Nice and quiet.

You know those kids who everyone says were so “nice and quiet” and then go off all crazy and shoot up a movie theater? Chris was nothing like that. Chris was the type of kid who everyone said would either be dead or jail by the time he was 20. No one would have been surprised to see him on the 5 o’clock news after high-jacking a school bus and driving it off a bridge. His teachers all thought he was “deeply troubled,” and they avoided giving him anything lower than a “B,” so as not to “set him off.” To his classmates he was just plain creepy. They whispered behind his back that he had killed his parents and buried them in his backyard. Obviously this wasn't the case, since his parents were the ones who drove to see the psychiatrist every Thursday, but it was clear to everyone that Chris just wasn't right.

There wasn't any one thing that jumped out and screamed “crazy.” Sure he dressed in black, but so did nearly half of the school. His writing tended toward the depressive, but it’s not like he wrote about drowning puppies or burning down churches. No, what was most off-putting was his reluctance to speak beyond two, maybe three words at a time.

“So Chris, you hear the latest Cannibal Corpse?”

“Sucked.”

“You got a lighter on you Chris?”

“Don't smoke.”

“What's your problem? I mean Jesus, did your dog die or something? Just what the hell are you always brooding about?”

“You'll see.”

And that was the line that gave everyone pause. “You'll see.” Like he was building up for something. Like he had some terrible plot festering in his mind. Like he wanted to be sure and give people fair warning of a coming travesty.

“You'll see.”

So the kids set up an invisible perimeter around him, and tried to avoid any unnecessary eye contact. They politely differed to him when going through doors but always had an exit strategy when he was in the room. Chris was the dark cloud on the horizon, and everyone wanted to be ready for the storm.

One day Chris didn't come to school. No one said anything, but the whole atmosphere relaxed a little. No one looked over their shoulder or worried where they sat.

And that was the day, that James, the “nice and quiet” kid, decided to pull out his Dad's Browning 9mm during lunch and gunned down 23 of his fellow students and four hapless teachers before setting off the fertilizer bomb he had planted on the roof. Everyone got the warning, but no one got the message.

You see?

Not today.

The stories are there, I just can't get them out today. This is one of those days that I feel so... enclosed? isolated? I don't even know if there's a word for it. Whatever it is, I hate it because it snowballs into something so pernicious that I wonder why I even bother getting up in the morning.

I try to write to give me a purpose, even if it is an invented one, even if it is read by few.

If we are honest with ourselves, we recognize that there really isn't a "point" to anything. Now before I go any further, I admit that I am entering into a world of philosophical cliches. This alone upsets me that I can't come up with something original, but isn't everything derivative anyway? Another cliche, sigh.

Anyway, back to the subject of "points." In the grand scheme of things, what any of us does is so infinitesimally meaningless that logic dictates...

Oh, forget it. Not today, or at least not right now. Maybe, I'll try again later. Sorry.

Permission

All he wanted was permission to fail, but no one saw the pleading in his eyes. Instead they saw a kid who could push himself to the point of blacking out, someone who would train through stress fractures and broken fingers, someone who didn’t know the meaning of the word quit. They saw him furious when he lost, but he only cared because that was what was expected. He couldn’t do anything for himself, so he allowed others to determine his course in life. And so wrestling became his life.

Mike stepped on the scale and looked at the numbers that he balanced his fate against. Half a pound and he’d make weight. A full pound and he could eat.

He pulled off another garbage bag from the roll he kept under the bathroom sink, and cut holes in it for his head and arms. Slipping it over head, he hesitated for just a moment. What if he just left it there, covering his mouth and nose? But he pulled it all the way down and then overlaid it with two sweatshirts and a windbreaker.

Mike ran until he felt the sweat sloshing around against his skin. He’d figured out a while ago that signaled that he’d extracted at least a half a pound. He dropped where he was and belted out 50 push-ups, flipped over and did a hundred crunches, then bounced back up for the run home.

Peeling the slimy, black bag off himself, Mike stepped into the shower, being careful not to swallow any water. He toweled himself dry until he was sure that every last drop of moisture was gone, and then went to receive his judgement. He was lucky today; he managed a full pound and a half.

