Adult Children of Alcoholics

I am what is known as an ACoA or ACA. Adult Child of Alcoholics. What applies to us is arguably a catch all term for anyone who grew up in an dysfunctional family. On my links, there is a link that can tell you more about the ACA thing. I've been in a few groups. They are 12 step groups similar to the AA model, but with us, the big problem isn't picking up the drink, but learning to drop the baggage and the coping behavior we learned as kids. I quip sometimes that my father was one of the few people whose personality may have been improved by alcoholism. I don't really believe that, but he was a little easier to deal with, because he was in a stupor so much of the time. A more accurate way of describing my father was that he had 2 distinct issues - extreme alcoholism, and extreme mental instability. Without the booze, he still would have been a violent, hateful individual.

I wasn't aware of that when I was a child though. The way my enabling mother described it, he was really a wonderful man, and the alcohol made him what he was, and since I had no memory of anything else, it was easy to believe that. It was just another way of enablers not only excusing addictive behavior, but on top of that, blaming everything else wrong with the person on the addiction.

I've got nothing but the highest respect for people with an addiction that confront their problem. But there are addicts who genuinely like being addicts. Heaven for them is finding an enabler who will support their addiction, emotionally and financially. My old man had his heaven, and it was my hell.

My mother had her alcohol issues also. I was blissfully in denial of that into my adulthood. Because my father's personality was so bizarre and extreme, I associated that with alcoholism. My mother was a more normal personality, so it was so easy for me to be in denial. It's almost like my father unwittingly provided protective camouflage for my mother where her alcoholism, and sometimes abusive behavior was unnoticeable compared to my father's much more extreme behavior.

Mercy, part 1

This is a short story I wrote a while back. Part 1 of it. I'll post some more of the story if anyone sends me email saying they want to read it. My blog has had a few visitors, but I don't know if anyone has actually reading any of my blog. I apologize for the appearance. For some reason, so of the paragraph indentations didn't carry on to the web properly.
AAF

Mercy
A Strange Place, A Strange Time:
10:00 AM Wednesday

Bar-Of-Mail was on the rampage today – that was obvious. It was going to be one of those days when Sister Maureen Carr, known not so affectionately to the students at St. Quentin School as Bar-Of-Mail, was going to devour kids alive, figuratively speaking. Even Calvin Peterson, who was quite inept when in catching ever so subtle social cues, could see what was coming, but none the less, try as he might, he was not destined to steer clear of the nun’s wrath on this day. He had a premonition as such as he waited his turn to read aloud from the weekly reader that had been distributed by the nun. As he silently read along with whoever was reading, he found himself entranced by the article detailing the Apollo space missions planned over the next few years, culminating in trips to the surface of the moon. For the moment, he wasn’t in the class - he was bounding across the surface of the moon, planting Old Glory on its surface.

Sister Carr had been tagged with the moniker of Bar-Of-Mail by her students, because prior to the recent Church reforms that allowed the nuns to reclaim their given names, she had been known as Sister Mary Boromeo. This, of course, was naturally corrupted by the kids into what it sounded like to their twentieth-century American ears. The nickname, “Bar-Of-Mail” was not uttered with affection, or even a feigned contempt. It was spat out with loathing, much in the way front-line combat soldiers tag slurs upon the enemy with whom they dance a never ending waltz of death.

Most of her fifth and sixth grade students did not regard her as a role model whose job was to alternately pat them on the back and step on their toes as needed; they thought of her as “the lady who belonged in the ‘loony bin.’” She was not there to teach lessons of life, rather she was a rite of passage to be endured for a few years, and during that time, to be avoided as much as possible.

All students without exception knew better than to report her conduct to his or her parents. She would deny any abusive acts, and most likely believe her own lies. Naturally, the kid carrying the tale would catch hell from their parents for making things up. “I just knew Junior had to be fabricating that story!” Finally, they would encounter still more flak from the powers at school for spreading false rumors. “How dare you go home and tell your parents all these lies!”

In case students ever allowed Bar-Of-Mail’s intermittent friendly moods to let them forget her true demeanor, she could always be relied on to slip back into her default mode. Her conduct during the first few hours of school on this morning was a reminder of that unpleasant fact.

The day had started ominously enough, when the kids walked into their fifth grade classroom to be greeted by the message, “17-this means you,” scrawled upon the board in large letters. The class was collectively confused by the meaning of this rather cryptic message, but as the students discussed among themselves its possible meaning, they all agreed that it appeared to be anything but friendly. Bar-Of-Mail suddenly stormed into the classroom and started to rant. “Children, do you want to know what this means?” as she pointed to the board. “There are seventeen of you who stand to be sent back to the fourth grade where you belong. You lack the maturity to be in the fifth grade in the care of someone of my stature. Don’t think good grades will protect you. You can get all A’s, and if I say you are a BABY who doesn’t belong here, than you go back to the fourth or maybe even the third grade. Remember what I have told you from day one. The fifth grade is the turning point in your life; it will make you or break you. And you are especially privileged to have someone like me bringing you through these formative years. Now back to our warning. I’m not going to say who the seventeen are. I want you all to squirm. Whoever you are, just one more slip-up, and you will be out of here.”

