PS - neurodivergent

Last year, as I dealt once again with the frustration I experience at not being believed or listened to, a mental health worker I spoke with a handful of times in 2021 said something that bothered me at first. After thinking on his words, and adding it up with my own ways of remembering events in my life, it dawns on me that he could have been on to something.  He said I am probably on the spectrum.

I am currently reading a book called "Divergent Mind," by Jenara Neremberg.  My constant feelings of not being "normal" or human, the way I desperately long for total honesty, my instant inner turmoil when I realize someone is trying to change the truth about my behavior or motivations or history without looking at my daily life and my recollections of things that do not change over time, my inability to read others properly, my total failure at ever figuring out the "game" of life, all of it fits into this idea of me perhaps being on the spectrum.  I don't know.  And for me it is irrelevant.  I have been othered and excluded by the very people I trusted most to never do that to me.  I am not seen as enough of a human to ever expect real inclusion in family.  I accept this.  I know my truth.  This blog, my memories, have always been what they are, and until my brain stops working or death takes me, my memories will always be what they are.  My "perspective" does not change over time, when it comes to what happened in my childhood.  No mental health person implanted false memories.  No mental health person ever even believed me when I said what my parents did for a living.  I grew up knowing what had happened to me, and nobody will make me change what I know is true.  Two plus two is four.  This very paragraph, and my blog, and my whole life, do seem to make it very possible that I am not neurotypical.

Shameless

I love the show Shameless.  So much about this show resonates with me.  It reminds me of the places I have lived, the people I have known, the way I know life actually works.

I never would have seen life the way I see it, if my father would have loved me, and Pam had never come into my life.  Ignorance is truly bliss.  If my father had loved me, and if he had loved my mom enough to not get involved with Pam, I would not be who I am.  I have no idea how I might have turned out.  This is a part of life that is so bizarre and real, but also heartbreaking.  If people can truly love their spouses and their offspring, those offspring can have a much better chance at a good start in life. 

I just rewatched season 7, episode 12, of Shameless.  Monica, the mother of the Gallagher kids, has passed.  This is probably my favorite Shameless episode.  During brief moments throughout this episode, there are moments where Monica's humanity is spoken about.  Her failures are glaring and obvious.  Her failures created hell for her offspring.  But she is still a human, who felt love, and did the best she could under her circumstances.

I hope my own offspring always know I did the best I could for them, with what I knew at the time.  It wasn't perfect.  But my focus was always on them.

I am horrified by most of what I see going on in my country, and in this world.  I have very little hope for humanity, because we seem to be bent on hurting each other.  But I am very proud of my kids, and my grandson.  They have overcome my history, and that makes me think most humans still have the potential to become better than we are right now.

Me

I was born the way I was.  I had not formed correctly in the womb, so I was born defected, with no left hip joint, but after I was born, there were some things I just did, things that have been part of me since birth, and I am still influenced by those things.

These are two pictures taken when I was around five.  I was in the middle of being destroyed by my father and Pam at this very time, but the basic part of me, the part of me that still somehow survives, was there, and is evident in these photos my mom took.   These are photos of me and my baby sister, as I watched a caterpillar crawl across the cement in our trailer-park carport.  At one point, I grab my sister's wrist, to keep her from touching and perhaps harming the caterpillar, because I wanted the caterpillar to safely make its crossing to the other side of the carport.  This is my heart, my soul, every bit of me, caught in a moment when adult humans were horrendously harming me.

I have only ever wanted to figure out how to do the right thing, so I can not be seen as bad, so I can join the campfire, so I can deserve to be hugged and loved.

I am learning to somehow get beyond all of that, now.  I am way too ruined to be a part of family, or neighborhood, or society.  But I will always be a part of the universe, and I will always help any critter I can, just as I did in these photos from my childhood.  Because that's me.

The Prince of Tides

I have always hoped I could connect with another human, in an honest way, while being able to trust that human was somebody who tried to follow their commitments, and was somebody who was the antithesis of my father.  I craved honesty.  I saw so much hypocrisy throughout my childhood.  I witnessed my father breaking his vows with my mother as he had sex with Pam.  I spoke on the phone with, and met, a number of my father's mistresses, as I grew up.  I wanted to believe that most humans did not cheat on their partners like my father, but by the time I was a teen, I no longer carried much belief in the sanctity of marriage.  I had too much personal knowledge about too many married humans who were cheating.

