Seuss

A few months ago, I said two phrases in the same sentence to my GP that one should never say to a doctor.  “Frequent, sharp headaches” and “short-term memory issues.”  In 10 minutes, I had an appointment for an MRI and a referral to a neurologist.  The neurologist pretty promptly ruled out any type of early onset dementia, but said he suspected ADD, so he referred me to a neuropsychologist who did a battery of tests on me and decreed that my memory issues were due to A) sleep issues (as in, I wasn’t), B) some somatic issues, C) fibromyalgia, and D)…I’m really not trying to be funny when I say I can’t remember D, but I honestly don’t remember what D was.  He also made some off the cuff comment that I did better on most of the tests than even he could, and he knows all the answers, but, you know, if I wanted a copy of my results, I was welcome to send in my application for Mensa.

At which I laughed.  Loudly. Guffawed, really.

When I was in second grade, I tested as gifted.  An IQ number was given to my mother, but she would never tell me what it was – I just didn’t need to know.  At 35, after a quietly spoken number cut through my laughter, I sat there slackjawed.  The neuropsychologist also said that, while my tests didn’t indicate any signs of ADD, those tests were typically unreliable on gifted people.  My self-report, however, one of those fill-in-the-bubble type tests that took two hours of consciously forcing myself to be honest and own up to what I see as shortcomings, was a strong indicator for ADD, so he was very comfortable making that diagnosis.

A couple of days ago, a friend of mine, RainJelly, posted a link to Tales of an Absent-Minded Superhero on Facebook.  I liked the page, and noted the name of the book the page’s author, Stacey Turis, had written titled Here’s to Not Catching Our Hair on Fire: An Absent-Minded Tale of Life with Giftedness and Attention Deficit – Oh Look! A Chicken! (which is a completely awesome title for a book on SO MANY LEVELS!).

Hooray, Stacey Turis!

I’ve talked before about some of my troubles with an odd kind of shyness and what I thought was behind my own personal quirks.  But there are bits of this book that just…woah.  That’s ME!  See, Stacey refers to herself as “twice-exceptional,” meaning she has that dual diagnosis of giftedness and ADD.  So far, it is absolutely shocking to my system to hear someone else put into such fitting words what I have felt for years.  For example:

When I’m not at 100 percent mentally or emotionally and unable to block things out, I also pick up on feelings that aren’t directed toward me, but to another person, thought, or idea, which sucks because I can’t distinguish between any of them. I’m like a radar gun picking up every wave in my range. Beep. Beep. Beep. As you can imagine, I basically walk in a world of constantly thinking, “What’s wrong with so-and-so? Did I do something to blah, blah, blah?”

But here was the kicker.  For, right here, in this one big long paragraph (which I’m breaking into bits on my own for ease of reading), is ME, all summed up:

I’ve always felt misunderstood. Though I was never at a loss for friends, I was always told I was weird, which I was totally OK with. Weird is a compliment, I think. I just didn’t really understand what people thought was weird about me. It could have something to do with the following, but I’ll let you be the judge of that.

Thanks to my two gifts, I have a tendency to be anxious and depressed. I’m completely overtaken by the moods of others. I procrastinate. I can’t pay bills or keep track of finances, and I have no emotional ties to money.

I don’t put effort into relationships, except for those with people who have grown to accept me and don’t try to change me. I don’t bond easily with most people. I constantly stress myself out trying to help everyone except myself. I feel a connection with nature in my bones, but almost to the point of pain. I get in a funk where I feel dead inside. I’m easily overwhelmed. I don’t like to be touched. The sound of a telephone makes me want to put my fist through a wall.

I have a horrendous temper and can snap but then forget about it five seconds later. I have horrible word recall. I often forget what I’m talking about midsentence and have to ask the dreaded, “Uh…what were we talking about?” I don’t pay attention to getting to my destination when I drive and have ended up in the wrong state more than once.

I love animals so much it can be painful, and I have the chips in my teeth from grinding them to prove it. I’m emotionally and physically affected by the sadness and heartbreak of others.

I can barely sit still to watch TV, except for It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia or my favorite paranormal show, Destination Truth. (Call me, Josh Gates. Your show is my new dream job!) Unfortunately, I never remember what day or time they’re on, so, thank you, DVR! Overhead lights bother me. A ceiling fan on my skin makes me crazy. Strong odors can make me throw up.

