I'm Just One Big Fucked Up Mess

This is going to be a post with lots of different things in it.  So, sorry if seems like I'm rambling, cause I probably am.

I registered with an organization that helps people with disabilities find and keep employment.  Hey, it's worth a shot right?  Anyway, I was going through the application, and there were two questions of note.  What is your disability and the other asked about other factors that might contribute.  So, I sat down and thought about all the different diagnoses I have.  Let's see, there's ADHD, dyslexia, dyscalculia, borderline personality disorder, social anxiety.  And then there's the implied ones; Asperger's syndrome, obsessive compulsive personality disorder, avoidant personality disorder, dependent personality disorder.  Seriously, the list goes on, but I think you have the idea.  I am seriously one big fucked up mess.  It's a wonder I'm not locked in a little padded room somewhere screaming "Master!" at the flies.  Oh, sorry that was a flashback to the movie Dracula. 

My birthday is coming up.  In exactly three and a half days.  I have noticed that the closer it gets to D-Day, the bitcher I get.  I have become uber bitch lately.  I called my mom yesterday, and she was joking (I think) and said, "So, didn't you tell me your birthday was Wednesday?" and I said, "You don't remember when my birthday is?" in an incredibly nasty tone of voice.  She was supposed to come and get me and my sister yesterday, and she didn't show up at the appointed time, so I called her again. 

Me: Are you coming over?
Her: I don't know.
Me (very pissy): Well you said you were coming at 2.
Her: Well, I can't get away.
Me: Well, you know what, just forget it! [slams phone down]

 And that's not to mention the random acts of bitchiness I've committed here in the blogosphere.  Vix, if you happen to be reading this, I apologize for the snarky pregnancy comment.  And the one before that.  It's me, not you.  Really.


I had an odd dream last night.  It involved my best friend, her husband, me, my younger sister, an odd hybrid of my first serious crush (who I've dreaming about a lot lately for some reason) and the BF (they look an awful lot alike), and some blond girl I don't know.  Now, in my dreams lately, my brain has been confusing the BF for [we shall refer to him as] #1 Crush.  It is eerie how much alike they look.  Same hair color, same eye color, they both even have long hair.  There's one very subtle difference between the two, and it's the way their eyes are set in their heads.  The BF's are set deep in his face and close together, and #1 Crush's are set far apart on his face, and close to the surface.  I don't know how to describe it.  Anyway, moving right along.

Okay, the first part of the dream, I happened to be with my best friend.  It seemed to be understood that she had split with her husband, and she was torn up about it.  So, she convinced me to go with her to his house so she could make one last ditch effort to get back together with him.  While all this is happening, I'm acutely aware of the fact that there is a girl that the #1 Crush/BF hybrid has met, and that he/they want to be with her, but because of me, he hasn't made a move.  So, I'm standing on the sidewalk watching my best friend make a miserable fool out of herself to a man that doesn't want her, and I decided I would be gracious and let him go.  I tell my best friend that I will see her later, and I go to find him.  And I find him in a church, where the service is about to start, and I see The Girl at the front of the chapel, and him sitting a pew somewhere in the middle with my younger sister.  Now, the fact that he's in a church is significant, because I used to go to church, when I was a teenager, and that's where I met #1 Crush.  I'll have to tell you the story of what happened with him later, because boy is it a doozy.  Back to the dream.  I make my way up the center aisle, and make a beeline to this girl, and I tell her I need to talk her later.  Then I make my way over him and my sister.  Now, get a load of this conversation, cause it's a significant part of this dream.

Him: What'd you say to her?
Me: I just told her I needed to talk to her.
Him: You can use me if you want. (Referring to the fact that sometimes when I don't want to admit to something, I use other people as scapegoats.)
Me: No, I'm just going to give you to her, cause that's what you want, and I guess I'll just be alone for the rest of my life. [I start walking off]
Him: Okay. [Turns away from me, I stop and back up]
Me: [facing him] You never really wanted to be with me, did you?
Him: No, not really.
Me: Then why the hell did you say yes in the first place?
Him: [says something about previous relationships that ended horribly; don't really remember this part]
Me: [grabs his lips and squeezes them shut, and laughingly says] You are not allowed to talk anymore![Then I lean over and hug him]
Him: Sweetie, what are you doing?
Me: It's okay, I hug my friends.

