"Gurus" are tricky in this way, as they know how to use this method effectively, to their advantage. The difference between a Guru and a friend is, the Guru has created a distance between you and them. Money, power, authority, fame. 

The words spoken by these "teachers" is truth already living within YOU, which is why you get that super buzzing or blissful feeling when they seem to be speaking "the truth," falsely mirroring a real connection. I'm not saying another can't help bring your truth out. But real connection is a thing to seek, with another being on your same level that you owe NOTHING to — no money, no power, no authority nor submission. Just love and a MUTUAL admiration and respect. 

Whether this being to connect with is your God, your dog, a friend, or all of the above, it's up to you in the end.

I'm glad my dogs don't expect me to pay to learn from them—I'd be in debt up to my ears. Though I wouldn't put it past them to be conniving little sinister bastards. 

Perhaps they are planning $5,000 retreats and creating secret mantras now . . . ?

[Gulp.]

I Don't Hate Cancer.

StampingCancerOut Etsy Store | F*ck Cancer Guitar Pick

I don't hate cancer. 

Yes, cancer was the effect that ripped my mum away from me forever in 2012 and I hate that fact, but I still don't hate cancer. No. I hate what caused the cancer. 

I'm not a medical professional, but from what I understand, we all carry cancer cells in our bodies. However, the strength (or weakness) of our individual immune systems determine whether or not those cells thrive, survive, and multiply. 

"Isn't cancer inherited?" you might ask. I certainly did. According to The American Cancer Society, "Only about 5% to 10% of all cancers are inherited - resulting directly from gene defects (called mutations) inherited from a parent." So, in my mind, it is fair to say most cancers have known causes. Now, I have a few friends and family members who have been diagnosed with cancer and survived, and one who died of cancer complications, who seemingly did everything right. In this piece, my focus is on cancers with known causes and risk factors . Why do we hate it so?

I hear it said all the time, see it posted on social media sites, see it printed on T-shirts and bumperstickers - "F*%@ Cancer!", as if cancer is always an invincible beast that mercilessly strikes random people for dead. Cancerzilla. Is that what we believe about 5% to 10% of cancers? Or do we simply prefer to believe that about all cancers?  

What about the signs posted all around us, on cigarette boxes, on buildings, in medical journals, on food and beverage containers, in the news? What about all the warnings, encouraging us to limit our time in the sun, to limit our sugar intake (cancer thrives on sugar, you know), to eat properly, to avoid alcohol? It's not often I hear hateful speech and "F" words being directed toward these cancer causing agents. Well, perhaps cigarette smoke - but usually it's not the cancer causing factor people complain about, it's the inconvenience to their senses. 

So, I'm puzzled. We openly hate the effect of cancer but not the causes. 

But . . . isn't the cause the one thing we can do something about?

If you've read my blog or excerpts from my book, Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir, you'll know my mum, Donn Shy, was diagnosed with cancer and died not three months later (for more on this, read my previous blog entry titled "What Causes This Type of Cancer?". The day she went in for surgery, her surgeon, after operating on Mum for a short while, informed my grandfather, Mum's husband, and I, that her cancer was not ovarian cancer as they'd first suspected, but a horrid form of stomach cancer. It had spread and the prognosis did not look good. She also told us the particular type of stomach cancer Mum had was caused by alcohol and tobacco use. She drank beer daily and smoked every day since she was in her teens. I later found out from the oncologist, Mum's diet (consisting of mostly highly processed foods) also contributed. Corn chips, fast-food, ramen - you name it. 

She ignored all the signs. 

I feel I should mention, a sore spot for me is when I see people "toast" my mum on Facebook, saying things like, "I'm having this cold one for you Donn! Hope you're partying it up in Heaven!" when that very alcohol was her poison. If mum died of ricin intake, would people post online "I'm having this bit of ricin on a cracker for you Donn! Rest in peace!"? I surely hope not.

It's easier for us to "hate" the thing we have no power over (late stage cancer) as opposed to change the things we can. We want to drink. We want to smoke. We want to eat groceries from the middle aisles of the market and then raise our fists against cancer when it hits, as if it came out of nowhere, as it it weren't an invited guest. Like a drunk that gets behind the wheel of a vehicle, then dies in an accident. We could say "I hate death!" but death is inevitable. We could say "I hate car accidents!" but what will that do? Knowing the cause, though, could help us to make better decisions in the future. 