I can’t make casual conversation on the phone; there has to be a purpose, such as scheduling. “What time do ya want to meet? Two o’clock? OK, bye.” I sometimes don’t understand people if they speak too fast, and then I have to read their lips, which can be awkward for everyone involved. I can’t maintain eye contact during a conversation, and if I try to, I feel like my eyes are going to pop out of my head. According to my hubby, I “have no regard for safety.” There’s more…a lot more, actually, but I think I’ll let you discover some for yourself. A girl has to stay somewhat mysterious, you know!

99.5% of that is me.  Except for me, ceiling fans and strong odors = the feel and odor of newspaper, Destination Truth and It’s Always Sunny = Bones and currently Ghost Adventurers, and my dark funks aren’t nearly as dark as hers appear to be (then again, as you read the book, you start to figure out where her dark place comes from).

I’m four chapters in and, already, I’m so glad I have found this book.  Because it’s always nice to know there’s someone out there like you, no matter how weird, quirky, exceptional, anxious, depressed, scatterbrained, and awkward you are.  It’s also nice to see what you’ve felt for so many years be put into the words you’ve never quite been able to find.

Earl is rapidly nearing the end of second grade.

Pardon me whilst I die of old age and wonder where the hell the past 7 years, 8 months, 8 days have gone.

I had a conference with her teacher yesterday. Nothing major – just an overly cautious mama. That happens when one struggles with reading and comprehension all through school until 10th grade when finally an eye doctor realizes, WAIT! It’s a muscle issue stemming from how I taught myself to read when I was barely 4! So here, have two years of vision therapy, and YAY now I love reading.

(Earl LOVES reading. That’s not the issue. It’s that she’s my child which means her brain goes 3 million miles a minute, and she hasn’t quite found a way to prioritize all that info floating around up there.  What can I say?  It’s an art? {shrug})

Anyway, as I left the conference, a happy little bounce in my step, I couldn’t help but think of how Earl’s second grade teacher reminds me so much of the outstanding teachers I had in elementary school. I, honestly, was blessed with amazing, incredible, inspiring teachers in those first seven years. They looked for my strengths and made them stronger. They looked for my weaknesses and encouraged them into strengths. And after that conference yesterday, I was elated that Earl had a teacher so much like those I still love to this day.

By sheer coincidence, when I got home, there was an online article from our hometown paper in my inbox from my mother. Seems they were celebrating my old principal’s birthday and honoring him and his outstanding career in education. I looked at the picture and nearly sobbed.

He wasn’t surrounded by the teachers of today, no. He was surrounded by my teachers. Those incredible strong women (and man) who played such a huge role in my formative years flanked him at the celebration. I immediately emailed the paper for a higher resolution, larger photo.  They sent it to me this morning, and I squealed.  Yes, I’m fangirling over my elementary school teachers.  I am a sentimental geek, what can I say?

From left to right:

I had Mrs. May in 5th grade.  She’s just come down from teaching 6th, and I had no idea what to expect from her.  She called me out regularly on my laziness.  We had to do a daily journal, and half of my entries read “Hi. Bye.”  After about 2 weeks of this, she never chastised me, but she jotted a note in my journal one day: “I need more unless you’re telling me about a great shopping experience.”  My lesson from her?  Using your words can be therapeutic.  It can see you through the bad times and help you remember the good times.

Mrs. Butler was my main 4th grade teacher.  We had other teachers come in for social studies and science that year – I think she taught reading and English in their classes, maybe.  I remember I was in her class when I got my first pair of glasses – little gold frames with tiny Smurfette’s on the earpieces.  She fostered my love of math, introduced me to the “Witch Mountain” movies, and I will never forget the gentle, factual way she handled it when one of our classmates was diagnosed with epilepsy.  She was no-nonsense, but patient with diversity, and stern with doubt.  “You can; do it,” I remember her saying.