Now, during the conversation, it's not spoken, but I seem to be aware of the fact that I don't really love him like a boyfriend, just an incredibly close friend.  Like the same way I love my best friend.  So I'm not angry.  Nothing happens after this, cause I woke up, and it was 5:30, and I wanted a cigarette.  I don't know what this means.  I don't know if the person in my dreams is supposed to represent the BF, #1 Crush, or somebody totally different.  I don't know if this is prophetic, metaphorical, or somthing in between.  If it's prophetic, does it mean I'm going to be single again before too much longer?  Maybe I shouldn't be worried about a dream, but it just made me feel very WTF when I woke up this morning. 

Speaking of the BF, I think the poor guy's having a withdrawal again.  He's been very quiet of late, not that I've been able to talk to him much anyway because of my shitty internet.  I spend more time trying to connect to the internet than actually doing anything on the internet.  But when I asked him Friday if he was okay, he didn't even respond to that. 

Oh, fuck!  I'm like totally forgetting the most important thing.  I came on here Friday to tell you all about it, but because the internet was being a bitch, I didn't even bother.  And it didn't even occur to me until now.  It might be because I can't feel it anymore (YAY PERCOCET!) and therefore forgot all about it. 

I broke my foot. 

It's the End of the World As We Know It

I have a bed buddy.  He's warm and cuddly, and doesn't hog the covers.  He doesn't whine and complain.  He doesn't snore.  He's quite nearly perfect.  Except for the infernal scratching.  Jackimo has allergies.  And he's shedding them all over my bed.  The poor thing has a bald spot on his ass from where he's scratched all his hair off.  I have no idea what to do for him.  He scratches and scratches and rubs and rolls around on the carpet until he's raw.  Then goes back for more.  Short of putting a satellite dish on his head, I don't know what to do for him.

Holy crap!  Two nights in a row!  Wow, what's the world coming to?  Oh, yes, a very grisly end in about 4 years.

The other day I was doing my laundry at the laundromat across the street.  While waiting for my stuff to dry, I was half assed paying attention to the television blathering on in the background.  Then my ears pricked up when they mentioned December 21st, 2012.  The apocalypse of the world is sort of a fascination to me.  For those who may not know, or aren't inclined to care, December 21st, 2012 is the last day of the Mayan calendar.  The doomsayers claim this is the end of the world.  So, I started listening to what was being said.  Apparently there's also some scientific evidence that the earth and the sun are going to perfectly align on the perigee-apogee line (I know that should mean something, but it's really fuzzy at the moment), and this will cause a catostrophic shift of the earth's axis, and a whole bunch of other crazy stuff.

Now, I'm not saying I actually believe this.  There's been sooooo many "It's all gonna end!" prophecies out there.  And Nostradamus didn't say anything about December 21st, 2012.  It's just interesting to me.  Idiots will believe anything.  And so what if it does all end in four years?  What can we do about it?  Just bend over and kiss your ass goodbye, I guess.  Which is what my dad tells me whenever a tornado hits, but that doesn't stop me from freaking out.

Just for the record, I feel I should point out that the above is just a distraction to keep myself from dwelling on the real issues.  Those being that it has been 6 years, 2 months, and 13 days since I last got laid.  Am I ever going to get laid again?  I am truly pathetic.

Cake or Death?

I was watching Eddie Izzard's Dress To Kill last night on tha intertubes.  You can see my favorite part above. 

Okay, two pieces of news I must impart to you:  First, I am moving Saturday.  I do not have internet yet at my sister's house, so I'm going to be absent for a few weeks.  Do not worry, I will be back.  So, I suggest those of you who haven't already done so subscribe to my feed so you'll know when I make my glorious return.

Second, I got a job finally.  I start Sunday.  Yay for me! 

Suburbia Scares Me

My mom and I went out Saturday morning to yard sales. We haven't done that in a long time. We hit up a couple in the richy-rich subdivisions on the west side of town. The houses were all the same. Same pukey beige color. Same box shape. The only way to tell them apart were the cars parked in the driveways. It was like the opening credits of Weeds.

I think the thing that scares me more than dying is becoming conventional. The whole time we were there, I kept repeating in my head 'Please, God, don't ever let me become like these people.' That's a pretty serious issue. I don't believe in God.