Everyone in the class, with one exception, knew it was a bunch of bullshit. If someone earned the grades they could not be put back just because the nun had it in for him or her. A kid simply was not going to be tossed back a year based on some whim by a teacher who belonged in a rubber room. The only one who didn’t quite get what was going on was Calvin Peterson. He took her literally, as he was inclined to do in his dealings with people, actually fearing that there was a secret list of those at risk.

All and all, Calvin wished that he didn’t have to have this nun. He could deal with having to live in fear of Sister Dominic, the principal, because he did not have to deal with her on a day-to-day basis, as opposed to Bar-Of-Mail. Although he feared his teacher without respecting her, he still could not quite grasp the full picture. He assumed that she must be a competent individual or she would not be doing the job. Therefore, there must be a logical, or at least a semi-logical reason for this nonsense, thought Calvin to himself. This must be what the fifth grade was all about, sort of a boot camp for ten-year-olds, and it was probably the same in every fifth grade in America. It seemed pointless, but if this is the way that the adults wanted to run things, then to get by, one had to derive the magic formula for getting along. Calvin conjured a mental picture of a sheet on a wall somewhere in the convent. The sheet would be full of merits and demerits, and Bar-Of-Mail would enter red and blue checks beside the names of various class members. Calvin knew that his name probably had more than a few red checks beside it. It surely could not be because of any academic failings on his part, because, he piled up the A’s as if he didn’t know how to do anything else. This stellar performance did not keep him free from Bar-Of-Mail’s wrath though, he always managed to do something add a red mark on the imaginary chart.

On one occasion, she shrieked at him for putting something in the wrong place. On another occasion, upon violating some secret protocol that he was expected to be aware of, Bar-Of-Mail insulted him for turning in a quarter. After knocking it from his hand, she hollered, “You baby, you’re not supposed to give it to me, you’re supposed to ask you neighbors if they lost it!” He envied those who knew all these little things; most must have been aware of these secret rules, because he was one of only a few that was taken to task for these things. Calvin was too naïve to realize that because of his quiet demeanor and academic success, Bar-Of-Mail had to nail him on whatever little she could get, even if it was nothing at all, such as turning in a quarter. (instead of keeping it!) He was different, and in civilization, as in nature, predators go after that which stands out from the herd.

Bar-Of-Mail had kicked off the morning by screaming at a fourth grader visiting the classroom on an errand. He had arrived with some money collected from his class for a school trip that Bar-Of-Mail was organizing. On seeing him, she glanced at him, assuming that he would take that as a signal to toss the money on her desk and leave, as she was too occupied to speak to him. Unfortunately, he was under the impression that when delivering cash that was place in his care, he was supposed to actually give it to someone, instead of leaving it and walking out of the room. When the boy stood like a statue, thinking that she meant she would attend to him in a moment, the nun emitted her best Margaret Hamilton screech, “Puuut it on my deeeeesk and get out of here!” He did precisely that in short order. She followed up this act by playing self-appointed speech therapist to a first grader who arrived with a message from his teacher. He was forced to repeat the message a number of times, as Bar-Of-Mail prompted him to speak the perfectly WASPish style English she had perfected over the years.

Later on, spurred on by God knows what, she gave the students an extended lecture on how they were totally uncultured because of their devotion to contemporary music, and told them they should be listening to classical music as did she. Aside from being an exercise in snobbery, her description of her musical tastes was wrong, because what she actually listened to was “elevator music.” She was unaware of the difference between Mozart and Percy Faith.

By the time that she had passed out the weekly readers, and the students were reading aloud one by one, Bar-Of-Mail’s mood had deteriorated further. She could not refrain from picking on the students, as they failed to read and speak as perfectly as she perceived herself as doing. “Who told you that was pronounced You-ston. The city is pronounced Hoo-ston, Hoo-ston, Texas. It sounds just like it looks!” Yes, Bar-Of-Mail enjoyed displaying her refinement and culture to a captive audience. She also managed to slip in a remark that we probably would never make it to the moon, because if God wanted us to go there, he would have given us wings.

Meanwhile, Calvin had found the article on the moon missions so interesting, that he had become thoroughly engrossed in it, and began to drift ahead of the rest of the class, and so was caught naked when it was his turn to read. “Stupid, it’s your turn to read!” bellowed Bar-Of-Mail.

“Uh, Sister, I sorta got ahead of everyone else. I apologize; it was just so interesting. Could someone so me where I’m supposed to be.”

“You are not even on the right page, Baby #1. Don’t even bother to read. If you can’t stay with the rest of us, then I don’t want you to read. I will tell you this. You are one of those seventeen. You are on the top of the list, and will be one of the first to be put back, and I can’t wait!”

It was just as he feared. He had thought of asking her if he was on the list, but he knew she would tell him that it was none of his business, but in a moment of anger she had let it slip. What was he going to tell his parents when the axe fell?” If he had not been so rattled by the incident, he might have been able to appreciate the irony of the situation. A student that is ahead of others in the class is told that he should be demoted. If he had been behind the others, might that have implied that he should skip a grade?