Mrs. Hilliard.  Oh, my word, Jan Hilliard.  I could never say enough.  She was my kindergarten teacher, and I was in one of her early classes.  I swear, that was, egad, 30 years ago and she hasn’t aged a day!  When I had Mrs. Hilliard, the kindergarten was actually in a different building in town, and I remember the room was enormous.  She did everything within her power to foster my love for reading, even through my struggles, which weren’t as apparent at that age.  I remember stories told using a felt board and a bunch of island animals.  I remember her honest delight as we all learned to count to 100 and mastered tying our shoes.  She convinced me no matter how impatient I was to learn cursive, it would have to wait.  I remember nap times and warm hugs and her always open arms and ears.  I loved her dearly.  I find myself looking for an email address for her frequently, convinced that if I could just sit down and have lunch with her now, these days, she could be a friend and such a great resource for helping me with Earl’s challenges.  The last time I remember seeing her, though, was after I graduated high school.  I stopped back by my old elementary school, as I did periodically to say hello.  The kindergarten had since moved into a new addition to that building.  I was nearly knocked over when she told me, “You really need to apply to Boston College.  They have one of the best writing programs in the country, and you need to write.;”  I was too chicken.  I wish I’d have listened.

Mr. Ingram was our principal.  He knew my dad (everyone in town, I think, knew my dad).  He was always ruffling my hair, high fiving all the kids, rooting us on.  Mr. Ingram was also quite the prankster.  I remember one day during lunch, he dumped a cup of ice down the back of my shirt (he frequently gave me a harder time because, like I said, he knew my dad).  I squealed and jumped up and around, laughing the whole time while Mrs. Hester, the lunch monitor, bellowed for everyone to “Get it quiet!”  Even Mr. Ingram listened when she bellowed like that, cowering like a scolded student, a twinkle in his eye.  It only made me love him more.  Don’t get me wrong, he could flat out straighten up a wayward student, but we all knew he considered us like his own.  (Happy birthday, Mr. Ingram!  You always seemed a lot older to me than you apparently were when I was walking your hallowed halls!)

Mrs. Elkins is another I could go on all day about.  I actually found her on Facebook and sent her a note just as Earl started first grade about how high she had set the bar (who knows if she got it).  I had Cathy Elkins for first grade, when I remember her playing “Flight of the Bumblebee” for us on the record player.  That was also the year three quarters of my class was out at the same time with chicken pox.  I remember her catching me counting on my fingers, my hands sneakily hiding in my desk, during a math test.  Finger counting was absolutely taboo at that time, and when she realized I had already finished the test, she asked me what I was doing.  “Checking my work,” I whispered.  That earned a note home to my mother about my perfectionism and how she saw that as one of my greatest challenges.  Good call, Mrs. Elkins.  Good call.

Third grade, though – that’s a year I remember with Mrs. Elkins.  (See, she gets two paragraphs because I had her twice)  That was a big year.  I’ll never forget sitting two desks away from the TV watching Challenger take off, then explode.  That’s also the first year I think I started seeing teachers as actual people.  To this day, when I see pink and grey together, I think of her.  I know she had a thing for Tom Selleck; I remember vividly her telling us that during reading time, the only reasons we were to disturb her were “if the building is on fire or Tom Selleck is at the door.”  She was the first teacher who ever put my name on the board (gave me a demerit, of sorts).  Most infamously, though, on a bad day while she was trying to teach us cursive, walking around the classroom and making sure our papers were turned just right, she stopped beside my desk, readjusted my paper for the umpteenth time that day, crossed her arms, and sighed.  “It doesn’t matter to me which hand you pick, just pick one and stick with it,” she fussed softly.  I’d been writing with my right hand for a while and it was tired, so I settled on my left.  Years later, when her daughter heard that story, she went back in a huff.  “MOM!  You RUINED the only real ambidextrous person I’ve ever known!”  To me, it’s always been a funny little story, though.  Writing left handed has served me well, and it’s mighty handy (no pun intended) when I can throw someone off by doing something, like putt or bat, switch.  The way I see it, Mrs. Elkins taught me to be unexpectedly unique.

(Hey, look!  A break!  Because I never had Ms. Alford, nor do I know who she is!  Although if she’s standing there with that crew, I’m sure she’s damn good at whatever she does.)

Mrs. Yates was the science teacher that came in during fourth grade.  She was the “cool” fourth grade teacher to have, and I was always jealous of her class.  While Mrs. Butler was very English-oriented, Mrs. Yates was very Science-oriented, and I love science.  They always did the cool stuff in that class.  The little time I got to have her as a teacher though, I remember her as fall-out-of-your-chair funny and delightfully perky.  She was a creative teacher, who found interesting ways to engage us with science.  I really adored Mrs. Butler, but I will admit to always having an eensy-bit of bitterness I didn’t get Mrs. Yates.