"Hate". It's so final. So devoid of love, of connection. So full of inaction. If I've ever felt so strongly about someone that the word hate has crossed my mind as a seemingly viable option, I've always been able to make a better choice - as in either fix the problem by resolving it, or if the person was detrimental to my well being, I'd simply say goodbye. So, after attempting to save my mum's life by researching a no-cancer diet and lifestyle, rather than raising my fist in the air with a hate for cancer, I made some big changes in my own life. I said goodbye to most processed foods (oh did I love my sugar cereals!!!), hello to local veggies, hello to growing my own food, hello to regular check-ups. I give myself extra time at the airport in order to opt out of walking through the radiation emitting machine. Many of my life choices the past few years began with the knowledge of the causes of cancer. 

I don't drink alcohol, I've never smoked, I stopped eating meat in 2007. Might I still get cancer? Yes. But I know I've made a grand effort at taking responsibility for my own health and worked toward a strong immune system. And if I receive a cancer diagnosis, I will not hate the cancer, but instead, see the cause (whether it was of my own doing or not) and understand it, and do my best to heal myself, if it's not too late. I'm sure I'll cry, and wish for better outcomes, and perhaps wish it weren't happening to me, but hate? There's no time for hate. 

I am in no way attempting to simplify that which is cancer. As I said before, I am certainly no medical professional. I'm just curious as to why no one ever discusses hating the causes but only the effect. Now to really confuse things, not everyone gets cancer by eating processed foods or smoking or drinking or even sun bathing. Perhaps this is the reason no one wants to blame these causes - because it's not black and white. But why not take these factors into consideration? If you hate cancer so much, are you taking precautions? It's like entering into a close relationship with someone you know to be a liar. You can *hope* he/she won't lie to you, and he/she might not. But if they do, hating them, even though you knew their character from the get-go, seems kind of silly, no?

Hating cancer cannot cure cancer. Talking of hating cancer does nothing. Having awareness of the causes and making changes can, possibly. This is where we can take back our power and put it to good use. 

When in history has hate ever generated progress?

*Modern Love

Prior to her performances, I would observe her pre-show nerves while she was evolving into the glamorous rock star. I imagined it must have been a scary thing to go out into a crowd of young people and pretend to be someone else when you had a hard enough time just being you. Or maybe not. 

She seemed to vibrate as she skipped through the house, smoking those tall brown More cigarettes in the red and gold box, one after the other, closely followed by a waft of grey smoke: her ghostly entourage. The apartment filled with the overwhelming chemical scent of Aqua Net Extra Hold hairspray and the distinctive sounds of Mark Garson on the piano playing Bowie’s Aladdin Sane. I’d sit on the floor just outside the bathroom’s open door, silent, as I loved taking in all of her smells and feeling the sporadic bursts of warmth from the hairdryer embrace me, burning the familiar scent of my mother into my mind forever.

On this particular night, her stage was the middle of a roller-skating rink, and she dressed in a cream colored suit, a thin tie covered in Japanese characters, her hair short and feathered on top, and the hit song “Modern Love” was blaring over the loud speakers. Mum was David Bowie.

Excerpt from chapter fifteen | changes | Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir

Childlike Presence

Image courtesy of Sweet Crisis | FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The wind passing through the eucalyptus trees temporarily distracted my senses from today's harsh reality and took my mind back to a time where I found joy in closely observing minuscule insects go about their daily business of survival. They were steadfast and perseverant, my holy teachers. I sat upon decomposed granite, feeling tiny pebbles embed into the skin of my bare legs, leaving artistic indentations of which I'd later count and discover patterns. There was no hurry, nor any need to stand and present myself in any way that simply wasn't. I'd imagine the fallen acorn caps to be tiny hats for fairies, or castles for ants, or I'd organize them into miniature villages. 

These rare and most cherished childhood memories didn't consist of loud screams in bounce-houses, nor birthday parties with slightly creepy hired entertainment, but of quiet moments alone in the backyard of my grandmother's house in Santa Barbara, with the sun warmly caressing my face ever so gently and the wind moving through the trees making everything come alive, all at once. 

