Believing and Knowing.

Even young children can distinguish between believing something to be true and knowing something to be true. Often a child believes something he or she is told, but does not fully recognize it as truth until they experience it in person. Sometimes a parent’s love for their children falls into this category of truth; it is believed but not known.

When I was a kid, I knew that my Mom loved me and believed that my Dad did as well. The reason I drew the distinction was that Mom always told me that she loved me, and her actions made it clear that her love for me was as much of a fact as anything can be. In the case of my Dad however, things were more ambiguous. Mom told me that he loved me, but Dad never came right out and said it. And his actions were always in my best interest, but they were far less direct in demonstrating actual love. For example, beginning about the time I entered junior-high, my Dad’s job became an all consuming monster. He would work ungodly hours, sometimes more than 16 hours straight, in an environment that from what I could tell was the equivalent of hell on earth. I believed that he continued to toil away at a misery-inducing job, because it was his way of showing that he cared for the family. If there was one thing that he could always do it was to be the provider. This is not to criticize him; he did what he knew how to do, and he did it to the best of his abilities. So I relied on indirect evidence such as this to form the foundation of my belief that my Dad loved me.

I am fortunate that the story didn’t end in mere belief; I did come to know that my Dad loved me. This knowledge was obtained somewhat later in life than what would be considered “normal,” but this makes it all the more memorable. So, for the curious few, I offer the story of how a son learned of his father’s love and of a father who learned to show it. It isn’t straightforward, but few things in life ever are.

It’s somewhat ironic that I have to begin at the time when my career as a high school wrestler was coming to a premature end. The whole reason I first tried out for the wrestling team was to attempt to emulate my father and perhaps gain his recognition at the same time. I put nearly everything I had into it, and my senior year I had managed to become the team captain. I was aware that I wasn’t the best wrestler on the team. Sure I was good, but there were other members who were stronger, or faster, or had better skills than I did. What set me apart was my unwillingness to quit, my ability to push myself harder than what was necessary, and my sense of duty when it came to winning. It was my responsibility to win; that was my purpose.

Anyway, it was a Saturday in early November, and I was at another all-day tournament. Nothing particularly special about it, but there was plenty of strong competition from the area’s schools. I won my first match fairly easily, and felt pretty good about my chances until I saw who I was up against next. It was the repeat senior from Oakridge, that is, it was his second time as senior because he failed out the first time (after wrestling season, of course). He wasn’t all that good in terms of technique, but he made up for it by his strenght and speed. I had lost to him earlier in the season when he pulled a cheap, no-talent move on me and pinned me in the first 30 seconds of the match. My coach showed me the countermove, so I wouldn’t fall prey to it again, but I was still nervous about going up against him. Or should I say, that I was even more nervous than I usually was. I’d pace around the mat waiting for my match number to be called, go to the bathroom, come back and pace some more, go to the bathroom again, come back, feel like I needed to go the bathroom again, and by that time my number would be up.

I remember stepping out to the center of the mat and looking down at the guy; he was easily a foot shorter than me. I also remember the whistle blowing and the next second I was face down on the mat with him on top of me. He had taken me down so fast, it didn’t even register until he tried turning me for the pin. He tried the same cheap-ass move as before, but I was ready for it this time. When I pulled off an escape, he looked genuinely confused that I wasn’t on my back. He actually looked at his coach like, “what do I do now?” Taking advantage of the situation, I shot on him and took him down. That’s when the wrestling matched turned into a bull-riding event. Damn it was hard to keep on top of him, and I couldn’t break him down for the life of me. I managed to hang onto him for maybe another thirty seconds before he broke free, and, Bam! I was back on the mat. He had taken me down again. This time he just held onto to me, never really trying to go for the pin, until time ran out for the first period. It was 4 to 3, him in the lead. In the second period, he deferred the coin-toss, and I took the down position. He kept me down for nearly the entire round, but I managed to escape with maybe 15 seconds to spare. Which was just enough time for him to take me down yet again. Now it was 6 to 4. I don’t anyone had actually gotten to the third period with this guy, at least not this season, and everyone could tell that he was gassed. Everyone except me. I was still so nervous that I was only conscious of objects and movement. He took the down position for the start of the third period knowing that all he had to do to win was not get turned for a pin. I, on the other hand, knew that I had to either turn him or pin him outright, and I didn’t consider either of those in the realm of possibility. The whistle blew, and the rodeo started back up. But this time he was less of a bull and more of a bronco. It was my turn to hold him down for most of the period, not accomplishing anything other than wearing out both of us. With 20 seconds to go, I lost control and he earned 1 point for the escape. We ended up out of bounds, so the ref blew the whistle to reposition us in the center. And I remember exactly what happened next. I looked down at him again, and I saw that he was wobbly. It finally dawned on me that he was exhausted, and while I was tired, I still had plenty of gas in the tank. I thought, “I can actually beat this guy,” and I wasn’t nervous anymore. The whistle blew, and I shot first. But he still had some speed, and all I was able to do was get a lock on one of his legs. I didn’t have any leverage, but I didn’t have time for a second attempt. The ref called time, and the match was over, 7 to 4. The 3 point spread belied how close the match actually had been. I was disappointed, but more consequently, I was spent. I didn’t have anything left for my next match in the consolation bracket, and I knew it. Still, I had to try. That’s what I did. Try.