Mr. Walker was another teacher I didn’t have, but I knew of him well.  I had Mrs. Bain for sixth grade, but Mr. Walker also taught sixth grade, was the assistant-principal, and was the known disciplinarian of the school.  When the paddle came out, he was the one usually wielding it.  (Yes, kids, when you got in trouble at school back in the day, you got beat.  With a paddle with holes in it.  And most of the parents were totally cool with that.) He was feared and respected, but when I got to sixth grade and finally got to interact with him, he was a way cool guy (and a very good piano tuner on the side).  He was strict, yes, but funny and exuberant.  Despite the paddle, he was the “popular” sixth grade teacher, the one all the kids wanted.  While I was sad when I didn’t get him at first, Kathy Bain was actually the far better fit for me personally, but that doesn’t lessen my respect for Mr. Walker.  He was, as were all the teachers at North Lee, outstanding.

I can only hope and pray that Earl ends up with teachers who can even come close to those with which I was blessed.  Her teacher this year is close.  About as close as one can get, especially through the eyes of sentimentality.  I just hope that, years down the road, Earl still appreciates her the way I still appreciate my elementary school teachers.

(And to any of the teachers I’ve written about here, on the off chance they may read this and even possibly remember me, I would LOVE to hear from you!  Honestly, you all played such an integral role in shaping me and fostering my still-insatiable love for learning.  I could never thank any of you enough.)

Last night, I went with a best pal to see Wicked in it’s current touring run at Blumenthal PAC in Charlotte. It was the first of three days this week I’ll be sitting in those seats, doing my best to keep from belting screeching out every word of every song loud enough to drown out the orchestra.

I was lucky. The first time I saw Wicked was on Broadway with Stephanie J. Block (@StephanieJBlock) as Elphaba. (And before she pipes up, yes, RainJelly, I know you saw Kristen Chenoweth (@KChenoweth) and Idina Menzel (@IdinaMenzel) in the Original Broadway Cast. Shut it.) It was 2007, and we were on a family trip to NYC. My brother and his fam, my sister and hers, my steps – all of us decided to go see this show we’d heard was a must-see. I’d seen a clip of it on Today a bit before, so it’s possible I was a bit more insistent than anyone else.

From Elphaba’s final note in “The Wizard and I,” I was hooked. By the end of the show, when my niece and I were poking each other and chuckling at my poor nephew (who was, what, 9? 10?) who was SOBBING (it was sweet!), I was absolutely in LOVE.

New York, Atlanta, Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte. Last night was my 7th time seeing it.

Hi, my name is Seuss, and I’m a Wicked addict.

There. I said it. Now that we have that out in the open, I must say the best part of seeing Wicked three times this week? Every time, I get to take someone who has never seen it before.  And while this isn’t the best cast I’ve ever seen by a long shot, YAY ME!

See, there’s something about Wicked that resonates me.  I’m sure it’s the same thing that resonates with so many others.  It’s a story of two people whose paths cross.  They butt heads.  They help each other.  They decide to go their separate ways.  Yet they leave an indelible mark on each other.

Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better, but, because I knew you, I have been changed for good.

That line, that song, the chord it strikes.  At one point, in that not-so-subtle-but-not-too-ostentatious Broadway manner, the conjunction is changed from but to and, the import simultaneously title-casing the last two words of the song.  You haven’t just changed me forever, you’ve changed me For Good.  You’ve made me better.

We all have those people in our lives – both types.  Some have merely (or perhaps merely isn’t the right word) changed us forever.  Others have changed us for the better.

For me, there was the one big but: a teacher who forever altered the way I trust, who manipulated my self-worth, tore down my identity. I adored her at the time, but as time passed, the scars reddened and turned keloid, deepened, and were completely unignorable.  She was definitely a but.  One or two ‘t’s.  Your pick.

But I’ve been lucky.  There have been so many more ands.

There was a group I became friends with in college, an assorted, varied group of generally-well-behaved misfits.  We loved each other, we hated each other, we were wonderful and horrible to each other.  That whole group taught me the value of authenticity.  They taught me by over-exposure that drama simply isn’t worth it.  They set me on the path of rebuilding from The But(t).