I remember very well the moment where I finally decided marriage was one big lie.  I was 16, and had recently gotten my license.  The adventist principal who was having sex with me had a best friend, a man who was a well-respected member of society, and was married with children.  This man was also a friend of my family, and taught adult sabbath school at church.  He was brilliant, and I looked up to him.  Due to a sudden health problem, this man ended up in a coma.  The adventist principal told me I must help do something important for his comatose friend.  He told me I must drive to a post office in a nearby town, in order to pick up the private letters this man's mistress was sending him at a p. o. box, so his friend's wife would never find those letters.

I remember very well the pain I felt, the first time I checked that p. o. box, and held letters in my hand, written by the mistress of a human I had respected.  Those letters felt as if they were burning my hands, and my heart.  I knew that man's wife and kids well.  I was overwhelmed by emotions I could not at all understand at 16, but the biggest thing I felt in my heart was something I understood very well:  I knew, with absolute certainty at that moment, that I would never take vows with any other human, ever.  I had wanted to believe my father was not like most humans.  I suddenly had to accept that most humans are lying, cheating jerks.  It was a horrible moment for me. 

The movie, "The Prince of Tides," is a movie I first watched in my twenties.  The first time I saw it, I hated it, and the only character in the movie that I liked at all was Luke.  I felt he was the only honest and strong person in it, and I did not like any of the other characters.  I did not at all like the relationship between Tom and the therapist.  And I was especially horrified by the character Savannah. 

I have watched this movie a number of times over the years since I first saw it, and each time, I have seen it differently.  I recently watched it again.  I have seen how my mind has been trying to grow and learn over the years, and the way I view this movie is a weird kind of measurement of how my mind's growth has occurred.  I still despise the relationship between Tom and the therapist, because I still think people either need to honor their vows, or simply be single if they cannot stay monogamous, instead of betraying another human.  I now view Luke as lost and sad.  I also realize the character I must finally admit I most identify with, is the one I was most horrified by when I first saw the movie:  Savannah.

I wanted to find out my father was a sick aberration, and most humans try to be decent.  Instead, I'm finding out most humans will do whatever they can get away with, no matter who it hurts.  It's like I'm holding letters in my hands that are burning my heart.

Like Savannah, all I can do is keep writing.

Precious Descendant

My grandson recently turned four.  He and his family live far from me, so I do not see him often.  I miss him.

This is the first poem I wrote for him, before he was even born.


Precious Descendant
by
Judy S. Lentz

I've seen shadows of your face in the creases of your father's palm
as I lifted his newborn hand to my lips
In the smile on your mother's face as her fingers sift
through baby clothes
I sing "Safe and Sound" to your unborn spirit as I look up
at stars you will soon see for the first time
A beam of light leapt off the face of a faraway place
And has traveled millions of miles
millions of years
just to be the very photons that will land on your retina
The moment you first look up

Oliver!

     When I was a very young teen, one of my favorite movies was "Oliver!"  Years later, when I first saw "August Rush," I loved it, too.  I guess this is not surprising, since both movies are basically the same story.  I just watched August Rush again, and was reminded of my love for both movies.

     The child in me has been longing for something I will never have, and this need is my biggest flaw. 

     Here are my favorite songs from each movie:

Oliver

August Rush

A dog named Jasper

Today I watched a slide show that included the story of a dog named Jasper.  Jasper was rescued, and deemed "dangerous."  He was a small mixed-breed, with a coat covered in mats, and eyes that conveyed fear.  He did not like to be approached or touched. 

Some rescue folks I work with took the time to clean Jasper up, get him fixed, and eventually gain his trust.  One woman in particular was very good at understanding how to approach Jasper, and she and her own dog were a big part of helping Jasper learn how to become a well-socialized dog, who ended up being adopted.  This woman wiped away a few tears, as we all watched the slide show.

This same woman is someone who has noticed, on occasion, that my mind does not always learn things or understand instructions the way most people seem to take in information.  In clinic situations where I am not knowledgeable, she seems to instinctively know how to say something in a way my mind quickly comprehends.  I have a feeling this ability of hers is directly related to her ability to work so well with dogs like Jasper.