I didn’t go through my nervous ritual this time, because I had already lost this match. With the outcome a foregone conclusion, I just waited patiently for my number to be called and then jogged to the center of the mat. I had easily  beaten this guy before, and I saw that he was the one who was nervous. But he was also more aware of his surroundings than I had been, and he saw the look of defeat in my eyes. To make a long story short, I flopped around for the first two periods, I don’t even remember what the score was, but I put up enough of fight that people thought I was trying. In the third period I had taken the down position, and my opponent was trying to turn me over for a pin. The guy wasn’t very good, and in his attempts to do god-only knows what kind of move, he managed to pull my arm into a position known as a “chicken-wing.” Basically, my arm was getting ripped backwards and over my head. It’s a great way to dislocate someones shoulder, hence It is an illegal move and should have been stopped immediately. I heard my coach screaming (“THAT’S ILLEGAL!!! THAT’S ILLEGAL!!!”), but the ref just didn’t call it. If I had just given up right then, he would have flipped me over, pinned me and won the match. But I couldn’t just quit; I didn’t ever quit. So I fought the illegal move as hard as could, trying to pull my arm back down to a less tortuous position, and in doing so, experienced an even greater pain as a group of muscles tore themselves apart. Surprisingly, it wasn’t my shoulder that gave out. Rather it was several of the intercostal muscles that are in between the ribs and form the chest wall. Of course, I wasn’t aware of this at the time. All I knew was pain. I was so detached from my surroundings that I didn’t even hear the whistle signalling the end of the match. Afterwards, a couple of my teammates told me that I was face down on the mat with my arm stuck in this weird position, pointing to the ceiling. Apparently, I stayed like this until someone came and manually pulled my arm down.

Given the appearance of things, it was understandable that everyone thought it was my shoulder that had given out. Initially, even I couldn’t localize the source of the pain, because everything became numb. I suspect that my brachial plexus, the bundle of nerve that runs from the spinal cord down the entire arm, was somewhat traumatized, but for me it really didn’t matter what the cause was. I knew that my season was over.

My coach taped an ice-pack to my shoulder and put my arm in a sling, and everyone pretended like it was nothing serious. I’d get over it and would be back to normal in no time. Those were the words spoken, but people’s faces told the truth. They knew as well as I did that I wasn’t going to recover quickly, but they opted for politeness over reality anyway.

The next day, Sunday, I awoke to the sensation of being rhythmically stabbed between my third and fourth, and fourth and fifth ribs. Everytime that I inhaled the pain would spike and then gradually dissipated as I exhaled. Stupidly, I tried rotating my arm to test my shoulder, and the knifes I had been feeling turned into fire. It felt like the entire left side of my chest was burning and at the same time there was a bizarre sensation of fluid running down my side, like I was bleeding. Fortunately, there wasn’t any blood, but the pain was so excruciating that I actually started crying.

After the pain had subsided a little, I composed myself and went downstairs. My Dad was just leaving for work, but he stopped when he saw me.

“You okay?”

“Sort of. Did Mom tell you what happened.”

“Sort of.”

Of course, I don’t remember exactly what was said, but I must have conveyed the general story of what happened.

I do remember saying this though, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to wrestle again.”

To which my Dad responded, “Keep your chin up.”

I know that seems like a pretty insignificant statement, but I had never heard that before from my Dad. In fact, I don’t really remember any form of vocalized compassion ever coming from him prior to that. To be perfectly honest, it felt weird more than anything.

Anyway, Dad went off to work, and I did the same thing I did every Sunday; I went for a run.

As I headed out, I knew that I wasn’t doing my body any favors, but by this time in my life, my obsessive-compulsive personality disorder was pretty well established. Meaning that I didn’t have any say in the matter. It was Sunday, therefore I ran. Period. I could go into far more detail about the difficulties this disorder has caused me, but this isn’t the place to do so. For now, just think of it as a distorted perception of obligation to perform certain tasks at set times and in set manners.

I was accustomed to running with injuries, but the pain I experienced then was something new to me. Every breath burned the outside of my rib cage, and the more I exerted myself the hotter the fire got. And the pain simply enraged me. Something’s trying to stop me? No fucking way! It hurts? So what? You think Thompson would have quit? (Adam Thompson was last year’s team captain, and as far as I was concerned was an absolute machine.) With each stab of pain the self-hatred grew. If I stopped, I was nothing. If I stopped, I had failed.