I wonder, are introverts born or made?

*The Quiet | Part II

Art (love it!) found here: 
http://www.deviantart.com/art/Little-Mute-Girl-133251540

I’d always hated dresses. One simply can not conduct explorations of insects nor properly study sand particles when wearing a dress and white stockings, unless one finds the occasional beating and screaming at from one’s very southern grandmother desirable. Stockings felt scratchy, like a thousand itching flea bites. Make that a million. They made me constantly aware of where my awkward, skinny legs were at any given time, made me constantly worry about whether or not my underpants were showing, and made me feel extra sensitive and irritated if the wind were blowing. And those warm, Southern California Santa Ana winds were the worst, as I’d simultaneously have to hold my dress down at my knees and pull my static electric hair down toward my face in an attempt to keep others from noticing me and laughing. I’d imagine creating contraptions to hold the dress down—a giant rubber band or possibly custom-made Bungee Cords that would connect the bottom of the dress to my shoes.

Oh, those horrid shoes. I dreaded the toe-pinching black patent leather shoes that were merely good for slipping and sliding along the blacktop and falling on one’s face to the grand amusement of those lucky enough to be donning more appropriate attire, such as sneakers or the slightly acceptable Buster Browns. Nana would shine them up, straighten my dress at the shoulders, and exclaim, “Isn’t that adorable?!” I had no idea as to what “that” she was referring to. I surely had no desire to be considered “adorable” nor a “that.” Perhaps gluing rubber erasers to the bottom of the shoes would solve the issue, making me taller in the process.

Looking back, I see I was a pretty intelligent kid with innovative ideas (at least for that age), but the concept of reading, writing, and arithmetic on these particular types of days was far from the reaches of my ability, as unbeknownst to me and surrounding adults, the sensory receptors in my brain were malfunctioning. I’d find out many years later my amygdala, the part of the brain responsible for the fight or flight response, was defectively over-active. Selective mutism turned out to be the more appropriate term for why I was never able to get out the words “I want a carrot” to the barking Doberman across the schoolyard when Mr. Hoyt, so well intentioned, heroically attempted to cure me of what he saw as an extreme case of the quiet.

Excerpt from chapter five | Dear Mr. Fantasy | Everything’s Hunky Dory: A Memoir

*The Quiet | Part I

“Just say it, as loud as you can to that big dog over there. Go on, say it! ‘I want a carrot! I want a carrot!’”

There I sat, stiffly and nervously upon an orange plastic chair that had been placed on a table top in the front of my first grade classroom. My sweaty little hands were tightly gripping both sides of the chair bottom as if the next step were spontaneous hydraulic ejection. Regardless of having no parachute in my possession, I had climbed up onto it at the request, or rather, demand, of my teacher, Mr. Hoyt. He said I was too shy.

 Tiny bursts of hushed laughter popped up like Whac-A-Mole about the classroom. The tiny hushed bursts might as well have been nuclear explosions. Devastating.

My throat ached. It felt as if it were closing, stuffed with a big ball of uncooked dough that was rising by the second. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights was extra loud, as all of the students stared at me in attempted silence, waiting to hear my since hidden monotone voice for the first time.

Nana had made me wear a dress that day—a navy blue dress, with white lacing along the bottom and tiny navy anchor design across the waist. Those anchors were the only things mildly acceptable about this horrid nautical themed torture arrangement. “Oh, you look darling,” she’d say, with that strange, southern accent and seemingly smashed vocal cord sound that only really tiny people seem to share.

At least ship anchors had a logical purpose that I could comprehend, so I’d stare at them, giving my mind an imagination workout and my eyes a perfect excuse to avoid uncomfortable contact with others. 

Excerpt from chapter five | Dear Mr. Fantasy | Everything’s Hunky Dory: A Memoir

Intelligent Worldy Humor

Mensa (English): The largest and oldest high IQ society in the world. 

Mensa (Spanish): Stupid.

*Free To Be Me

The place where answers are often found.