Downstairs in the kitchen, he mixed up a protein shake, making sure that it was exactly 12 ounces. Adding in a Met-Rx bar at another 3.5 ounces, and he figured he would still be under the limit. Just to be sure he took both upstairs to the bathroom, stripped down again, and stepped on the scale with both the drink and energy bar in hand. Damn, that was cutting it close, but the bottle had to weigh something, right? Besides, he’d piss out the water weight in the morning.

It was after midnight before he got to bed. Mike knew that he had to keep his grades up if he wanted to stay eligible, so Shakespeare and pre-cal kept him from his rest. He could sleep during lunch tomorrow to make it up. What else could he do then anyway?

---

The school day drifted by him in haze. Mike did his best to follow along in class, but his thoughts kept drifting off. Not towards the match, or anything like that. All he could think about was Thanksgiving. He tortured himself with the images of Mom’s cornbread and Grandma’s cranberry relish. Three years without tasting any of them, and he knew this year wouldn’t be any different. He had to be stronger than holiday tradition; only the weak gave in to comfort.

In the halls he answered the same stupid questions that came up every time there was a dual meet.

“Ready Mike?”

“You know it!”

“Ya’ gonna kick his ass tonight, Mike?”

“So hard he’ll taste my shoe!”

What he really hated was luck.

“Good luck Mike.”

Like luck has anything to do with, you piece of shit. I bust my ass every damn day, so I don’t need any luck.

He never said that though. It was always just, “Thanks man.”

They were home tonight, but it was still a big meet. Their cross-town rivals, who they destroyed last year, were back with a vengeance. For Mike it was different. He had lost to Tim Glasdel, their 135 pound state all-star. Lost by a cheap move that a Freshman could have dodged. He watched that tape over and over. Belly down, you moron. He can’t pull your head under if you just lay flat on your stomach.

Glasdel was strong, but Mike knew he could beat him on technique. If he just didn’t make any mistakes, if he just didn’t screw things up...

---

They went in order of weight class, so Mike was the sixth one up. He stepped onto the mat, and his world closed in. His hearing became selective for the whistle, his vision turned from seeing images to seeing motion. He became kinetic, ready to explode.

Boom! Mike shot first, but his opponent was fast and managed to throw his legs back before Mike could get a lock. Shuffling back up to the neutral position, he circled to the middle of the mat. He saw it coming, but his long legs were too slow. Take down, two points! Shit, he was on bottom. His opponent reached under Mikes arms and locked hands around his neck. The bastard was trying the same move as last time. He splayed out flat, and stymied Glasdel’s attempts to flip him. Mike built back up to his base, and tried to sit out. Escape, one point! Back in neutral position, they locked heads together, each trying to get the underhand for a throw.

Suddenly, Glasdel dropped and shot for Mike’s leg. Another take down, an Mike was on bottom. Before anything else could happen, the whistle blew and round one was over.

He lost the coin toss, but Glasdel differed and gave Mike the choice. In actuality, he gave coach the choice, and coach signaled for Mike to take bottom. Escape. Same as before, he had to escape. At the whistle, Glasdel chopped at Mike’s arm but couldn’t break him down. Switching tactics, he went in for the half nelson. Mike knew he was about to get turned, and if he went over, he was done for. He was going to lose again. In front of his team and all those people, he was going to end up on his back. And then what was he? Nothing, a loser.

But there was another option, one that people could accept. He just had to fight. For the first time, Mike fought for himself, for his way out, for an end to the pressure that had been crushing him for all these years.  

And when Mike felt his shoulder go, and the pain shoot through his arm like lightning, he at last had what he wanted: permission granted.

Cured by Negligence, Still in Danger.

