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. 

Glass Walls & Recurring Nightmares

Photo found at http://www.peta.org

Whilst innocently scrolling my Facebook newsfeed today, I came across a cute video of a tiny Pomeranian puppy howling in response to hearing a wolf. I'd seen it before but who could resist? I clicked on the link, and straight away an advertisement played featuring none other than Sir Paul McCartney. Normally, I'd hit "skip" the moment the option was available, but since a beloved Beatle was involved, I stayed glued. 

Sir Paul went on to recite one of his most famous quotes, "If slaughterhouses had glass walls, everyone would be a vegetarian." I was not appalled, as some might perhaps be, because I, in fact, ceased eating meat of all kinds in 2007. I stopped, not only for the health and well-being of the animals, but also for my own.

Dark, pixelated, undercover footage clips of slaughterhouses began to play. I'd seen some of this abhorrent behind-the-scenes footage before, so I just assumed hang on until the subject of this advertisement became clear. "Glass Walls" briefly appears on the screen. Oh, looks like this might be a documentary. I love documentaries. 

I'm intrigued.

He then began talking about chickens and turkeys. Mind you, I'd just come in from cleaning up after and feeding my own pet hens, Lucy and Ethel. Lucy and Ethel have incredible personalities, following me around like puppies, playing with my feet, and getting so excited when I give them special treats they make little happy sounds (I have no other words to describe the sounds other than 'happy'). They bring me joy. As I'm thinking about how much I love my little feathered girls, I see a man in a sweatshirt saying, "They're hard to kill sometimes" and he stomps on a turkey's head twice with his boot, then, when he see's it's still alive, violently grabs its head and begins to twist it around until it eventually snaps. I closed the tab immediately and began to sob for at least twenty minutes. 

At least for the turkey it was over.

My three dogs instantly surrounded me, my Great Dane Audrey lay her head in my lap and I held her head in my arms, tears dripping down onto her long neck. She was also once severely abused, but lived, and I rescued her. She's since rescued me, countless times.

Absolute devastation. It was just too, too much. 

And no, no. I'm not that girl that goes around sobbing when the sun comes up, when the moon is full, when my dog eats chicken poop. Again. (Well, maybe that last bit.) Hey Paul, I love you dearly (mean it!), but this image was frankly too much for me to handle physically, emotionally, and psychologically.  

And just a few hours earlier, also whilst innocently scrolling my Facebook Newsfeed, a graphic image appeared showing a German Shepherd Dog that had been tied to a motorcycle and dragged. Its bones were exposed. This was also far too much. I didn't ask for it, nor did I click on it—it was just there, at the top of my Newsfeed. That, and Sir Paul's message, though incredibly truthful and real, took me straight into sensitive meltdown mode, into the tunnel of darkness. 

Visual Thinking: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

Visual thinking certainly isn't isolated to those on the autism spectrum, but I do attribute mine to my own AS diagnosis. Thinking in pictures can come in quite handy as I'm able to build and draw and visualize things clearly, as a gallery in my mind. I'm able to see the most minute of details, and see color quite vividly. How it works for me is this: in a conversation, you may reference a giraffe; I instantly see every giraffe I've ever encountered, similar to google images, until I 'land' on the one that matches the discussion (which is where my eyes are going when not briefly meeting yours). Every experience, photo, video, and film I've ever seen has been memorized and saved, forever, in my ever-loving cerebral hard drive. Forever. Startling images like that of the dog being dragged by the motorcycle or the turkey being brutally murdered become perseverant thought movies of sorts, playing on a loop. They never go away. It takes time and hard work to simply put them away in a folder on my brain's desktop. 

It can take weeks, or even months (honestly, in some cases, years) of filling my hard drive with new things by reading new books, seeing new images, having new experiences, just to have them put away for the moment . . . at least until another of these frightening, gut wrenching images comes along. Then the folder is once again opened and there they are, all on exhibit. Unfortunately, these "protected" files can never be deleted. If only Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind were a viable scenario . . .

Now, please don't get me wrong. I'm not one to hide from the truth. I want the truth out there. I'm, actually, rather obsessed with the truth. I passionately want people to know what goes on behind closed doors, in the dark, hidden behind pretty colors, cartoons, and false advertisements. Knowing creates freedom. Hello—I just confessed to sobbing for nearly twenty minutes over a video image. That's why I wrote my memoir. I don't hide the sexual abuse or the drug abuse or the humiliating personal moments. However, I realized today that sometimes the truth can be too much—for me. 

Am I just too sensitive?

As much as I'd like to be able to 'ban' those types of images and videos, Sir Paul is 100% right. He's right to expose the truth. We need to see it. He's narrated a documentary, titled Glass Walls (warning: this link takes you to the full 13 minute video), and I'm glad he did. We should know what we're voting for with our dollars, what we are putting in our bodies, what we are supporting by our actions or inaction. I applaud his efforts.

Now what?

I think, personally, I should stay away from Facebook for a bit. Maybe I'll just remove serial posters of the sort from my feed altogether. I'm curious to hear what others think about these types of images. Yay or nay? Perhaps there are solutions, suggestions, or supportive camaraderie out in the world for sensitive truth lovers, such as myself (and you?).

*Mr. T & Other Non-traditions

Brother Tony & me, with a neighborhood photobomber.

“Miiiiista T!”

Tony and I, arms outstretched stiffly to our sides, jumped down the last few stairs into the living room, shouting the theme song of the early 1980s ‘Mister T’ animated series in unison. Mum was in the kitchen washing dishes. As we stood there with highest anticipation, frozen in perfect “T” position, she dropped the cup she’d been washing into the water filled sink and ran after us, with bubbles covering her arms and hands, laughing hysterically. We wiggled and giggled uncontrollably, and ran back up the stairs to avoid the impending tickle fest, only to return again, two minutes later, with the same routine. However unconventional, this had become our favorite game.

Traditional we were not, and I loved that about Mum. Other kids were sitting with their parents playing charades or even Monopoly, but we were creating make believe worlds under blankets, singing and dancing along to The Beatles’ Abbey Road and of course, playing the wonderful game we created called “Mister T.” I’d read all of the cards in the Trivial Pursuit and Ripley’s Believe It Or Not games, anyhow, which made me no fun to play with, apparently. 

Excerpt from chapter fourteen | name of the game | Everything’s Hunky Dory: A Memoir

*Excerpt from Chapter Two: Tiny Dancer

In true sixties fashion, she spent many of her evenings and weekends (while her parents were away) drinking their alcohol, having parties, dropping acid and teaching little sister Chris to do the same, and “Don’t you dare tell,” she’d demand (although she has claimed the acid dropping abruptly ceased once she noticed little sister Chris sprouting the most peculiar set of bunny ears).

Donna was rebelling against the too-tight reins of her manic mother. Lou’s reaction to said rebellion was to dump Donna’s prized Beatles and Monkeys albums in the trash and restrict her further, telling her she couldn’t go out, listen to music, or do anything outside of school until she was eighteen years old. So Donna, ever the innovator, decided to fix that little problem by moving out and marrying a sailor. Ed, her doting father who believed in her and her brilliant creativity, begged her to hang in and he’d pay for her to go to art school. “Just wait one more year,” he’d beg.

Lou’s extreme ups and downs, constant belittling, and control campaign took its toll. Instant gratification won and freedom proved more important to a young, insecure seventeen-year-old girl. Though Mum never admitted to it, my siblings and I would later be convinced she must have regretted that decision for the rest of her life. 

Excerpt from chapter two | tiny dancer | EVERYTHING'S HUNKY DORY: A MEMOIR