The next day, I was completely done with the church I had spent my late teens and twenties in. I contacted the church leaders, and with reasons and scriptures to back those reasons, I told them I was leaving. [ . . . ]

Upon entrance into reality, I felt like an alien visiting another planet, attempting to meet new people, date, and find things to do on the weekends. Guys wanted to make-out on a first date, people drank alcohol when meeting up together, and there was no common moral standard to live by or call one another to. Yikes.

I was then romantically pursued by an actor I had met in a Santa Monica health food store. I’d watched him on television and films, admiring him for years. Though he was older than I, and I was worried about what I was ‘supposed to do’ as an adult in a dating scenario, I agreed to go out with him, based on the fact that he was quite charming and funny, and a comedian. He must be trustworthy, I thought.

We dated for a few months, enjoyed each other’s company, watched hours of Liberace footage, wrote jokes, and learned a lot from one another. Until one fine day when a friend brought over a gossip magazine showing Mr. Charming kissing another woman on a beach in Malibu. A world-renowned groupie.

So, this is what the real world looks like?

Great.

That was the end of that.

It didn’t take long before I retreated and fell right back into my naturally introverted ways. I began studying Tibetan Buddhism, Taoism, and Hinduism. I read books by Deepak Chopra, Chögyam Trungpa, Pema Chödrön, Eckhart Tolle, Swami Vivekananda, and Krishnamurti. I began studying the Bhagavad Gita, Tao te Ching, and Tibetan Book of the Dead. My brain was spinning with new knowledge and possibilities, yet leaving me with no sense of direction but in.

Most of my time then was spent alone, on a mountaintop, walking along the beach, driving up and down Topanga Canyon smelling the wild sage and listening to Tom Petty, Paul McCartney, or Bob Dylan, and sitting up at my old park bench in Brentwood with a hot tea in one hand, watching the sun set over the Westside of Los Angeles, feeling rather lonely, yet tentatively free to be me, whoever that may be.

Excerpt from chapter twenty-five | the seeker | Everything’sHunky Dory: A Memoir

Stuck In Parallel Play

Little me, reading at three.

So, how about ingesting a nice, healthy dose of “You seem to be stuck in parallel play,” from your therapist on a Thursday?

In late 2009, I was working on the film The Last Airbender in the Philadelphia area. My office happened to be at the director’s rustic, sprawling farm, about a forty-five minute drive from the home I rented in the historic neighborhood of Chestnut Hill. I loved the commute for the most part, driving past green pastures and incredibly ancient looking stone buildings (an unfamiliar site for a California native) but mostly for the celebrated occasions I’d have to tune into WHYY/NPR and listen to Terry Gross and her ever impressive interviews on the show, Fresh Air.

One of said celebrated interviews changed my life.

Terry interviewed the Pulitzer Prize winning Tim Page in 2009 on the topic of his memoir titled Parallel Play: Growing Up With Undiagnosed Asperger’s. (The subtitle was later dropped as the author felt, according to the newer paperback edition’s revised introduction, “ . . . it seemed to suggest that “Parallel Play” was a sort of guidebook or “owner’s manual” for people with autism, something better found elsewhere.)

I tuned in just when Page began reading a quote from David Mamet’s book, Bambi vs. Godzilla:

“I think it is not impossible that Asperger’s syndrome helped make the movies.

The symptoms of this developmental disorder include early precocity, a great ability to maintain masses of information, a lack of ability to mix with groups in age-appropriate ways, ignorance of or indifference to social norms, high intelligence and difficulty with transitions, married to a preternatural ability to concentrate on the minutiae of the task at hand.”

Had I not been on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, I’d have pulled over just to sit hard with that information to allow it time to fully process. As floored as I was, I somehow managed to comprehend that particular excuse, however valid, would not be acceptable nor considered “cute” by State Troopers. So I continued on.

Was Mamet describing me? I’d felt my entire life that no one understood me, yet, in this excerpt from Mamet’s book and the too-brief twenty-minute interview with Page, I finally felt somewhere out there someone understood me.

I arrived home, entered the front door, opened my laptop and before letting my dogs out to do their biologically customary duties, ordered his book along with the fastest, most pricey shipping option available. I wanted, or rather, needed his book yesterday.

 And a year later, I received my very own, personalized gold plated Asperger’s syndrome diagnosis.