At one time, HIV was viewed as one of, if not the greatest threats to global health. Due to advancements in antiretroviral therapy and earlier diagnoses, the virus is now viewed as a manageable disease that is no longer the death sentence it once was. The medical field continues its progress towards finding a cure for the disease, and news that a young child was given a “functional cure” for an HIV infection acquired at birth is cause for hope that similar results can be achieved in adults. However, this optimism should be guarded by the fact that the infant responded to standard antiretroviral drugs that are routinely used in adults already. Furthermore, it should also be noted that the infant was started on this drug therapy a mere 30 hours after birth, well before the virus could establish itself in the child’s system. Adults are unlikely to be aware of being infected with HIV at such an early state, and by the time they receive medical care, the virus will have had time to infiltrate the immune system and set up reserves in the CD4 white blood cells. Nonetheless, if this “cure” can be reproduced in other infants, it marks a legitimate turning point in preventing HIV from become established in children that are born infected with the virus.

Which brings me to the focus of the this article. Everyday, approximately 1,000 infants are born infected with HIV. The majority are born in developing countries where access to medical care is limited at best and prenatal screening of the mother is uncommon. Some may be unaware of the fact that a woman who has HIV can give birth to a child free of the disease. In the U.S. and other developed countries most pregnant women are tested for HIV, and if the results are positive, preventative measures can be taken to ensure that the virus is not passed on to the child.

The mother of the “cured” child did not receive such prenatal screening, and was unaware of her disease status until she delivered the child in hospital. This in itself is troubling. The mother either did not know that she was pregnant, which is not as rare as you would think, or she was not concerned enough for the well being of her child to seek routine medical care during her pregnancy. The issue of cost could have been an obstacle to her getting this care, but most cities have a Planned Parenthood clinics that provide low-cost, and sometimes free, maternal care and prenatal testing. So either ignorance or lack of concern by the mother led to her child being born with HIV.

Fortunately, the child received prompt medical treatment. The child continued to receive antiretroviral therapy for 18 months, until the mother stopped bringing her to the clinic. I repeat, the mother stopped bringing her child to get treated. At this point, no one knew that the child was cured; she could just have well been setting up her child for a lifetime of dealing with HIV. Look at it this way, if the kid had been born with cancer, and the mother stopped getting her baby care, the child would have likely died.

Five months went by before the mother and child returned to the clinic. The physicians were appropriately worried that the child would now have an established HIV infection. Tests revealed this not to be the case, and after several follow up tests, the child was declared “functional cured.” The kid was lucky. The mother, on the other hand, was simply reckless, and should be charged with child endangerment at the minimum. She has shown a pattern of disregard for the health of her child, and the future well being of the child is questionable. These facts have been overshadowed by the news of a “cure” for HIV, but the mother needs to be held accountable for her actions (or inaction as the case may be). The child escaped harm this time, but maintaining that health is in jeopardy as long as she is in the “care” of a negligent mother.

It's Not Just About Weight: Eating Disorders as Emotional Disorders

In my estimate, most people are unaware that last month (February) was "eating disorders awareness month." I never understood the logic of relegating a disease or disorder to one particular month, so I am going to routinely call attention to this topic throughout the year.

Eating disorders are too often willfully ignored, and in men, the problem is compounded by the fact that the disorders are still thought of as primarily affecting girls and women. While studies indicate that eating disorder prevalence has between a 6:1 to 10:1 female-to-male ratio(1), the actual numbers are obfuscated by the fact that men are more reluctant to admit they have a problem. I have first hand knowledge of this, because I am a male with eating disorder who, up until now, has remained silent on the issue.

For those of you wondering, yes, I am truly a psychological mess, but my condition has a certain degree of order to it. Pardon the expression, but my eating disorder feeds off of my depression and vice-versa. I use food to fill an emptiness that goes far beyond mere physical hunger, and the resulting self-disgust at my own weakness forces me to compensate by both purging and enduring extreme exercise. It's not a weight issue, or even a body image issue, it's an emotional issue that at its core reflects my feelings of inadequacy and failure. In future posts, I will discuss the cause and evolution of my disorder, but for now I will just say that I am making significant progress in dealing with it.

At first glance, it appears that I am bulimic, but as is the case with nearly half of all people with a recognized eating disorder(2), my problem falls into the category of ‘eating disorder not otherwise specified’ (EDNOS). The reason for this is that the diagnostic criteria for bulimia (and anorexia as well) is ridiculously narrow.