Mother Nature Is Out To Get Me

I hate summer. I also hate spring and winter.

We got another nasty storm tonight. It's blown over, and no tornados cropped up, but it was hailing, wind blowing like hell, rain pelting everything. I went outside for exactly 45 seconds before the storm started, and in 30 of those seconds was completely soaked. My parents' car probably has a few nice dings in it.

But for me, it's a toss-up between storms and allergies as to why I hate summer. Kansas is known for it's cottonwood trees. It's the state tree. I'm also unbearably allergic to them. Head swells up like a balloon, eyes and nose running constantly, sneezing, coughing, just general misery. The damn things have been blooming for the last week and a half. And the fluff has been blowing all around. And I have no Zyrtec. Did I mention that I've also been holed up inside, and I'm still having a reaction?

All of my allergies seem to flare up in the spring and summer time. It really sucks. I'm allergic to grass, cottonwood trees, cedar trees, and a whole bunch of other crap. So, from about April to September, I'm a soggy, leaky, squeaky mess. My allergies used to be so bad that my mom got to poke me with a shot twice a day when I was a kid. I've since outgrown a lot of them, but those allergy shots traumatized me for life. I still hate needles. I have to shut my eyes or look away whenever the doctor wants a blood sample.

So, here I sit, head pounding, nose running, just feeling like crap and can't sleep. I wonder what I did in a past life to deserve Mother Nature's wrath. I had the urge to get dressed up (read gothed out) and wander about downtown the other day. But after wrestling myself into a passable outfit and putting my makeup on, I took one look at myself in the mirror and said to hell with it. Because you can't look sufficiently creepy with eyeliner running down your face. Apparently even waterproof eyeliner doesn't hold up to inflammed tear ducts.

In other news, I'm still looking for a job and still living with the parents. I can't remember if I mentioned this or not, but they extended my time by another month. So, I'll be moving out in July. Really not looking forward to next month. I turn 25 on the 30th. I'm going to throw an I'm getting old party. You're all invited.

I Need a Babysitter

My parents are going away for the weekend. At 8 am (in about 5 hours), they will be leaving. For three days. Count them-Friday, Saturday, Sunday. I will be left at home with the dog. By myself. With nothing to do but watch crappy television and play on the internet. Which gets real boring real fast. I will have to cook for myself. And clean up after myself (read: do the dishes).

I don't think I'm ready for this!

This is not the first time they have left and gone somewhere for the weekend. They did this last year for their anniversary (which is on Tuesday) and I hated it then too. But my older sister rescued me and took me dancing with her last year. No such luck this year.

I don't mean to sound like a little baby, but I really don't want to be here by myself. The dog doesn't talk back. With both of my sisters being busy this weekend, and all my friends living elsewhere, it's gonna be a looooong three days.

I am so not living up to my reputation. Maybe I should call myself Whiny Goth Kitten.

Ignore the Girl Behind the Blog

Sometimes, she doesn't know what she's talking about. Like last night for instance. I came to my senses earlier this afternoon, and realized what the fuck I was thinking about doing.

I'm fucking nuts. Somewhere, something in my brain broke and it causes me to act like a crazy person. At least I'm back on the Prozac, have been since Monday, and I'm starting to feel a little more sane. Although, I'm not ready to hop on a train and show up at his front door screaming "Here I am!" much as I'd like to. No, I know me. I'd get about a mile away from the train station here in town and have a panic attack because I realize there's no turning back. I do not travel alone because of the anxiety issue. If somebody I know is with me, it's easier to keep my crazy little brain in check. Maybe that's why I hate being alone. Hmmm, something to think about.

There's really not much going on. I think that's a problem. I need stimulation. I have ADHD, fer fucksake, I get bored easily. I've been contemplating this very issue, and maybe finding me a job. That and the dwindling cash supply. But it has to be a job that I won't get bored with in a couple of days. I've thought about getting a job at a place here in town that helps people with disabilities. I think that'd be a great job for me. I like being needed by somebody, but not to the extent that I'd run out and get knocked up. Oh, god no.

