All my life, I’ve wondered what the fuck is wrong with me. I’m curious and reflective by nature, and relentless about trying to figure shit out.

I find it amazing that other people aren’t consumed by questions about their own psyche but I accept that most people are focused on other matters. Good for them.

Me, I know I’m fucked up. Chronically depressed is one way for me to understand why I’m always sad, tired, hopeless, and easily annoyed. But it isn’t enough. There is also a complete lack of will to do anything useful.

As a teenager, I was thrilled to discover the term neurasthenic. What a romantic-sounding Victorian condition, and one that seemed to cover all my bases. I could think of myself lying on a velvet fainting couch, one pale arm dangling listlessly toward the floor. Neurotic doesn’t sound as appealing. That goes double for Fibromyalgia.

So imagine my excitement at discovering a WHOLE NEW DIAGNOSIS that doesn’t even exist yet in the US. Ready? It’s called PDA, or Pathological Demand Avoidance. It’s considered “a behaviour profile within the autism spectrum.”

Those who present with this particular diagnostic profile are driven to avoid everyday demands and expectations to an extreme extent. This demand avoidant behaviour is rooted in an anxiety-based need to be in control.

Well, I wouldn’t have thought of myself as autistic, but the description feels so right, so resonant, so me:

• • resists and avoids the ordinary demands of life
  • uses social strategies as part of avoidance, eg distracting, giving excuses
  • appears sociable, but lacks understanding
  • experiences excessive mood swings and impulsivity
  • appears comfortable in role play and pretence
  • displays obsessive behaviour that is often focused on other people.

Furthermore, “People with this profile can appear controlling and dominating, especially when they feel anxious. However, they can also be enigmatic and charming when they feel secure and in control. It’s important to acknowledge that these people have a hidden disability. ”

Godammit! I have a fucking disability! I would like one of those things for my car. I want everyone to know that IT’S NOT MY FAULT. Instead of regarding myself as the laziest person on earth, or some kind of incurable renegade, I can explain my entire life with PDA.

It’s the reason I didn’t go to high school, didn’t learn a trade or profession, didn’t want to apply for any job unless it was absolutely imperative, and managed to get fired from nearly every one of them. It’s a feeling of NO, I WON’T that is underlaid with a profound sense of BECAUSE I CAN’T.

PDA diagnoses are split equally between the sexes, unlike other ASD’s. Maybe having a Girlie Brain is another feature of PDA, for all I know. Or maybe it has helped me to work around it.

When we look at our own behavior, or the behavior of others, we tend to see it through a particular lens. If we don’t believe in psychology or genetics, we label rude people as assholes. We can label reclusive people “unsociable”. If you’re in Al-Anon, you view people as “enablers” or Co-dependent. Using a lens informed by a wider understanding, you might suspect that someone is autistic, or bi-polar, or suffering from social anxiety. The more you know about brain science and genetics, the more you can appreciate the complexities of personality and behavior.

Just as we know that Donald Trump is a monumental cunt, we understand that he is driven by pathological neediness and insecurity. It doesn’t help us, but it’s just good to know.

Now I’m relieved to know (i.e., believe) that I’m not a lazy underachieving piece of shit, but rather a poor thing with a Disability. So there, haters.

Thoughts, arguments, or counter-diagnoses?

After decades of glasses and contact lenses, I got the news that I had cataracts.

Naturally I was horrified, imagining life as a blind old lady, stumbling around and crying out in a weak little bird squawk.

Instead, I learned that I could have the cataracts removed and replaced by tiny lenses that would improve my vision to nearly 20-20! Jesus Christ! Why don’t people go around praying for cataracts?!? Without contact lenses, my vision was 20-700, meaning I couldn’t see my own feet, let alone anything else.

I’m not brave about surgery, not at all. The word is fraught with dread and unpleasant flashbacks to past injuries. But the idea of seeing clearly was like discovering I could fly. I was eager to do it. Until the actual week of the first surgery. Then I freaked out.

Want to hear about the surgery? Probably not, right? So skip this part. You go to the surgery place and they put you in a room until your boredom creates a kind of stupor. Then, they stick a needle in your arm for an IV. They put your hair in a cap and ask a bunch of questions. The nurses are all perky and happy to talk about nail polish and tattoos. So then you relax. Then they wheel you into the operating room and start the opiates.

You tell the anesthesiologist that you’re not stoned enough. He says, “Well, this is as stoned as you’re gonna get,” in a bossy tone. But he holds your hand.

Then, they transfer you to another table and fit a thing over your eye that keeps it open.

You know what, I’ll stop there, in case you’re thinking of having eye surgery. I don’t want you to worry about how disturbing it is.

But when it’s all over, it’s fantastic! They tell you how great it went and you go home with a bunch of eye drops, and in a few weeks, you go back to do the other eye.

Seeing is so incredible, I can’t really describe it. When I leave the house, it’s like I’m taking my eyes out to see the world. The detail! The colors! I had no idea how bright my own face is. It’s magical.

When I wake up, I can see the clock! I can see all the ships in the harbor across the street, instead of just a big harbory blob.

I plan to take my eyes to LACMA. I also plan to wear a ton of eye make-up.

I should point out that this procedure isn’t cheap. It’s so costly, in fact, that I’ve decided I have to keep living for at lest two years, to offset the expense, sort of. Otherwise, my family will go, “After spending all that money?!?”

So if you were worrying about me, relax. Until 2019, anyway.