Despite evidence to the contrary, the American Psychology Association adheres to the notion that eating disorders are primarily about weight. For a certain percentage of sufferers this is true; they have a fixation of being thin and an abhorrence of becoming fat. However, many people with eating disorders, including myself, are of normal weight and are generally not preoccupied with being as thin as possible. Instead, their eating disorders are intertwined with emotional instability(3). But thanks to the American Psychology Association's stringency and outdated mode of thinking, most people with eating disorders are shunted to the diagnostic no-man's-land of EDNOS. I believe that this is at least in part the reason that many people with eating disorders fail to receive the proper treatment. In order to defeat the symptom (the eating disorder), you have to address the underlying cause.

I know that there are no cures for eating disorders, but they can be managed. I have found that confronting the issue head-on through therapy or even simply talking to a friend makes a tremendous difference in dealing with the problem. Others may feel more comfortable remaining anonymous, but I suggest that you reach out to someone just the same. If you suspect that someone you know has an eating disorder, don't be afraid to approach them with your concerns. They may deny it or take offense at the suggestion, but at least they will then be aware that there is someone they can turn to. Men, don't be afraid to seek help if you have an eating disorder. You might encounter doctors or therapists who dismiss you out of hand simply because you are a guy. Forget them, and keep searching until you find someone who shows an understanding. Believe me, there is help out there.

Again, I will continue to address this subject matter with personal accounts of my own struggles, serious discussions on advancements in treating eating disorders, and fictional stories that I hope will both inspire and motivate.

Remember, you are not alone.

Sources:

1.) Kathleen N. Franco. "Eating Disorders." Cleveland Clinic Website. http://www.clevelandclinicmeded.com/medicalpubs/diseasemanagement/psychiatry-psychology/eating-disorders/

2.) Frédérique R. E. Smink, Daphne van Hoeken, and Hans W. Hoek. Epidemiology of Eating Disorders: Incidence, Prevalence and Mortality Rates. Curr Psychiatry Rep. 2012 August; 14(4): 406–414.

3.) Eric Strother, Raymond Lemberg, Stevie Chariese Stanford, and Dayton Turberville. Eating Disorders in Men: Underdiagnosed, Undertreated, and Misunderstood. Eat Disord. 2012 October; 20(5): 346–355.

Dawn.

They hunted in packs. As few as three, as many as thirty, they varied depending on the type and number of prey. Only the males hunted, while the females tended to their young and foraged. He kept his distance from all of them just the same; he had seen the viciousness that possessed them all.

His first real encounter with them nearly cost him his life. Returning empty handed from a hunt, he came upon his camp in the aftermath of an attack. A few of the beasts were ransacking the stores of food that his clan had carefully amassed in preparation of the coming winter. Had they seen him, they would have killed them just as they had slaughtered his family and friends. But he hid in the underbrush until the scent of them was far into the distance. Only then did he venture out to assess the remnants of his home.

They sometimes took the women alive, but this time the genocide was complete. Even the children were not spared. He found his partner laying face down, her blood staining the dry earth a harsh crimson. He could do nothing, and his thoughts shifted to his own survival. He could not stay in this place of death; the sickness would soon arrive. He gathered the meager remains of his supplies, and turned to face his fallen clan a final time. It was then that he saw the tiny movement of his partner’s deerskin cloak. Alive? Could she be? He hurried to her side and threw away the cloak. A small face peered up at him with a recognising smile. His daughter! Her mother’s blood covered her, but she was unharmed. Clutching the infant to his chest, he concentrated on his next actions. Finding several hide straps that were used to bind foot coverings, he fashioned a makeshift carrier. He secured his daughter in it and then tethered the entire package across his back. Together, they fled.

Several days past, and his daughter was fading. She constantly mewed the sullen cry of hunger, but without her mother’s milk she would find no reprieve. He offered her berries, but they were spit back up the moment they were swallowed. Perhaps he could find something more suitable, but it was difficult to forage in moonlight. And he dare not move about during day; the hunters stalked their prey when the sun was up.

On the fourth night, he awoke with a start. His daughter lay motionless on his chest and a coldness had set in.

He carried her for all of the next day, and then dug for her a shallow grave in the soft clay by the river. Anguished and weary, he slept at her side.