When reading Tim Page’s memoir, I absolutely fell in love with his quirky anecdotes of growing up in Connecticut in the ‘60s, memorizing portions of the World Book Encyclopedia (apparently a pastime we both shared), and tales of LSD gone wrong. I also partook in my usual habit of extracting all relevant data and storing it in an organized fashion, securely, in my cerebral hard drive. Somehow I completely missed dissecting its title, Parallel Play.

This past Thursday, after taking a two-month hiatus from seeing my therapist, I went in with a plan. I wanted some solutions, some answers. I wanted to get to the bottom of my social deficiencies, if any could be gotten to the bottom of, that is. The fidgeting, the unpleasantness of direct eye contact, the face blindness, the almost complete inability to trust fellow humans, the desperate need for ample solitude, the nervousness and anxiety. Are they all autism related, or could they perhaps also be the results of my, at times, rather horrendous upbringing?

“It sounds like you’re stuck in parallel play,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, after a moment of slow motion memory montage.

She began to explain that young toddlers, starting at about the age of twenty-four to twenty-nine months, engage in what is known as “parallel play” or “parallel activity”, a form of play in which each child engages in an independent activity that is similar to but not influenced by or shared with the others. They eventually, round about potty training time, begin to face other children and engage in the more advanced associative and cooperative stages of play.

So, not quite collaborating on how they, along with their peers, plan to reform their future education system, but perhaps mastering the art and science of speedy jigsaw puzzle assembly.

What could have happened to cause this affect, besides the sprinkling of autism I’d received? We explored that question.

Between the ages of two and three I had, among many other moderately stressful events, lost my father, gained a new one, moved house three times, gained a brother, then lost my parents to my brother who'd become the next big thing. I agreed, he was pretty darned awesome. I couldn’t keep away from the pudgy little troll. But I was on my own.  Parental guidance had ceased to be.

Bingo.

Since this revealing discovery occurred, I’ve spent the last few days sifting through a box of old photos of my toddler years, searching for clues. I am mostly shown either alone or playing alongside others, but not quite engaging. Especially the rare times when there were large groups, such as swim class. It is obvious in the photos the little girl in the pink bikini is in her own little world. She wants to learn how not to drown, not how to engage with rambunctiously loud mini-people. I'm either shown staring off into space or looking to the photographer to rescue me from this hell, and pronto.

When swimming with others, I recall merely wanting to splash about on my own pretending to be a dolphin or mermaid (and sometimes suddenly freak myself out, convincing myself the dark shadow was indeed none other than Jaws). I hated the loud screams of the others, “Marco!” “Polo!” They’d splash me, getting an unpleasant twenty-five gallons of highly chlorinated water up my nose and in my eyes without my consent.

The rambunctious mini-people were always huddled together, likely engaging in higher, more age-appropriate stages of play than me, such as pointing and making fun of others, comparing and contrasting swimsuits, and showing off their pee-pees to one another. Activities quite similar to that of some adults I know today.

In the photos where I was a bit older I was reminded that when not alone drawing, reading, or attempting to lay on the floor like a dog, the others I did engage with tended to be younger friends or family members I would instruct.  My friend Julie, who I’d met when I was four, was younger than I, yet just as logical and precocious. If I wasn’t teaching her the latest dance moves I’d learned from watching others in school, we were in fact working alongside each other creating. She was an exception. Sort of.

Tonight, in an attempt to shed some more light on this newfound wisdom,  I listed some of the activities I could remember actually enjoying with others as a child:

·      Swinging on swings on the playground

·      Visiting the zoo (though with adults)

·      Coloring/drawing

·      Video games

·      Disneyland (Except for the waiting in line bit—bleh.)           

·      Making up my own games and directing others

·      Investigating

I realize all of these activities became overwhelming to me if I shared them with more than one other child. My reaction to said overwhelm would be to shut down, become mute, hold my hands/arms in a strange uncomfortable looking manner, and try to fade into the background as quickly as possible. Basically, if an invisibility cloak had been an option, I would have taken it.

I then listed some of the activities I actually enjoy with others as an adult:

·      Dining in restaurants (preferable in a corner or near a window for ample people watching opportunities)

·      Reading books

·      Working on separate projects, side by side (art, writing, gardening, fixing/building things)

·      Classic Car shows

·      House painting

·      Disneyland (Except for the waiting in line bit-bleh. Some things never change.)