Heh, that reminds me of a conversation my mother and I had about a conversation the BF and I had recently. I had asked him what he'd do if I wound up pregnant. I shared this with my mother, and how I felt that it would be best for the baby if I put it up for adoption. She flipped out, and said that I had family that could help me take care of it, there was no reason I should have to put it up for adoption, and that she "didn't want to spend the rest of her life wondering where her grandchild was." I find that a little selfish. I know that I am not the kind of person who could ever give a child the kind of life it deserved. And I believe children should have the best possible life. After all, it wasn't their choice to be brought into this world. But I shouldn't have to worry about that. I have an appointment in a week or so to go on the shot.

Man, I gotta tell you, I don't know if it's anxiety or if it's the ADHD kicking up, but I have had the damndest time trying to calm down. The antianxiety pills I got aren't working. Normally they'd knock me out and I'd sleep heavily and be fine when I woke up. No such luck tonight. It's 4:30, and I'm bouncing up and down on my bed like a little kid on a sugar high. Yup, another night without sleep. But then again, I passed the fuck out at 7 AM yesterday, and slept until 7 PM because I've been feeling so depressed. You know what? I think I'm going to get dressed, and go run around the block for awhile. And it's days like this that I wish I was still on Ritalin. :D

Close Calls and Near Misses

I could have been a crispy critter today. This time next week, you could have been giving my blog a funeral.

I went to bed last night around 2 am. My parents had gone out like they do some weekends, and about 3, they came home. I don't know exactly what time it was, but my mom complained to my dad that she could smell gas. Sure enough, our furnace had a gas leak. That was on fire. If they had stayed gone longer than they were (like they had thought about doing), I'd be dead right now, or at the very least homeless. I never smelled the gas last night. It wouldn't have occurred to me to check the furnace.

This got me to thinking about how many times I have come close to dying. And believe me, there have been many. I don't know of anybody that has had as many near misses as I have. And I will prove it.

When I was about 3 or 4, my family and my mom's best friends' family went to Arkansas to the Ozark mountains. I don't remember much, except getting dropped in the river. And almost drowning. That's close call number 1.

Close call #2: I don't know where we were, or where we had gone, but we were on our way home. It was storming outside, and all of a sudden, my grandmother told us kids not to turn around. So what I do? I turn around and look out the back window. There was a tornado barreling down the highway behind us.

Close call #3: When I was around 8 years old, I was fearless. I pretty much took my life in my own hands. I had this habit of darting across the street without looking to see if any cars were coming. Well, on this one day, I ran across the street in my usual fashion, and I heard brakes squealing, and I froze and looked up and the bumper of a big red car was inches away from my midsection. After that, I learned real quick to look both ways before running across the street.

Near miss #4: When I was in high school, my gym class had to go swimming. Water safety and all that. Well, during study hall one day, I decided I was going to go make up the day I'd missed swimming. I was the only one in the pool area besides the teacher. She was on the phone. I decided to jump off the diving board. She wasn't paying any attention to me, and in I went, into 12 foot deep water. I don't know how it happened, but I went all the way down. My feet touched the bottom of the pool, and I panicked. I opened my eyes, looked up, and realized just how far down I was, and instinctively tried to breathe. But I sucked in water instead of air, and I started to drown. As I struggling to get to the surface of the water, my 15 years on this earth flashed before my eyes. And I thought I was going to be dead before I got to the top.

Near miss #5: In 2001, there was a nasty nasty storm that went through the town I was living in the middle of the night. It tore up most of the town. The thing that woke me up was a kiddie wading pool had slammed into the top of my window. A floor to ceiling window. And it broke. But none of the glass fell, and I ran to the laundry room and hid for an hour and a half with the rest of the people in the apartment building. There were a lot of kids in this building, and although I was freaking out, I had to fake like I was calm so the kids wouldn't get any more scared than they were. I didn't sleep the rest of that night, and when the sun came up, we went outside to survey the damage, and the roof had been ripped off, and windows were broken, and trees had fallen over. Turned out to be an F-3 tornado. That had hopped over my apartment building, touched down, and continued on it's merry little way again.

All of these things, along with Shawn, the numerous times I got drunk and irresponsible, the storm last week and the fire this morning, I'm beginning to wonder if the universe isn't consipiring against me to kill me. And I'm just too obstinate to comply.

Can I Die Now?

My mother saw me naked.