I pushed through the full 6.5 miles, made it home, and collapsed on my bedroom floor. I was so pissed off at everyone and everything, but mostly I was pissed off at myself. You can’t explain the guilt that an athlete feels when he or she is unable to perform at their best due to an injury. Hell, I could have been hit by a bus, broken every bone in my body, and I still would have found a way to blame myself for not being able to run the next day.

After taking a shower, I locked myself in my room until 5 o'clock rolled around. Because it was Sunday, Dad usually came home early enough to eat dinner with the rest of the family, and sure enough I heard him pull into the garage right on schedule. I went downstairs to wait at the table with Mom (my brother was off doing his own thing). Usually, Dad would come in, put his briefcase down, and then just sit down and eat. This day was no exception, but instead of letting me and Mom do all the talking, he asked me how I was doing.

“Not so good. It still kind of hurts,” I replied, deliberately understating the severity of the pain.

“Where?”

“Where does it hurt? Here,” I started to lift up my arm to point to the spot but winced at the motion.

That was enough for my Dad to figure out the truth. I was hurting like hell.

After dinner, Dad went upstairs, took a shower, but before going to bed right away like he usually did, he knocked on my door.

“It’s open,” I called out.

“Here, see if this helps.” My Dad had brought me one of those neoprene back-braces.

“Wear it higher up, and see if keeping pressure on it helps,” he explained. And with that, he went to bed.

I put on the brace, and it actually did help decrease the pain I felt when breathing. I still couldn’t rotate my arm without daggers stabbing into me, but even a little relief was better than nothing.

I couldn’t really concentrate on studying, so I just laid on my bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of how worthless I had become. Exhaustion eventually won out over my self-loathing, and I drifted off to sleep, still wearing the brace.

Monday morning, I got up at my usual time of 6AM, showered, dressed, and then studied until I had to leave at 7 (noticeably absent from this process was eating breakfast or preparing lunch, again an issue for another day). I had just finished getting dressed when I heard the phone ring. Sure it was early, but I figured it was one of my classmates in the area needing a ride. So I wasn’t all that surprised when my Mom knocked on the door. What shocked the hell out of me was when she told me it was my Dad. Was he in an accident? Of course not, he was at work. Did somebody die? Had terrorists seized his office building?

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Dad? Everything alright?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’m okay,” I lied. It still hurt to breath.

“The brace work okay?”

“Yeah, it helps. Thanks.”

“Sure. Well, that’s it. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Have a nice day.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

Who the hell did I just talk to?

I went downstairs to return the phone.

“Hey Mom, did you tell Dad to call me?” I was trying to figure out what just happened.

“No, why?”

“Nothing, it’s just... He just called to see how I was doing.”

Again, weird. Just weird.

I went to school, floated through the day in a fog of depression and pain, and at the end of the day found myself at the front of the wrestling room, leading the team through our warm-up exercises. We started with leg stretches first, and didn’t have any problem with those. Then we moved on to push-ups. I would count on the downward movement and the team would say “up” on the upwards.

“One.”

“Up!”

“Two.”

“Up!”

You may be surprised at the number of movements that recruit the intercostal muscles as stabilizers. With every push-up it felt like I was ripping something between my ribs. Still, I managed the full count to 25. Then we flipped on our backs for sit-ups.

“One.”

“Up!”

There was no two. I was writhing on my side in agony. Coach ran over to me and got me to my feet. I remember the whole team looking at me, and me thinking that they just saw weakness. Coach pulled me out of the room and brought me to the athletic trainer’s office to get checked out. He had me lay on a table and asked me where it hurt. I told him, and he then proceeded to push his fingers on the exact spot I had just described.

“Does it hurt when I do this.”

Jesus H. Christ! Yes, it fucking hurts! Don’t touch me again you asshole!

“Yes. That hurts.”

“It feels like you’ve torn something.”

I kind of figured that out already, so would please stop prodding me between my ribs!!

“Really? Is it bad?”

“Could take over a month to heal properly, but you can’t do anything to aggravate it.”

Breathing aggravates it for god sakes. What, am I just supposed to stop breathing for a month?

“So he can’t wrestle?” My coach asked.

“Not if you want him to heal. He could tear the muscles completely, and that would require surgery to repair.”

Shit. Now I couldn’t even lie about how I was feeling. Coach knew it. The athletic trainer knew it. I knew it. My wrestling career was over.

I changed out of my practice clothes for the last time and went home defeated.

It was Monday, therefore (according to my OCPD) I lifted weights when I got home. I had my weight bench out in the garage which could have been cramped, but I had plenty of room when Dad’s car wasn’t there. As I went through my predetermined list of exercises, I cried. I cried out of pain, which was constant and seering, but I also cried out of disgust. “I am nothing.” With each rep I thought those words, and they drilled through me more forcefully than anything physical could.

I was just about finished with my routine when I heard my Dad’s car pull in the driveway. He was way earlier than usual for a weekday. He got out to close the side door so that Jake, our dog, wouldn’t get out, and that’s when he saw me. And he saw my face.