Kelli Stapleton is in jail without bond, for the attempted murder of her daughter Issy.

Kelli has documented her challenges as Issy’s mom in a blog called ‘The Status Woe.’ Issy is a lovely blonde 14 year old who is autistic. I’m not sure about Issy’s complete diagnosis but clearly the main problem has been her aggression. And her aggression is aimed primarily at her mother.

Kelli has been hospitalized twice following attacks by her daughter. Watch the video above to see what it looks like when there is an aggressive outburst.

Last week, Issy came home from 20 days at a treatment center whose complete program was too costly for her family to afford. They were hopeful about a new behavioral plan for Issy. But it didn’t work out.

Kelli managed to get her daughter into the family van, and then tried to kill herself and Issy via carbon monoxide poisoning. When they were found, both were unconscious. Kelli recovered quickly but Issy remained in a coma. Issy’s prognosis was not good.

But miraculously, Issy has recovered without brain damage.

Now what?

Is Kelli a monster? Is murdering your child ever anything but a capital crime and a mortal sin? Is sympathizing with Kelli tantamount to approving her actions? Should Issy’s parents have kept her at home, despite the obvious inherent danger? What if you love your child and can’t bear to have them institutionalized?

Isn’t the attempted murder of a disabled person the same as the attempted murder of any person? If not, why not?

Can you forgive Kelli?

I want to know what you think.

Oh god, President Obama made a joke comparing his bowling ineptitude to the Special Olympics. Big deal! Now we have to hear everyone talking shit about it, not only people like Mrs. Palin but normal people, too!

This sanctimonious PC shit has gone too far. Disabled, challenged, whatever, but we need to be allowed to have a sense of humor! Mr. Obama was mocking himself, as his tone clearly indicated. People who compete in the Special Olympics can watch the interview and decide whether to feel insulted. Everyone else should just shut up.

There are so many things to get mad about, why must people always focus on the wrong things? Every time I’m near a TV, I hear someone yelling about AIG and executive bonuses. It’s caused an uproar unlike anything I’ve seen in years.

Big fucking deal about the bonuses, what about the fact that we’ve destroyed Iraq and caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people FOR NO REASON?! Where was all this righteous anger during the last seven years?!

Here’s something you can get mad about instead. According to the Associated Press, this man is accused of having sex with a dog and a horse.

I don’t like his expression, and I don’t like his do-it-yourself haircut. But I suspect this story is a hoax and here’s why: ” A 13-year-old girl said she saw Coppes with her Anatolian shepherd. Coppes is also charged with abusing the girl’s small Palomino horse.” The words Anatolian and Palomino are the tip-off, right? If it is a hoax, you heard it here first!

And going back to Mrs Palin, as one does, let us ponder this: Alaska is only now considering whether to make bestiality a crime. Good call, Alaska! While you’re at it, remember that aerial hunting isn’t nice either.

Has everyone already heard about the giant inflatable turd by “artist” Paul McCarthy that was blown away from its moorings at a Swiss museum and knocked down a power line before breaking some windows at a children’s home? The turd, entitled Complex Shit, is the size of a house.   Here is a description of the show, at the Paul Klee centre:

“interweaving, diverse, not to say conflictive emphases and a broad spectrum of items to form a dynamic exchange of parallel and self-eclipsing spatial and temporal zones”.

Whatever you say, pal.

While we’re talking shit (double entendre!) Rachel Zoe is featured in Bazaar magazine, with a photo-shopped image of her as a size 8, next to her real self, a size zero.   Ms. Zoe says “Are you kidding me?” several times in the short interview, which will help you understand why she’s so well hated, if this is still news to you.

Finally, Ben Stiller’s new movie, Tropic Thunder.   Disability Rights groups are up in arms about the movie’s use of the word “retard,” including a slogan that is already available on a t-shirt.     I admit I hate Ben Stiller, so he doesn’t have to   do anything but keep breathing to make me mad. And yet, now I’m more mad.

The word retard is a pejorative term that hurts those who are least able to defend themselves. In the same way that we now know not to say “Fatty!” when we walk by an overweight person, we can all learn not to use “retard” in connection with a person who seems slow, autistic, has Down Syndrome, etc.

Ben Stiller and Dreamworks want you to feel that those who are boycotting the movie are a bunch of fussbudgets with no sense of humor.   In fact, they are people who know the challenges already out there for people with disabilities or special needs.

My special need is for Ben Stiller to leave the planet, or at least retire.

In this new reality show, eight women with “differing disabilities” will compete before a panel of judges to prove they have what it takes to be a mainstream model.

Huh?

Is there something wrong with me or is there something wrong with this premise for a show?

On the one hand, I support the disability rights movement. On the other, I’m squeamish about any fetishistic appreciation of the disabled. It feels like exploitation to me, even when the disabled person is so willingly seeking the attention. One of the contestants on the show will be Debbi, who has recently posed for Playboy and says she’s met more men since she lost her arm than before. Here’s Debbi.

This whole thing is making me feel like a cunt for not celebrating the moxie or whatever it is that drives these disabled women. They’re kind of pissing me off, in fact. It’s like, I’m missing a toenail, so why don’t I try to be a foot model? Or, My voice has a limited range, so why don’t I compete to sing opera?

No, those are bad analogies. And that guy who “needs” to be paralyzed is going to be mad at me again.

Can anyone help me to articulate what is wrong with this show? Or if not that, what’s wrong with me?*

*No saying It’s because I’m a cunt, since I’ve already admitted it a million times.