No you don't get it. I was taking naked pictures of myself the other night for the BF. Yeah, I decided to give him a little something. And I totally forgot they were on my camera. So I took some pictures today, and I was trying to download them to the computer. I was sitting on the couch with my computer, and she was sitting next to me watching the televison. I scrolled through the pictures to the start of the ones I'd taken today so that I could download them all, not realizing that the one with me and my vibrator was right next to the one of my sister in the list. Of course, being the nosy bitch she is, she looked over, right when I was trying to scroll past it, and I don't know how good of a look she got, but she says, "What was that?" I told her I didn't know what the hell she was talking about and refused to show her.

Incriminating I know, but what was I supposed to do? "Oh, here, Mom, take a look at my crotch!" I don't think so.

This woman has no boundaries at all. She walks in on me in my room without knocking when I'm trying to get dressed. She tells me things that I really don't want to know, like the results of her last gynocological appointment. Or she'll tell me about fights that her and my dad had. I think the woman needs a friend to tell these things to. I am not it. I will be so glad when I move out. Nobody will walk in on me when I'm getting dressed, nobody will tell me icky things I don't want to know, and I won't have to put up with people who piss me off!

Things I'd Rather Forget

In an attempt to thwart my brain from thinking about sex (not succeeding by the way), I thought I'd tell you a story. About myself. One of those ones rife with regret and humor. Only, I can't think of any. I swear, I'm gonna have to start making shit up to keep people interested in me. I'm sure I could think of something funny to tell if 90% of my brain wasn't occupied with sex with the BF. Licking this, biting that, fingers there, lips here, that kind of thing. And I can't seem to figure out why I've suddenly become obsessed with it. Three nights in a row now, my posts have been about sex. That I'm not getting!

So in the spirit of things, I thought I'd share some embarrassing sex stories of mine. This one happened while I was dating Shawn. You remember me telling you the story about us, right?

Okay, so one day in the middle of summer, him and I were feeling frisky. Of course the one thing we were told we couldn't do (have sex) was the one thing we wanted to do. So, we into one of the stairwells that we thought we'd be safe in. We started making out all hot and heavy, and his hand found it's way under my skirt. I took off my underwear to allow him better access, and spread my legs. Next thing I know, he'd headed south. I sat down on the stairs and he's licking and sucking and all that good stuff, and I'm really getting into it. Of course by now I'm moaning, and I hear somebody coming. I thought I could finish up before anybody was the wiser, but the door suddenly opened and there were two guys from his dorm staring down at me on the stairs, with Shawn between my legs, and me trying to cover up. The first one said, "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know anybody was in here," and turned around and literally plowed into his friend. They'd both seen what we were doing and I don't know who was more embarrassed, me or them. They turned around a went back in the door, and I thought I was going to die, I was so mortified. But then I thought they might snitch on us, and we'd both get into trouble, so the rest of the day I was freaking out about it. Needless to say I didn't finish that day. And I was cranky for several days afterward. But I didn't get in trouble. They never told. But do you think that taught me not to have sex in public? Nuh-uh.

After Shawn, I was dating this guy who was 11 years older than me. It was very much a rebound relationship. He had a stick shift truck, and one day he decided he was going to teach me how to drive it. We went out on some back roads and we were driving, well I was driving very badly, and after a few hours, he told me to pull over. I thought maybe he'd gotten tired of my driving and we were going back home, but he got out of the truck and climbed into the bed. I couldn't figure out what the hell he was doing so I got out and followed. He pulled me close and started kissing me and then asked me to go down on him. We weren't on a totally deserted gravel road, and I couldn't believe he was serious. I told him no several times but he wouldn't lay off. So, I gave in. I was about 5 minutes into it and had completely forgotten about any other cars that could have driven by until I hear a tap on the side of the truck. He was way too into it to notice until I stopped. I looked up and it was the sheriff! So, I was still holding his penis and I was trying not to blush as the sheriff looked at me and said, "What are you kids doing out here?" And without missing a beat, he says, "I was teaching her how to drive a stick shift," The sheriff looked at him then looked at me and said very sternly, "I can see that. Now get your clothes on and get out of here," I hopped out of the bed of that truck so fast you'd have thought I'd been shot. I got in on the passenger side, and he got in on the driver's side, and I stared out the window the entire way home. I couldn't look at him for the rest of the night. That was the last time I had sex in a public place. I guess I don't have enough good luck to not get caught.

