Nov 12, 2012 |
I have an online friend who suffers from Tourette Syndrome. She’s not shy about sharing her story, but I’m ashamed to admit I often wonder how I will react when the day comes that we meet in person.
I like to think I’m not judgmental or instinctive with my responses. I realize she can’t help the things she sometimes does. When we talk, I feel so much pain for the sorrows and challenges she sometimes endures. But when faced with the thought of being in that moment with her tics, can I be the kind of person she needs me to be? Can I not have that knee-jerk reaction I sometimes have when faced with the unknown, that instant instinct to shush someone else or turn away? Can I not just stand there, not knowing what to do? Can I reach beyond myself to be that compassionate, caring friend; the same as she’s been to me?
Kate is confident. Able. Capable. Accomplished. Her Tourette’s is just a small facet of the wonderful person she is. I don’t want that to define her any more than I want my poverty to define me. It’s just a moment, just a glimpse of the totality of this life.
She often fills her Facebook page with helpful links and wonderful insights. Tourette’s is mistakenly (or often intentionally, carelessly) used as the brunt of Hollywood jokes, a means of excusing bad behavior and foul language in a manner reminiscent of the Three Stooges’ foolery instead of open, honest dialogue.
The truth is, if it’s misunderstood and can get a laugh, that’s what people pay to see. It’s disgusting and disappointing. Society often ridicules what it does not understand, making it all the more difficult to understand it. If it weren’t for Kate, I still would have a minimal perception of her reality. Hers, and the millions more who suffer this syndrome.
Y’all know me and words. I love words. I love their definitions. I love the words behind the words. “Syndrome” simply means a group of symptoms indicative of a particular condition.
But that’s just it. It’s a syndrome. It’s not her. It’s not her life. I’m saddened with the reality that Tourette’s is often the only thing people notice about those who suffer. It’s not just a momentary tic but the overall stigma, the fear and mockery that go with it. To label anyone in totality with just one description is unfair and incomplete.
I’m just as much to blame as other ignorants; I haven’t tried to give much understanding to it before I met Kate. I’m not good at reaching out when I don’t understand something. I assume they don’t want me to learn more; they want me to leave them alone and act like it doesn’t exist. I don’t want to embarrass the other person, and I’m inadequately prepared to offer what they need.
Not Kate. She’s not afraid to say she has Tourette’s, not afraid to share how misperceptions, prejudices, and even bullying are parts of life she’s had to (but shouldn’t have to) deal with. This morning, her Facebook wall had this post:
Tourette Syndrome
Oh, how this reached me, reached into me. Is it my own discomfort that caused me to be one of those insensitive people? Have I unwittingly made fun of someone else, instead of showing them understanding and acceptance? How often have I walked away instead of choosing to stand firm? What kind of example am I setting if I choose to not promote understanding and acceptance, if I choose to not seek it out myself?
What I know about Kate: she makes ornaments. She sells handmade jewelry (I can’t wait to buy this pair of Christmas Earrings). She’s smart. She contributes more to society than a lot of people. She cares. I mean, she fundamentally cares about all of humanity. And through it all, I’ve never heard her complain.
Even though she has a right to. I asked her about this, and she simply said, “It’s hard to complain when there is always someone worse off. I think seeing others in front of me needing help makes me focus on their needs rather than my own…”
Her post made me face my own demons and insensitive behaviors. Whether it’s someone struggling with Tourette’s, anger management, or just a bad day; how often do I think to myself, “There’s something wrong with them” and “Don’t get involved”.
I can be a selfish person. I don’t want to be. I have my beliefs and assumptions and have let them color how I see people. I like to think I’m sympathetic, but I have far to go. Certainly, I’m not a bully. But I see now I’m far less understanding than I could be. I hold no ill-will toward others, but neither do I step out often to help a stranger.
I want to write so much more about society’s misconceptions, but I’ll leave that up to Kate. I’m ashamed of my lack of support toward others. I’m choosing to make a strong effort to look beneath what I see. To get to know the person, not the behavior. No matter who you are: We all have struggles. Some are just more evident.
My motto should no longer be “Live and Let Live” but rather “Do Unto Others”. When I am hurt, confused, struggling, or misunderstood it means more to me than money to have someone come alongside and walk with me, to share my journeys. I want to be that for Kate, and all those I know.
Is it too soon to make a New Year’s Resolution?
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
For more information, read Kate’s latest Blog post: Is Tourette’s Cursed?
This post is also linked up with Shell at Things I Can’t Say for POUR YOUR HEART OUT
Nov 11, 2012 |
Dot’s Birthday.
My beautiful, talented, shy, generous, gregarious, smart, amazing daughter turns 18 tomorrow. She’s not a baby, not a child. We are celebrating all weekend long with little things. Last night she chose to see the new James Bond movie. Knowing that she doesn’t care as much for Bond as I do. Knowing that there are other movies she also wants to see. She chose Bond.
I bought the tickets and the popcorn (junkfood hangover, anyone?), and we settled in. How fun it is to not be relegated to PG or teen-angst movies. To have her say, “It was so good! I had to keep reminding myself it’s just a movie!” How fun to watch a “grown-up” movie with my Grown-Up Daughter.