© Copyright 1998-2008 by AAF --Violators will be turned over to Sister Bar-of-Mail
Part 2 to come

What is this Asperger stuff, anyway?

AS is garnering more publicity these days. It used to be when it was mentioned in the media, it often was distorted, often on purpose rather than carelessness. There are a few extreme conservative commentators who think any sort of psychological disorder are stuff made up by doctors to drum up business for themselves. Rush Limbaugh mocked the very existence of Asperger's Syndrome, and said it was just a bit of bashfulness, and a cure might be for such people to loosen up and go out and have a few drinks. Hmmm. So, he wants these children diagnosed to go out and get drunk? Or for that matter, adults like myself to "solve" my issues. Alcohol didn't solve my parent's problems very well. OK, but what is Asperger's? If you've been attracted to a blog with this name, you probably know, but here are some links that can explain it much better than I.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Asperger_syndrome
www.udel.edu/bkirby/asperger/

Why not PTSD and Fries, or ACoA and Fries?

Hello all. I was diagnosed as AS in the fall of 1996. I was 37. I was just about walking dead at the time. I had serious depression and anxiety issues since I was young, all a result of some serious abuse, which I will write about more in due course. In due course - nice 50 cent phrase -- Buckley used to use that on Firing Line. I'm not as smart as him, but I've got smarter political views. :-)

I didn't have any coverage, so I was seen by a psychiatry resident at a local mental hospital. So, I was a guinea pig for training the doctors. I hoped for the best on this. I did pretty well. He wasn't some kid. The good doctor has had years of experience as a counselor, and had decided to further himself.

I was a high school drop-out, but quite well read, having acquired a decent knowledge base. I saw the symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in myself. Some ten years earlier, I had read a book called "The Wound of War," written by Herbert Hendin, and Ann Pollinger Hass and realized that much of what I was read described me But I had never been in a war, or even served in the military. So, how could that be? It suddenly occurred to me that my childhood had been a battlefield. I had been presented with my own cornucopia of horrors as a kid, and thought, to myself "shit, no wonder I feel the way I do." I always knew my childhood was shit, but, up to then, I had never really thought about it in detail. But some understanding of the crazy stuff going on in my head was the first step, but I still couldn't bring myself to get professional help.

When I did, in 1995, after a few sessions, the shrink diagnosed me as social phobic. I politely told him he was wrong, wrong and wrong. Shortly after, in sessions, he started asking me a lot of questions that I considered offbeat. Asked me if I had any hobbies when I was young. I told him about my childhood fascination with insects. He asked me about if I found it easy to make friends as a child. I later found what he was up to. He was starting to suspect I was Asperger. He probably would not have stumbled on to this had he not been in training to be a child psychiatrist. In his residency, he had to deal with adult patients, also, which is how I ended up dealing with a child psychiatrist. He told me about Asperger's, which I had heard of from a 60 minutes piece, and that's about all I knew about it. He also decided that I indeed has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and in addition to that, major depression, and generalized anxiety disorder NOS. An interesting witches brew there.

So, I could call this blog, Depression and Fries, or Anxiety and Fries. But depression and anxiety are something that I have. They don't define me. I could call this Adult Child of Alcoholics and fries - but ACOA is simply a description of my upbringing. But Asperger Syndrome is something I am. I don't mean I expect the world to take notice and adjust themselves to my quirks. Being a good Vulcan, I've tried to adapt to this planet, and I've learned to fit in pretty well with the Earth folks. I've really come to like most of them. They are not Klingons like my father, my sister, and some of the teachers I had in Catholic School. But not matter how much improvement I make in the little social nuances, I'll always be Asperger, and my world view will be Aspergian. I will write about many things on this blog. Most of my posts will be something other than Asperger related, most likely. But, the depression and other stuff, they are just the fries, an Aspergian I am.
AAF

Who is this AAF, anyway.

I prefer not to use my real name to preserve my privacy. I'm not paranoid about the whole world plotting against me. I'm more concerned about potential employers googling me and being offended by something I've written. If somebody is a good internet sleuth, they could probably find out who I am, and I'm not worried about that. It's some perspective employer blackballing me about something negative I might have said about golden parachutes or Indian outsourcing or George Bush or the like. So, my pseudonym is AAF - Asperger and Fries.

Google Avenue Freeze-Out

Welcome to my new blog. I started the blog Sunday, but didn't get a chance to post anything at the time. Yesterday, I get a mail from Google telling me my blog has been temporarily frozen beause it was suspected of being a spam site. Spam? There was nothing about Nigerian lotteries, or bigger penises, or working from home. There wasn't even anything about that semi-edible canned meat. In fact there wasn't anything. Maybe that was the problem. Because nothing was immediately posted, it looked suspicious. Or maybe the aspergerandfries string appeared to spam catching software to be random characters, a red flag. Anyway, Google sent me an email informing me of this, along with some links to appeal my status. Basically, all I had to is click the link saying I wanted a human being to review this, and fill out one of those Kapture boxes to prove I was a human being and not a spam bot. They never emailed me back to tell me I was out of jail, but I can now access the site and update it, so I guess I'm legal. It's really a nuisance, but at least Google is doing something about spam.