Oh, This Is Funny

I had another strange dream last night. This time it was about the BF. In the dream we were doing the deed, but I just wouldn't stop talking. So, he pushes me off, and rolls over and pretends to go to sleep. I'm still talking and he's not saying anything so I finally ask him, "Why are you ignoring me?" And he says, "Because you never shut the fuck up,"

Now, he doesn't think I talk too much. He would rather I talk than him having to talk. That's why I find it funny. Freud would probably have something to say about it though.

Houston, We Have A Problem

Why doesn't anything ever work the way it's supposed to? Technology. Kitchen appliances.

My body.

Last night, I decided to spend some quality time with my vibrator. I spent two hours with no finale. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Not a goddamn thing. Now, I'm nothing if not determined. But after an hour into it, I knew it wasn't going to happen, and I just started getting mad. But you all should know me by now, you know don't I don't give up that easily.

After two hours and a numb shoulder I decided to pack it in. And cursed my psychiatrist at the same time. "Oh, no, there's no sexual side effects that I know of, but if there is they're very mild," You call no orgasms mild? That's a big fucking deal to me. There is nothing mild about not getting off.

The part of me that only thinks about sex all the time is screaming vehemently that it's grounds enough to go off the meds. But the self preservation part is screaming, "Fuck you, I'm not going back there, you can't make me you bitch!" And I'm stuck in the middle, wanting to get off, but not wanting to be crazy. *sigh* What's a girl to do?
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Okay, I just realized that to those of you that read Vix's blog that this may sound vaguely familiar. Not trying to rip her off, promise. Everybody has that internal struggle against reason, impulse, and the middle ground.

Memories

I bought a book yesterday. It's a memior. Now, I'm usually hardcore fiction, but for some reason for the last year or so, all I've read is psychological books. Or Shakespeare (I found a copy of the complete works of William Shakespeare yesterday at the bookstore for 8 bucks. I just couldn't pass it up.) Anyway, the book I am reading is called Look Me In the Eye: My Life With Asperger's Syndrome by John Robison. This is the brother of Augusten Burroughs, the guy who wrote Running With Scissors. I've read Running With Scissors, and it was one of those bittersweet books. The kind that make you laugh and cry at the same time. So, when I saw Look Me In the Eye, I figured he had to be just as good at storytelling as his brother. Well, he is. I was up all night reading this book, and there's a few places that made me laugh like a loon. Like the part where he starts digging holes in the yard, and puts his brother (whose real name is Chris, but John calls him Varmint because he has a peculiar aversion to using people's given names(for some reason, some people's names I absolutely will not say because I don't like them. I don't think their name "fits" them, so I won't say it, I'll call them some pet name or something. My BF is a good example of this, I've only called him by his given name maybe three times to his face. It even grates on my nerves to type his name cause I don't think that's what his name should be. He'd laugh his ass off if I ever told him that.)) in the holes to test whether or not anybody or anything can get out of the holes. Or the part where he is determined to make friends with this little girl in his nursery school class and their first interaction goes horribly awry, because he thinks it's perfectly okay to "pet" her like his mother does to him. Then the next day because she didn't like it when he pet her, he tries to do it again, only with a stick this time. By the third day, it's pretty clear this little girl will have nothing to do with him, because he takes her toy to show her how to play with it the right way. I'm only about a third of the way through the book but it's quickly making it's way to the top of my favorite books list. Maybe because there's so many parts where I was like "OMG, I've done that!"