Both the rising sun and the rustling of leaves dragged him from a restless sleep.

He heard a cry from above and reeled his head to see a single, young beast. With explosive energy he charged after it, easily overtaking the frightened animal.

He tackled it with fury, pinning it to the ground by the throat with one powerful hand. As individuals, they were weak, frail even. How could something so diminutive wreak so much destruction?

He could have squeezed the life out of it in an instant, but something in its eyes gave him pause. There was something all too familiar in its gaze, almost a reflection of himself.

In this moment of hesitation, the youth saw its chance for escape. A well placed knee paralysed its captor with a blinding pain. As it scrambled awayed, it let out a shrill cry, signalling for the others to attack.

He knew his fate was sealed, but this resolve was soon swept away by a berserker's fury. His death would not be unearned. As they closed a circle around him, he lunged at the nearest assailant, crushing its skull with a single strike of his fist. He howled with vengeance, yet the remaining still advanced. He grabbed for another, as their blows began to fall upon him. Overwhelmed by their strength in numbers, he fell to the ground. Somehow, he managed to raise his face to the killers. He was ready.

As the tip of the spear pierced his brave heart, the last Neanderthal died at the hands of man.

First and Last.

I decided to write this true story in memory of a friend. It was hard for me to write it, and it may be difficult to read, not for its structure but for its inevitable end.
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Mom wouldn't have anything to do with him, so we spent the first night together in a tent in the backyard. It was the day after Christmas, but Houston weather made it feel like May. Jake was so tiny he could barely get up the steps of the deck, and when he finally made it to the grass, it went up past his legs. He nosed his way into the tent, and promptly curled up into a ball on my pillow. I couldn't have fallen asleep anyway. I had a dog.

For the rest of the winter break I spent the night outside with him, even though each morning I would have to clean up the little “presents” Jake left in the tent. During the day, we spent hours together, me dragging my shoes by the laces while he chased after them. I’m pretty sure I was responsible for his habit of chewing up Mom’s slippers.

When school started back up again, I had to go back to sleeping inside, but it wasn't long before Jake was allowed to start sleeping in the laundry room. Then the kitchen. Then the living room. And finally Mom’s bedroom. Or more specifically, on top of Mom’s bed. Unless of course it was raining; then he was under her bed. Jake didn't like the rain, and he was absolutely terrified by thunder.

We grew up together, and when I entered high school I spent less and less time with Jake. Between the hour long commute and being on the wrestling team, the only time I saw him during the week was when he would supervise me lifting weights in the garage. He’d sit and watch me until I was done and then would follow me inside for the night.

Sundays however, were always our day. First thing in the morning, or after church if I couldn't avoid it, Jake and I would take off running, and we wouldn't come back until afternoon. We had a routine: race each other to the end of the street (he always won), and then slow to steady jog until we got to the park. Once there, we would cut through the bike trails until we reached the creek. Jake never figured out water, so he’d just sit on the bank and stare at the ducks with murderous intent. Eventually, he’d get bored, and we would set out hiking, heading nowhere, but always on the look-out for squirrels.

I had to leave Jake behind when I went away to college. Every time I could manage to make it back, Jake would initially give me the cold shoulder, like I had abandoned him. He would actually turn his back to me and avoid eye contact. All would be forgiven though, when I took out his leash. By then, we didn't run together anymore, but he stilled loved our walks.

Graduate school was a dark time for me. Both emotionally and physically I was a wreck, and I sought refuge by making the 4 hour drive from Dallas to Houston every weekend. My internal demons aside, I was painfully aware that I didn't have much more time with Jake. Both lymphoma and the steroids used to treat it had taken their toll on him; he had hard time even making it out in time to go to the bathroom. One Friday night I came home, and he was asleep on the kitchen floor. I had never been able to sneak up on Jake, but this time he didn't stir. I sat down to put my hand on his chest, and he immediately woke up, abashed that he had failed to be the guardian of the house. He tried to stand up, but his feet kept sliding out from under him.

I wasn't angry at him, but I yelled anyway. “Damn you! Get up you son of a bitch! Get up!” But he couldn't, and I knew.

I laid down beside him, held him close, and we spent the last night together.