He didn’t say anything, but I broke down.

“I can’t do it anymore! I can’t do this, but I can’t stop! I can’t!”

Unlike everyone else, my Dad heard my unspoken question. He heard me asking if it was okay to stop, if it was okay to quit. He heard me asking if I was a failure.

And then he hugged me. For the first time that I could remember he hugged me.

“Then stop. You can stop now. It’s okay.” he said with the meaning I needed to hear.

And then I knew. Dad didn’t care whether I could wrestle or not. I mean, he cared that I was hurt, but he didn’t base his concern for me on my ability to perform. He didn’t expect me to be some kind of a machine, and he didn’t want me to destroy myself trying to meet what I imagined to be the expectations of others. He didn’t want to see me in pain, either physical or emotional, so he did what he alone was capable of doing. Because I was only capable of hearing it from him.

He told me it was okay to stop.

And it was.

-----

I love you Dad. Happy Birthday.

A Matter of Rights.

I am going to make this brief, because so much has already been said on the subject of same-sex marriage. There are no arguments that can be made against the legalization of same-sex marriages that are constitutionally valid, and most are simply ridiculous.

Looking at the dominate types of opposition in turn, first is the idea that marriage is a sacred rite that has historically been between a man and a woman. Right away this objection runs afoul of the first amendment's guarantee of a separation of church and state. Marriage is a social construct that has been largely regulated by religious institutions for most of history. It wasn’t until the Protestant Reformation that marriage became a state affair with unions simply recorded by government officials. But marriage never shed its religious overtones. Governments merely codified religious doctrine into law because it was commonly accepted. What we have in existence today is religion imposing itself onto civil law, ergo, it is a violation of the constitution.

Another common argument made is that the main purpose of marriage is the production or protection of children. If this was the case, infertile people, postmenopausal women, couples who chose not to have children, etc. would all be barred from marriage. More to the point, this argument suggests that after a couple is done raising children, their marriage should be dissolved. This is an example of the ridiculousness opponents of same-sex marriage have resorted to. Regarding two-sex marriage’s place as a more favorable to children than same-sex unions, the notion is not supported by recent scientific studies or even anecdotally. It has been shown that two-adult households are more “successful” raising children, but this is stating the obvious. What matters is a stable home-front with adequate resources, i.e time to spend with the children, not the gender of the parents.

In civil law, marriage is a contractual agreement of mutual support and responsibilities between two consenting adults. Period. Nowhere within this framework is mention of gender, as that would be patently discriminatory against an entire class of people. Within the U.S., civil rights take precedence over religious doctrine masquerading as law. Let the churches marry who they wish, but let the law recognize personal liberty and allow same-sex couples the same rights as everyone else.

The Law According to Bloomberg.

Someone needs to remind New York Mayor, Michael Bloomberg what type of country he is living in. He’s been on such an autocratic rampage recently, that apparently he believes that he resides in a dictatorship, and he’s the dictator.

Let’s start with his ill-fated attempt to ban the sale of large, sugary drinks (for the sake of simplicity I will from here on refer to them as “sodas”).  Mr. Bloomberg was troubled by the obesity epidemic in the U.S., and he correctly identified sodas as being one of the main culprits behind its prevalence. But instead of using his vast monetary resources to further educate the public on the hazards of drinking sodas, he decided it would just be better if he took large sodas away from the public. So, with the support of his hand-picked Board of Health, Mr. Bloomberg put for an ordinance that would prohibit the sale of any large soda over 16 ounces in size. At least that was his intent. As with most laws, there were plenty of loopholes and work-arounds so that large sodas wouldn’t have been prohibited completely, but the ordinance would have greatly curtailed the sale of them within the city limits. I am sorry Mr. Bloomberg, but you do not have the authority to prohibit the sale of legal goods simply because they are unhealthy when consumed in excess. What the Mayor attempted to do was rule by fiat, never putting the issue to a vote by the citizens of New York or even the City Council that was elected to represent the people. Unsurprisingly, a local judge ruled that Mayor had overstepped his authority and went further to declare the proposed ordinance “arbitrary” and “capricious.” Indeed it was. Why 16 ounces? Why not 20? The Mayor simply decided on a number that fit his idea of a healthy portion and set out to impose his view on the public. I admit, his intentions were good, and I completely agree with the Mayor that sodas are a scourge on society. Personally, I don’t think any amount of regular soda should be consumed, but the decision to do so is left to the individual. Until the people decide the issue by voting on it, the sale of sodas cannot have size restrictions imposed upon them.

This of course brings up an earlier ordinance issued by Mayor Bloomberg that banned the sale of food made with trans-fats. Restaurants and food dutifully complied, and most people weren’t even aware that any change took place. Consumption of trans-fats in New York is negligible, and the ban spurred the entire food industry to reformulate many of products that are sold nationwide. Everyone is healthier, but everyone had the rule shoved down their throat. Again, let me be clear, trans-fats are unhealthy and should not be consumed by anyone, but the Mayor and his trusty Board of Health were acting beyond their authority when they imposed the ban. It is unclear why the Mayor thought that the people would be unable to pass a ban on trans-fats by voting on it, but he seems to have a deep-seated distrust of the people’s ability to take care of themselves.