There’s the high school friend who called me “Hitler” when we first met in the theatre (I don’t care what she says, that’s how it was, and it makes for a good story, so pipe down, Sabes), who was by my side through my dealings with The But(t).  Our up and down journey is worthy of its own book or seven, but the lessons she has taught me about strength and courage and diversity and dealing with it all, those especially…you have no idea.

But there was one friend in particular who came to mind the first time I saw Wicked.  On our own twisty yellow-brick road, we clung to each other, fought with each other, vehemently defended each other, then came to a falling out so momentous that we both had to put more than physical distance between ourselves.  We had to put distance from our friendship – years of distance – to really see the value of it all.  To see the beautiful patterns of the indelible marks we left on each other.  Despite all the hell we went through, all the hell we put each other through, we did change each other for the better.  And we changed each other for good.

Every time I see Wicked, I see something new.  Every time I go, I’m reminded of another memory.  It’s just an emotionally satisfying, brilliant show on so many levels.  I (obviously) cannot get enough.  Now, if you’ll pardon me, I must go run errands.  Head’s up, folks in the ‘hood:  That bouncing hip hop bass accompanied by owl-like screeching as I reach for the high notes will be me defying eardrums and gravity simultaneously.

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I totally couldn’t work it into the entry, but if you’ve seen Wicked or if you’re a KChen fan, you MUST watch this bootleg of Kristen Chenoweth’s last “Popular,” in which she ad-libs. A lot. Hee!

So yesterday, there was this ladybug, and Earl and her best friend down the street got into a fight over said ladybug, and there was wrestling and tussling, and somehow Earl ended up with a tweaked wrist. Now, Earl is a stoic. She may be ultradramatic when something first happens, but then squirrel! and she’s all better.

Well, this morning, she had come down from playing a couple of times complaining that it was bothering her. Great. She’s just started softball and I only yesterday signed her up to start gymnastics this week. Being a massage therapist, I poked around on it and realized she was in real, actual pain. TechPapa and I debated a bit, then I grabbed Earl and headed off to the orthopedic urgent care to have it looked at.

She’s fine, but there’s some possible damage to the growth plate, so the doctor recommended being pretty aggressive with treatment. Allow me to introduce you to “Fuscia” because she doesn’t like the word “cast.” My child is weird.

My child, weaponized.

As soon as we left the UC, I called the other mother to reassure her that there were no hard feelings and we were not upset, that it was nothing major. She was distraught and kept apologizing, saying she didn’t understand, because he didn’t play like that with the other kids.

All I could do was try to swallow my laugh.

See, my best friend growing up was a boy. And we had a total love/hate relationship.

We were both only children, JC and I, and we viewed each other as brother and sister. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t do horrible, awful things to each other. I got a broken foot. We took turns tying each other up, and absolutely meaning it, in his treehouse (and, let me tell you, I ALWAYS got out. He? Never. Ha!). I even once in a fit of insane anger threw a plastic pitchfork at JC and hit him just below the eye, subsequently getting my tail ripped to shreds by who knows how many parents between mine and his.

We traveled together, we played together, we fought together. We bodyslammed each other and wrestled and roughhoused. There’s no point even trying to tally the bruises and contusions and injuries we inflicted on each other. We mercilessly made fun of each other. I ran off girlfriends, and he ran off boyfriends. But somehow, we survived.

And when I didn’t have a date for prom, despite the fact that he was living in South Carolina at the time and I lived in Tennessee, I called him, told him he WOULD take me, and he did. Kicking and screaming and refusing to cut the godawful hair, but he went.

Back when I thought I was Marilyn and he thought he was a Rock God.

Somehow, despite everything, we are still dear friends. We don’t see each other often, but now, we and our spouses are friends. And he adores Earl. He never wanted kids of his own, but Earl? He’s wrapped around that kid’s finger.

The point being, to this day, despite the beatings and ropings and fights and spats and tussles over things I’m sure were equally as insignificant as ladybugs, we survived. Which is why I laughed inside when my neighbor lamented that she just didn’t understand why her son was so rough with Earl. I assured her Earl was just as much an instigator as he was, and that, really, it was fine. I understand.

Trust me. I understand. No, they’re not nearly as close as JC and I were, and I don’t think they’ll ever be attached at the hip, but there’s just about the same age distance between them as there was between us. They’re going to tussle. They will throwdown. They’ll hurt each other. But, hopefully, they’ll get over it. And if the worst we have to show for it is a hot pink cast Fuscia, then I’ll be a happy camper.