I do not believe that any of my clinic co-workers have ever read this blog of mine.  I kind of hope they never do, just as I would rather my kids, and my mother, never do.  I do not want any of my clinic co-workers to start wondering if I am a "bad" person, somebody who is going through too much to be a part of the rescue world.  I am keeping very close track of how my mind is handling the stresses of driving transport and assisting at clinics.  When I first sit in the van, and start a 16-hour day with a group of cats, my mind focuses immediately on the souls I am about to be responsible for during that whole time.  The ones who belong to families are precious to me, because I know how much each of them means to their humans.  The ferals or strays who belong to no one are precious to me, because I am now a part of the current few humans who have probably ever tried to be kind and helpful to these beings.  My mind remains focused on this, as I drive, and as I help at clinics. 

I try very hard to always be honest with myself about my motives, my focus, the state my mind is in.  (This is not something I can say I have seen many humans do, but it is very important to me.)  I know I am not at all in a good place, right now.  My mind is in the worst condition I have ever experienced. 

If I ever get in that transport van, and cannot feel my mind focus on the critters on board, I will know it is time to give up my work in the rescue world.  I cannot say this is not going to happen.  I have no idea what will happen as my mind disintegrates.  But I am watching very closely for it, and will be honest with myself and others if/when it does happen.  Regardless of what anyone may think or say about me, the last thing I want to be is a danger.

Jasper was kept in a tiny kennel and abused by a human for the first years of his life.  What people saw as "dangerous" behavior was simply Jasper, trying to survive.

I'm trying to survive.

Jericho Brown

A poem I had to share:

Bullet Points

This face

It has been a long week.  Hell, it has been a long two years.  Truth be told, the 50 years of my life has been long.  I have no idea how I am still here, getting up each day, doing what I do.  But this past week, I had a moment where I was reminded very strongly about the current "why."

I wish I could dedicate my whole life to the animal rescue world, but that is not feasible for me.  Instead, I spend only a portion of each month driving transport vehicles to spay/neuter clinics, so cats can be fixed, to help lessen the number of stray and feral cats who are suffering. 

This week was not easy.  I am in a rather difficult place, emotionally, right now, which means I am not handling all of life's challenges as well as I should be.  I had one moment this past week, though, that helped me stay on track, kept me from crumbling completely into the million pieces my heart has been reduced to recently.  Late Wednesday, I sat down next to a crate holding 5 tiny kittens.  These babies were found all alone, and are now being bottle-fed and cared for by a loving human.  The 5 of them all looked up at me, with such precious faces, but the one in the middle could not see me well, because its eyes were crusted and mucky from the effects of URI (Upper Respiratory Infection).  That kitten caught the broken pieces of my heart. 

I took a few pictures of these kittens, to keep on my phone so I have a tangible reminder of why I have committed myself to helping fight the plight of homeless animals.  The picture I share here is not good quality, but that tiny little face is the reason I do what I do, regardless of anything else going on in or around me.  That face is why I will continue to encourage everyone to spay or neuter their pets.  That face is why I will do my best to remain a part of the animal rescue world for as long as I am able.

Moses

I wrote this story a few years ago.  Every year, on Aug. 16, I think of Elvis, Moses, and Curtis.


                                                                        Moses
                                                                           by
                                                                    Judy S. Lentz