For the Mayor, people can’t even be trusted to avoid making rash, impulse-driven decisions to buy things that are simply on display in a store. I am referring of course to Mr. Bloomberg’s recent attempt to ban the public display of cigarettes. Essentially it prohibits stores from showing tobacco products in the open, including behind or over the counter, and requires sellers to keep these products in discrete, concealed spots. The theory “out of sight, out of mind” comes to hand, but it is questionable if this ordinance would achieve its stated goal of discouraging young people from smoking. Under this logic, all smoking should be censored from movies and people who smoke should only be allowed to do so if they are not visible by anyone under the age of 18. But whatever the reasoning or intent, this ordinance is in violation of the manufacturer’s rights to sell a legal product. Unlike pornography, there is no immediate harm if a child sees a pack of cigarettes. Banning the display of tobacco products would however immediately harm the manufacturer’s and seller’s ability to earn a profit. Of course, I am all for reducing smoking rates, but I am not for government officials implementing decrees with no public oversight.

The most recent instance of New York’s Mayor forcing his will upon the people is entirely within the law, unfortunately. Mr. Bloomberg has just launched a $12 million campaign, financed entirely with his own money, to influence senatorial elections in 13 states. His goal is to promote candidates who favor gun-control measures, and persuade incumbent senators to support the same issue. The Supreme Court ruled that private campaigns like Mayor Bloomberg’s are allowed. While legal, they are nonetheless antithetical to democracy. Now, I am not naive; I know that money and politics are inseparable. However, Mr. Bloomberg crosses a line by trying to influence elections entirely outside of his area of residence. His money has bought him undue control of affairs that are not his to decide. Once again, his intentions are noble. There is an absolute need of stricter gun laws, and senators everywhere would be wise to support this issue. However, kowtowing to a rich bureaucrat should not be condoned. The is simply another instance of the wealthy ruling over the masses, and it disempowers the citizen vote.

Michael Bloomberg envisions a utopia of his own design, and is determined to trample the democratic process to achieve. What he seeks to create is a country lost to the people, and it is up to the people to cry foul when an autocratic Mayor oversteps the bounds of his authority.

Always.

“My mom took me to the doctor today.”

“Why? You sick? Man, stay away from me. I don’t wanna catch nothin’.”

“Not that kind of doctor, dumb-ass. A psycho-doctor. You know, for when your head's messed up.”

“Your mom think you crazy?”

“I don’t know, maybe. I think she goes for herself more than anything.”

“She crazy?”

“Shut up.”

“Just askin’. Sorry. So?”

“So what?”

“What the psycho-doc say?”

“Nothing really. He just asked me a bunch a questions, mainly about how I was feeling. If I was sad and stuff.”

“What’d you tell ‘em?”

“I told him what he wanted to hear, what everyone expects to hear. ‘I feel really bad about what happened, and it’s all my fault, but it was still an accident.’ That kind of thing.”

“True ‘nuff.”

“Of course it’s true. Except I don’t feel that bad about it. Everybody acts like something big happened. I mean it was big and all, but what changed?”

“Not much.”

“Right. You and me still friends, just like before.”

“Just like always.”

“Shoot! That’s my mom calling me. I got go Danny. You be around tomorrow?”

“Fo’ sho’.”

-------------

Kyle pried the screen door open, slipped inside the back of the house, and caught the door before it slammed shut. It didn’t matter; she heard him anyway.

“Kyle, where the hell have you been! I’ve been yelling for you the past 10 minutes,” his mom continued to yell. “I thought I told you not to leave the backyard.”

“I know. I was just... I was just out walking around.” He was trying hard not to play with his hands. That was aways a give away that he was lying. In hopes to avoid any more questions, he turned defiant, “Maybe if you hadn’t taken away my cell phone, I could have got the message sooner!”

“Fine,” His mother replied with exasperated defeat. “Fine, you can have your phone back. Don’t see what that had to with it anyway.”

Kyle was confused. Did he just win an argument against his own mom? He wasn’t sure what to say so he said it tentatively, “Thanks. It’s just that...”

“What? It’s just that what?” his mom prodded.

“Nothing. I mean, it was an accident, and Danny says...”

“Enough with Danny! Damn it Kyle, we just went through this with Dr. Morgan! You can’t be seeing Danny anymore. You’ve got to stop.” His mom was pleading with tears in her eyes. It hurt her to see her son so detached.

“Why?” Kyle wasn’t angry; he really wanted to know why he couldn’t be friends with Danny anymore. He was his best friend in the whole universe, and Danny wasn’t all that bad. Sure he did some stupid stuff, and he cursed a lot, but so what?

“Besides,” Kyle thought to himself, “I was the one who did it. Danny was just standing there.”