While reading, I started thinking about my childhood. And my mind wandered to a few particular memories. In the book, John mentions trying to teach his brother how to read when he was still a baby. That made me think of when I was younger, and how I knew how to read by the time I was four. When I was in first grade, we were "learning" to read. I could barely contain my excitement when we started reading, because I wanted to show my teacher how well I could read. None of the other kids in my class knew how to read, but I did. My teacher kept telling me not to get ahead of the other kids. At the time I didn't know why it was so vital for me to "not get ahead" of them, when clearly I was smarter than they were. I protested that, and finally she pulled me out of class into the hallway and said that I was "making the other kids feel uncomfortable" by bragging about knowing how to read. It was then, at the age of 6, that I realized in my child brain that smart people were not liked. And since I've had this insatiable desire to make sure people liked me, my intelligence was something I kept hidden for years for fear of ridicule. When I was in sixth grade, I was diagnosed with ADD and several learning disabilities that I don't know the names of. The school convinced my mother that something wasn't quite right with me, and that I might be stupid. So, over the course of six weeks, I met with a child psychologist who tested my intelligence, and at the age of 11, I found to be a whole helluva lot smarter than the other kids in my class. I just didn't learn the same way they did. Traditional classes intimidated me, and I needed extra attention to keep focused. I was placed in special education classes that would continue throughout high school. But even then, the SE classes didn't really help. I was left to my own devices, and that meant that I found other things to do when I should have been doing my schoolwork. Nope, not me, I sat in my little corner, and just daydreamed and pretended to do my schoolwork. Math was a huge obstacle for me. No matter how hard I tried I just couldn't understand anything more complex than simple division. I had an algebra teacher when I was in 10th grade who knew that I struggled with math. I would to his classroom, every single day after school, and he would explain my homework step by step. I would understand what he was saying to me while he was doing it, but as soon as he had me do it myself, I just couldn't get it. I believe this is what dyscalculia is.

When I was growing up, my sisters and I spent Sundays with my grandparents. Every Sunday, like clockwork, we got up, got dressed, and went to church with them. I remember when I was little, that seemed to be the only time we spent with them. My mother and my grandmother (her mother) didn't have the greatest relationship. But my mother would never have been so mean as to deny my grandparents a chance to see us kids.

After church, we would go back to Grandma and Grandpa's house for lunch. Then around mid-afternoon, Grandma would read us three stories (each one of us got to pick one), and then we'd go take a nap. I always picked the same story. It was called The Rabbit, The Skunk, and The Scary Rock. This book was published in the mid 60's, and it belonged to my mom and her brothers. My older sister got quite sick of hearing this same story over and over, but not me. My younger sister was mostly off in la la land when she was younger so it didn't really matter to her. Still is sometimes. I'm convinced she's HFA and have been for years now. Anyways, this book was one of my most treasured possessions when I was a child.

When I was in the first grade, they had a book trade at my school. I had decided that I wanted to share my favorite book with other kids. So, I took the book that I loved so much to the book trade. I turned it in, and the lady running it told me to go pick another book. So, I found one that was a little more complicated. It was a chapter book. I stuck it in my bag and went to my classroom. When I got home, I showed my mother what I had got. I told her there was a book trade and I had decided to share The Rabbit, The Skunk, and the Scary Rock with the other kids. I was quite proud of myself for sharing something so precious to me, since during my childhood and even adulthood, sharing my stuff causes me some serious anxiety. My thoughts are "It's mine, dammit," I've noticed this also spills over to people in my life too. It's my mother, my step-father, my sisters, my boyfriend, my friends. I hate sharing them with other people. It took me a very long time to even allow my best friend to sit on my bed when she would come over to our house when I was younger. She always thought that strange, and even now, I don't allow many people in my room or to sit on my bed, or touch my stuff. But back to the story. Sorry, I tend to run off on tangents. It's the ADD.

After I told my mother what I had done, I don't know what happened, but I realized that what I had done was permanent. I became very distressed, and started crying and begged my mother to take the book back and get my book. Nothing would do until she told me that in the morning she would go with me, and I would give the book back and ask for my book back. The next morning rolled around, and I took the book I had gotten to the lady running the book trade. I said, just like my mom told me to say, that I had made a mistake and I really wanted my book back, and could I have it back. The lady said yes, so I gave the book I had gotten to her, and went to go look for my book. You notice how I keep saying my book? I looked all over those shelves, but I couldn't find it. It occurred to me that some other child had taken my book and I was angry, and started to cry. I could not be consoled. I had to go home from school that day because I just would not stop crying. I got back the book that I traded my book for, but it didn't make me feel any better. I came to resent that book, and would not read it. In my six year old mind, that book was the reason I lost my book, and I irrationally hated it. I made a decision right then and there, that I would never get rid of another book for the rest of my life. And with the exception of one other incident with a box of books that I had been given and never read, I haven't. And for the last 15 years, every used bookstore I have gone into, I've looked to see if I could find a copy of it. No luck so far, but I'm not giving up hope. I've found it online, but I haven't been able to afford it, because it's apparently a rare book, and that makes it incredibly expensive. If any of you happen to come across it, keep me in mind would ya? It's written by a woman named Carla Stevens.