·      Visiting the zoo (Yes, its true.)

·      Taking scenic drives

·      Traveling by airplane

·      Traveling by train

·      Exploring new places

·      Watching movies

·      Hiking

All, from childhood to adulthood, seem to potentially be parallel play type activities. And all of them I also enjoy doing alone.

Standing side-by-side with another, viewing something from our respective occupied portions of the earth, is non-threatening. We are both free to judge the strange partially striped zebra/giraffe/alien-like Okapi at the zoo, or revere the perfectly polished engine of the 1966 Chevy Chevelle at the summer car show. But what to do when viewing and experiencing aren’t on the agenda?

I am forever kicking myself for leaving the only place I ever truly felt at home—Malibu, California. For a little over four years I rented an incredibly quaint, modest guesthouse (and when I say quaint and modest, I mean 400 square feet of absolute charming, simple, converted garage with terracotta floors, studio heaven). I’ve never stopped reminiscing about how incredibly at peace I felt there, just me and my Great Dane Audrey, happy as clams in a place as tiny as a clam shell. For the first time in my life I was proud of my home, and found myself relaxed enough to be a bit more open to having somewhat of a social life. Was it the view of the ocean? The friendly neighbors? The simplicity?

My husband and I began dating when I lived in my Malibu sanctuary and things were perfect with us. All fun and gobbly googly goop. And now, since this revealing observation from my brilliant therapist on Thursday, I’m able to connect the dots and see how with the way that place was set up was never threatening for a parallel player such as myself: one wall all windows facing the water, two deck chairs facing the water, sofa facing the window facing the water, no where else to go but those two seating arrangements. I never felt overwhelmed by human contact, by relationship, by emotion. I was safe to be me, an individual. I could listen to him talk and stare out toward the ocean. And when you’re at the ocean, this staring behavior is absolutely acceptable. It’s expected. At my current home where there is no ocean but rather a house across the street, I can’t very well stare out the window. I might be arrested. If I turn my eyes toward my bookshelf, my only other option, this behavior is unacceptable to other humans, including my hubby.

I was yanked from my little teepee of love when I accepted the job on the Shyamalan film in Philly. And there my soon to be hubby and I sat, facing one another in Chestnut Hill, and the vetting of therapists was inevitable. 

“How did things become so hard?” we’d ask.

I realize now that sitting down and facing another for extended lengths of time somehow causes the brain to go bonkers, the ecstasy of enjoyment to end, and looping thoughts of “God, I can’t wait to be alone and back to my routine,” begin.

A good friend of mine I am most fond of is someone I worked with and was lucky enough to share an office with on a film in 2005-2006. It was the perfect set-up for parallel activity. She did her job, I did mine, and we could joke and laugh, but never forced our way into each other’s space. Even now that we aren’t working together I find we, within about a half hour of an in-person visit, end up on our respective laptops or iPhones doing separate things, close in proximity and still together. Others might find this incredibly bizarre. It works for me. I assume this may be the factor that brings gamers together, artists, mechanics, scientists perhaps. It’s why the majority of my friends are my friends—we’ve worked together before. Without the parallel activity supporting environment found at work, I believe I’d have an incredibly hard time finding and making new friends. It would be impossible. And now, without an office to report to, I found myself with a plan in my therapist's office on Thursday.  

I wonder if the brain with its incredible plasticity will be able, with much work, to move forward in the stages of play or activity for a very young thirty-eight year old woman. Do I want to progress? How many other adult parallel players are out there in the world? Am I indeed stuck or an I merely slightly autistic? How many of my self-proclaimed introverted friends are simply stuck in parallel play as well? Do I reach out to others who, like me, would be happy to ride up the coast on a train, only independently viewing the scenery, knitting, reading, or napping? More importantly, will my hubby be happy to spend his life side-by-side with me, enjoying life in a parallel manner?

The million dollar question is: Do I force upon myself an attempt at changing the wiring of my brain or will this simply be a time of kind self-realization in which I can choose to further embrace ‘what is’ and see where it takes me?

We’ll see. At least I know where to begin.