His mom couldn’t take his innocence. “Just go to your room Kyle. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

She waited until Kyle closed his door and the light that had been spilling from his room into the hallway vanished. Then she broke down into sobs.

--------

“My mom says that I can’t be friends with you anymore.”

“Cuz why?”

“She’s just listening to what the psycho-doc tells her. He says that ‘it’s not healthy.’”

“What the hell that mean?”

“He says that I’ve got to move on past the whole accident thing and you’re a ‘deception.’”

“I still dunno what that means. He think I’m trying to mess with you?”

“He says that I only talk to you because I feel bad about what happened.”

“I told you, it ain’t your fault. I ain’t mad. Why should you feel bad? Aw damn, here come my mamma! Don’t tell her you seen me. She be pissed that I ain’t been cuttin’ the grass.”

----------------

“Hi Miss Leroy,” Kyle mumbled out.

“Oh, Kyle. You scared me.” But she said it so flatly she didn’t sound like she was scared. It didn’t sound like she was anything. “Why are you sitting on my porch? Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“It’s Saturday and it’s at night, Miss Leroy,” Kyle responded patiently. Adults were always forgetting things.

“Saturday. Right.” She sounded like she was floating, like talking from a cloud. “Why don’t you head back over to your house, okay?”

“Yes, Miss Leroy. Miss Leroy? You want me to mow your yard for you?”

“No, that’s Danny’s job. Never you mind.”

“Okay. Goodnight Miss Leroy.”

--------------

“Mrs. Jackson, with your permission I’d like to try hypnosis on Kyle to see if it helps. Are you aware of hypnosis?” Dr. Morgan tried to avoid sounding condescending, but he could never quite get out a statement without slipping in some kind of mildly insulting question.

“Yes, I know a little bit about it.” Kyle’s mom actually knew more than she let on, but deferred to the doctor anyway. “If you think it will help then I’m okay with it.”

“Excellent. I’ll need to see Kyle by himself, so could you go to the waiting area and send him in? Can you find your way?”

Kyle’s mom just nodded. He really did think everyone was an idiot, didn’t he?

----------------

With practiced ease, Dr. Morgan brought Kyle to a restful state of consciousness and began trying to untangle the poor boy’s mind.

“Kyle, I want you describe to me what happened that day. Not the whole day, just around the time of the accident. Tell me what you saw and what you did. Who was there with you?”

“It was just me and Danny.”

“Okay, what were you and Danny doing?”

“We were playing Xcom.”

“Is that a video game?”

“Yes. You try to save the world from aliens, but I didn’t like it very much.”

“Okay. What happened after you were done playing?”

“I said that I was bored, and Danny asked me what I would do if aliens really tried to take over the world.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him that I would just run, because the aliens would probably have a lot of weapons and would kill anyone who tried fighting them.”

“And then?”

“Then Danny said, ‘I show you what I do if them motherfucker aliens come here.’ And then he runs to his Mom’s room.”

“Did you follow him?”

“No, he came right back carrying a shoebox.”

“And what was in the shoebox?”

“A big gun. Danny took it out and pointed it right at me and goes, “I’d shoot them aliens right in the head. Boom!’ I was scared because he was pointing it at my head when he said that.”

“What happened next?”

“I wanted him to stop pointing it at me, so I asked if I could hold it. He gave it to me, and it jumped out of my hands.”

“Do you mean it went off?”

“Yeah, but I don’t remember hearing it. It smelled weird though, like smoke but different. I picked up the gun, and when I looked back up, Danny was just standing there like he was trying to say something. He was kind of rocking back on his feet, and holding his chest, and then the blood started coming out between his fingers. Oh Shit! Danny is bleeding bad! He’s coughing now and it’s coming out his mouth. He’s fallen backwards, and I try to catch him, but I missed and he lands on his head. Oh shit! Somebody do something! Somebody help Danny! God, there’s so much blood. It’s all over the carpet! Help me!”

“Okay, it’s okay Kyle, you’re away from all that now. The ambulance comes and gets Danny. They take him away. Do you know where Danny went?”

“They took him to the hospital, and the doctors fixed him.”

“They did take him to the hospital, but why do you think the doctors fixed Danny?”

“Because, I saw him the next day, and he showed me his scar. He told me it didn’t even hurt, but I didn’t believe him.”

“And are you still friends with Danny?”

“Yes, he’s not mad at me. He told me it was an accident, and I shouldn’t feel bad.”

“Do you feel bad about what happened?”

“Yes, but Danny forgives me, so it’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

“Alright Kyle, that’s enough for now. I’m going to bring you back slowly...”

-------------

“Man, where you been?”

“No where. I had to get my mom to think that I wasn’t seeing you anymore. She thinks that you're gone, so it’s cool now.”

“I thought you’d moved or somethin’. That you just ditched me. You coulda told me that you was goin’ away.”

“I’m sorry. I just couldn’t. You mad at me?”