     Curtis Martin gave me my first kiss. We were standing next to each other, straddling our bikes, when he leaned over and our lips touched. He turned beet red and took off on his bike, while I stayed there, feeling the hot breeze mark a cool wet spot left on my bottom lip. It was the summer of ‘77, in a trailer park on the outskirts of Tucson, Arizona.
     When I first saw Curtis, I thought he looked like Elvis. He had dark hair, blue eyes, and dimples when he smiled. His family was from Texas, so he talked with a southern drawl and wore cowboy boots everyday. We were both eleven.
     Our families moved into the trailer park around the same time, in early June. Curtis and I met while riding our bikes, and we spent that summer cruising around the dusty gravel roads separating the single and doublewides. Sometimes we ventured outside the park and hiked through the surrounding desert, looking for tarantulas and scorpions. Occasionally, we snuck out after bedtime, to meet behind a carport and smoke discarded cigarette butts. We would stare up at the stars, picking out constellations we convinced ourselves we recognized, and following the Milky Way path across the night sky. Curtis had a small transistor radio, and he would bring it out if the batteries were working. Curtis liked country music. I liked rock. But we could always agree if we found a station playing an Elvis song.
     We talked about a lot of things. Curtis had a soft voice, and I loved his accent. Both of our families moved around a lot, and we discovered neither of us enjoyed these moves. We both loved animals, and Curtis had spent years trying to convince his mom to let them have a dog. There wasn’t a certain moment when it happened, but it was soon apparent to all the kids in the park that Curtis and I were boyfriend/girlfriend. We were inseparable.
     One day, as a bunch of us played together on somebody’s patio, a girl from a neighboring trailer park climbed through a hole in the fence and approached us. She was crying, and proceeded to tell us how her father had put her dog and its pups into a garbage bag full of water, and tossed them into a dumpster. Curtis and I took off toward the hole in the fence, with all the other kids trailing behind us.
     We followed the girl to a large dumpster, and tried to figure out the best way up and in. Curtis pushed a box over to it, and we both climbed up to look down into the smelly mess. We couldn’t decipher anything from there, so Curtis gave me a leg up over the edge. I sank into the garbage a bit, before I got my bearings. I started feeling around, trying to find the bag with the pups. Sure enough, on the top, toward the back of the dumpster, I discovered the heavy bag. With all my might, I hauled the bag over to the edge, where Curtis helped me lift it over the side, onto the box. It was leaking water from some holes created by all this movement. I jumped to the ground and ripped open the bag. Water gushed out, and I reached in, hoping to feel life. Instead, I felt cold, slimy little bodies, all mangled up together. I gripped one and pulled it out. I held it in my hands to see if it was breathing. There was no movement. So I did what the paramedics on “Emergency” did. I put my mouth over the tiny, cold nose and muzzle, and blew air into its lungs. I tried this a few times, and heard one of the watching kids say, “Gross! Why is she kissing it?”
     “SHUT UP!” Curtis hollered at the kid, and nobody said another word. I silently handed the lifeless puppy to Curtis, and he gently placed it on the ground while I reached back into the bag. Once again, I performed CPR, and once again, no luck. I repeated this scene a few times. As Curtis took each little body from me and lined them up next to each other, I was getting sadder and sadder. When I took out the momma dog, the little girl cried so hard it broke my heart. I willed that dog to breathe as I blew air in its lungs, but it did not. Curtis took it from me, and I reached back into the bag. One more pup remained.
     I pulled out the tiny white pup, put my mouth over its nose, and blew. I did not expect anything to happen. I gave it a second breath, and that’s when the tiny body jerked in my hand. The kids all jumped back, startled. The little pup’s mouth opened a bit, and I held its head low, so the water could come out. I kept rubbing it and talking to it, and it moved more, and started to breathe more. Curtis took off his shirt, and I wrapped the puppy up in it, to try and get it warm.
     “We’ll take it to my house,” he said.
     Curtis helped me through the hole in the fence, and we walked toward his house, hoping we could convince his mom to let them keep the puppy. When we got there, she opened the door and looked at the crowd of kids on her patio.
     “What do you have there?” she asked, and a chorus of voices explained what had happened. She listened for awhile, and then reached down to take the bundled pup from my arms. I watched her eyes as she held the little pup up to her face, and suddenly I knew she was going to keep it. Curtis knew it, too, because I heard him sigh with relief. She ran us all off, so she could take care of the pup properly, without us all underfoot. We dispersed, and Curtis and I went to their shed to get a shovel, so we could bury the other pups and their momma in the desert. As we took turns digging the hole, we tried to think of a name for his new dog. We settled on “Moses”, because we had rescued the dog from the water. We said a prayer as we buried Moses’ family, then took the shovel back to Curtis’ house, and went to play with the other kids.
     A few weeks later, Curtis and I shared our first kiss. The day after that kiss, Elvis died. Curtis and I snuck out that night and listened to the many different stations playing Elvis’ songs. We held hands and laid on the ground, looking up at the stars. We stayed there until the batteries in the radio died, and the sky in the east was starting to turn pale.
     A few days later, my father brought a bunch of empty boxes into our living room. I ran from the trailer, down the road, and into the desert. I did not want to fill up anymore boxes with me, and move somewhere else. I did not want to leave this desert, with the prickly pear cactus and tall ocotillo stalks, the dry brush and the rattle snakes, the tarantulas and the scorpions. I did not want to leave the momma and pups’ grave.
     A few days later, I sat in the front seat of the moving van, looking in the side rear-view mirror at Curtis. He stood in the middle of the dusty gravel road, holding a wriggly Moses in one arm, his other arm raised in a final wave. I watched as his figure grew smaller and smaller, and the dust stirred up by the van finally swallowed him.                                                       End