Fall.
The winter winds blew old leaves out of my yard this week. I always say that’s God helping me rake the leaves, since I haven’t done it yet. But as I awoke this morning, still in bed I looked out my large window to see a steady rain of yellow and gold leaves whispering their way to the ground.
Dot’s facebook page is full of color as she captured the stunning images of her Grandmother’s Liquid Amber trees a few days ago. This last week of cold and last night’s freeze has brought the sudden onset of toe socks, heavy scarves, and yes… falling leaves.
Dot’s Fall
Veteran’s Day.
I’m so very proud of my Big Brother who served many years in the military. I’m so thankful for those who serve publicly and privately and in ways we will never know. For those behind the scenes, for those kinds of first responders. And for those who keep doing it, year after year after year. Because they do what they do, I can do what I do.
Flag
Christmas.
Driving home from the movie last night, we caught this year’s first glimpse of Christmas lights. Just a block and a half from home. Strands of white “icicle” lighting outlining a roof. How wonderful. How magical.
There’s something so intimate to me about Christmas lights. I can’t explain what it does to me or why. But I adore – no, I need – to see an abundance of Christmas lights this time of year. It’s a public showing that there’s hope. Hope for surprises. Hope for family. Hope for gatherings and happiness and fireplaces and hot cocoa… all the things that make this time of year so incredible. Christmas lights are a public announcement of all things good.
We don’t have outdoor Christmas lights. That’s just not something we’ve been able to get yet. But I still have hope. For surprises. Family. Gatherings. Happiness. Fireplaces. Hot cocoa. And oh, so much more!
Mission Inn’s Festival of Lights, Riverside, CA
[Photo Courtesy Hannah Realy]
When you drive past my house this year
Don’t be dismayed at my lack of holiday cheer.
You may not see it, but it’s here.
In our hearts, in our home.
And we’ll share it with you,
Everyone.
What does this weekend look like for you?
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Nov 10, 2012 |
I saw the new James Bond movie tonight. SKYFALL. Don’t worry, I won’t give away any spoilers.
Have I told you how hard it is for me to watch movies or television? It has to be an exceptionally good program to distract me from my Writer’s Brain that is always trying to rewrite the scenes.
An even better program is one that inspires me to not write. I can often be found scribbling notes in the dark of the theater, but a great movie keeps my eyes, and thoughts, on the screen.
SKYFALL did just that. Only occasionally did I wish theaters offered a Pause or Rewind option, so I could better indulge my senses.
I found myself striving to be one of those writers. Another Ian Fleming. Or Louisa May Alcott. The kind of writer whose story quality you know just from their name. When was the last time you heard “Bond. James Bond.” and didn’t imagine a tall, suave tuxedoed spy ready to tackle any problem – or person – that came at him? Or do you imagine Sherlock Holmes without his hat and pipe?
It can’t be done.
That’s the type of writer I strive to be. One who perhaps writes in a language a bit more romantic and old-fashioned, who can capture scene and emotion and action with one swift pen stroke. Whose characters are endearing, endangered, and extraordinary.
I desire strongly to capture the essence of the world around me, whether it be filled with steel and glass that shatters on impact, or an endless row of cherry blossom trees that lace the river banks with their delicate pink flowers.
When I’m lost in a setting of modern machine guns in exotic countries or strolling through woods of old…
That’s the type of writer I strive to be.
Jo. Molly Jo.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Nov 9, 2012 |
What a different a week makes.
Fridays are quickly becoming my favorite day of the week. This Friday, in particular, is one that I intend to treasure and enjoy.
Two weeks ago I bared my soul to God. One week ago I wrote about it. Today, I’m banking my first paycheck in a year and a half.
It’s small. My first three days’ worth of work. But it’s so much more than that.
It’s a purpose. A taxable contribution to society. A means to an end. I get to socialize, help people, crunch numbers, work with computers, and have a reason to get up in the mornings besides seeing Dot off into the world.
I bought a new dress. And knee boots. I realized, as I donned my new outfit Thursday morning, that I’ve not worn a skirt in three years.
In The Store
I’ve lost a little weight since summer. I wasn’t overweight to begin with, but the few pounds that have dropped have made wearing skirts and short hair more fun. And those boots?! Lemme tell ya, these boots were made for walkin’! [That’s right… I went there.]
I’m walking out of the dark, into the light. I’m walking toward self-sufficiency. I still have a long, rocky, and sometimes very narrow road in front of me. But I’m walking. With a smile on my face. And earned income in my wallet.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Nov 8, 2012 |
Monday it was over 80 degrees and sunny.
Tomorrow night, we’re expecting our first snowfall of the year.
And this is how I know it’ll happen: my left ankle is a barometric indicator. 24 hours before the first snowflake hits the ground, I limp like a gazelle on hot coals.
On my way home from work tonight (boy! That’s fun to say after a year and a half! Let’s say it again!) On my way home from work tonight, Leftie made a statement. A strong statement. And she’s starting to scream.
Welcome to Winter in the Desert.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