“Nah, not really. I’m just messin’ with ya. We best friends. Right?”

“Always.”

The Meaning of Normal

I am trying to identify an internal deficiency, yet I fear that it is an impossible task. I do not believe that introspection is capable of recognising causations; at best, it can merely recognize the flaws perceived or categorized by others. An analogy may make this idea clearer. Say a woman is born without the ability to see the color green. In place of emerald, and malachite, and olive are shades of gray. This person has never experienced green and is incapable of detecting her own specific blindness, but tests reveal to her and others that she cannot in fact perceive the color green. Now the woman knows that she has a disability, granted it is a minor one, but a disability nevertheless. She can look at a field of grass and “know” that what she is seeing is incorrectly perceived, but she cannot comprehend how it is incorrect. Only a person who has experienced green can truly understand the absence of green. By comparison, only a person who has experienced “normal” can understand living in an “abnormal” state.

I am aware that when compared to the standard person (if such a thing exists), my thought patterns are more negative and pessimistic. This awareness was obtained by being told as much. Prior to others recognizing my condition, I could not have known that I had a disorder. This is not to say that I did not feel depressed. Rather, feeling depressed was thought of as normal. But, having it brought to my attention that depression is disordered thinking, I now know that my perception of the world is distorted. How it is distorted is beyond my people to comprehend. I cannot identify my own blindness.

Just as the color-blind woman cannot understand “green” by simply being told that she lacks the ability to see it, I cannot understand “normal” thought simply by being told that I think abnormally. But in either case, would the disorder exist if it was not first recognized by an outsider? If the woman had never been told of her disability she would have gone about her life unbothered by the notion of green even existing. Similarly, if I had never been made aware of the fact that the way I think is disordered, I would certainly be depressed but I would not be occupied with ideas of obtaining normalcy.

The questions then become, are internal disorders simply relative? Does a person not have a problem unless it called such by another? Are these disorders nothing more than perceptions based on external observation? Is there substance to the idea of an internal disorder?

I am inclined to believe that we all deviate from the so-called norm (which is really nothing more than an average of behaviors and thought processes), and that in certain cases, a person’s deviation is sufficient to be recognized by others. No one is in fact normal, but some are further from it that others. For those of you questioning the reason for this post, there is no point to it other than to explain my selection of “normalisaverage.blogspot.com” for the address and “N of 1” as the name for my blog. “N,” when used in statistics, is the sample size selected from a set population, so N of 1 refers to an individual selected from everyone else to use in further analysis. If we are all that N of 1, then our internal problems do not materialize, because we become our own average, that is to say we become our own normal.

Dante's Advice.

"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." Dante was not offering this as a warning but more as advice, specifically, advice on how to endure damnation. As much as it is possible to persist in hell, the only real way to do so is to give up hope. By acquiescing to fate, you acknowledge the truth and extinguish a belief in the impossible, i.e. salvation. In the face of certainty, hope is truly a terrible thing.

I have been a slave to hope for most of my life. I once envisioned a future where things went according to a fabricated master-plan. They were plans that would seem poorly conceived to others, for my imagined world was somewhat removed from the norm. I've never been able to picture myself having a wife or family, so I imagined a home with myself and a veritable zoo of pets. Dogs, rabbits, cockatiels, ferrets, hell I even imagined having a wallaby. I'd go to work doing something cool in the field of neuroscience, and come home to my animal friends. I actually never included other people in this plan outside of those that I would encounter at work or in passing. But it didn't matter, because I'd have all I that I needed or wanted.

As I grew older, the plan fell apart piece by piece until nothing of the original remained. I would unsuccessfully try to reassemble the pieces or start over from scratch, but no plan ever took hold. All pathways forward led off cliffs. Yet I kept hoping. And hope has nearly destroyed me.

I believe the universe is fated, that given a full understanding of the fundamental principles of physics and related sciences, it is theoretically possible to predict the outcome of any and all events. Free will does not exist, and people perceive their reactions to internal and external environmental stimuli as being under their own volition. The game is fixed, so wishing for a different outcome is irrational and delusional. In other words, to hope is to argue against the enormity of the universe. Sometimes the direction of fate and a persons own ambitions converge; you hoped for something, it happened to play out as you wanted, you were happy. More often though, a person wishes for a particular thing, love, money, fame, whatever, and the  universe spits in his face. And so you're disappointed. And it happens again, and again you're disappointed. And again. And again. Eventually the disappointment compounds itself into misery. To reiterate: from hope springs misery. Expectations are the enemy of contentment; if you never expect anything good to happen, you cannot be disappointed, and may even be pleasantly surprised when things turn out in your favor.

All of this brings me to the point that I must strive to forgo wishing for anything, either good or bad. I must plan for no future, because plans are themselves a form of hope. I must allow the universe to unfold before me and remain ready to react to the circumstances I may find myself in while feeling nothing towards the ultimate outcome. In order for me to survive, I must abandon all hope. If I were to find myself in hell tomorrow (a very unlikely scenario, given that I'm an atheist), I wouldn't need to change a thing.

Degrees Oversold.

When I entered graduate school, I was not sure what career path I would ultimately pursue, but I was fairly certain that I would at least have a career. Unfortunately, my certainty was misplaced. According to a recent story on NPR (link to NPR article), the unemployment rate for someone with a Ph.D. is approximately 30%, and there is a less than 50% chance that they will have full-time employment. With the nation’s overall unemployment rate now standing at 7.7%, someone with a doctorate is 4 times more likely to be unemployed than the average worker. Further worsening the situation, more Ph.D.’s are finding that the only full-time work they can find is as a post-doc. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, a post-doc position is essentially an extension of graduate school that pays slightly better but is usually a dead-end job. I will use myself as an example. I graduated with a Ph.D. in cell biology in December of 2012. The professor that I worked for as a student then immediately hired me a post-doc. I now do the same exact work that I was doing as a student and make an insultingly small salary. Admittedly, my situation is not the norm. Most Ph.D. graduates go on to a different lab, and usually a different institution to work as a post-doc. But I considered myself lucky to have any job at all, so I gratefully  accepted the offer to stay in the same lab. In any case, a post-doc is a dead-end because there are very few faculty positions available at the University level. A person can do two, three, sometimes four post-docs, all in different labs, and all in the hopes of eventually becoming an actual tenure-track professor. And now we’ve come to the problem: tenure.

Tenured faculty are essentially faculty for life. Once the position is locked in, it is essentially removed from the job market until the professor retires or more likely dies. Universities have a backlog of applicants for an ever shrinking number of faculty positions, yet they continue to churn out Ph.D. graduates as if there was some unmet demand for them. They perpetuate a lie, i.e. the country needs more scientists with advanced degrees. I will plainly state the contrary. The country needs less people with Ph.D.s and more people who will do the grunt work of science for menial pay. Universities subsist on the work of graduate students, lab assistants, and post-docs. The work they do does not require much more skill than can be acquired with a two-year associates degree or in some cases simply a high school degree. Lab work is monotonous and does not require that a person actually know the theory behind what they are doing or why they are even doing an experiment. Of course, in order to earn a Ph.D. a person must demonstrate that they have a deep understanding of the scientific theory behind their work, but the work itself can be done by anyone who can follow simple instructions. I understand that being able to follow instructions is becoming a lost art, but the science fields should not try to play-up the difficulty of what they do. Again, I know that it requires a high level intelligence to design the experiments and make sense of the data that is acquired. These jobs are usually left to the faculty, so we are back to the original problem. There are just not that many jobs that require a Ph.D.

During my time as a graduate student, I found that I both enjoyed and was good at teaching. I decided that I would ultimately like to teach at the college level, so I knew that I would need to obtain a Ph.D. But universities usually do not hire “teachers;” they hire “professors.” Professors are expected to conduct research and teach a few classes here and there. It’s great if they happen to be good teachers, but it doesn’t matter all that much to the Universities if the professors are ineffective and dull in the classroom. What counts is their research, the grant money they bring in, and the number of publications they can crank out, thereby circling back again to the people who do the actual work, i.e. the graduate students and post-docs. Everything comes back to the minions, but compensation is disproportionate given to the professors. While your average post-doc earns maybe $40,000 a year (a figure that I don’t even come close to), a full professor can get anywhere between $90,000 and $250,000. Both have a Ph.D., yet one earns at least 2 times and sometimes more than 6 times the salary.

I didn’t get into this field for the money, but I did enter it under the hopes that I would eventually get a job doing something I enjoy. I wouldn’t mind if I was making $20,000 a year if I was happy, but I am stuck doing research that I hate. It is beyond the mere loathing I feel towards research; it is also the fact that what I am doing now in no way advances my career or will help get the job I want in the future. Yes, I could quit tomorrow, but there are several problems with this scenario. First, I am now “over-qualified” for many jobs. Employers are reluctant to hire someone that they feel obligated to pay more than someone with less education. Why should they hire someone with a Ph.D. and pay them $50k if they can hire someone with a bachelor’s degree for $30k? Second, the jobs that I am suitably qualified for are few and far between. Community colleges have found tremendous savings by only hiring adjunct faculty, which are part-time jobs that pay a genuine pittance (think $12,000 a year). Third, and perhaps the most daunting, is that if I quit I will infuriate some people in high places that have the very real ability to destroy my chances of ever getting a teaching position anywhere. Universities are incestuous monsters, and a negative evaluation from one professor can blacklist a potential job candidate for life. So if I jump ship, I will be doing so with an anchor shackled to my leg.

In the end, this has all been just a futile rant against a system that is broken and stacked against the very people it depends on most. I hope that this is also a warning to anyone thinking of pursuing a Ph.D. As a friend once said, “You know what Ph.D. stands for? Permanent Head Damage.”

Damn right.