To hell with anything sacred. Rather than tackle something safe, I'm again going to try to tackle the other narrative I hold to be sacred and true. Which is going to be damned hard to do, because I'm not already questioning it. Here goes:
Fact: I could trust Tex whenever I was on him.
Truth: For all I like to pretend that everything was perfect, there were moments where I was terrified to be on him. Mostly earlier on, but, they existed. A couple of times, he sort of ran away with me, and I had to run him into a fence. Stopping was always a dicey proposition, especially bareback, because he does this weird thing where he tries to deccelerate, and ends up flailing about with his legs for a bit. (Note: I'll be jumping around with tenses a bit, trying to convey the state where he's not mine, and he's still alive.) I fell off him no fewer than six, more likely 8-10 times. Some were my fault, but once he took off, once he stopped in front of a jump...some were definitely his fault.
That said, I want to question whether the narrative is true that I became able to trust him more, or whether those last few days, and that last ride, bareback, with one lead rope going to his halter, and no helmet, was as much a profound statement of trust as it was a display to prove to myself that this was special, or a subconscious desire to crash and burn.
In a way, I was putting myself in harm's way, doing things we were always bad at, like bareback, without any bit (he only did well with contact on the bit, and it was absolutely necessary to stop him), and while not wearing a helmet, which I'd always been told to do, but I'm not sure whether it was a grand gesture to reassure myself that this narrative I've always built up, where I could trust Tex no matter what, was real, or whether it was a way of tempting fate to prove me wrong. Ultimately, though, I think the two desires are intertwined. By tempting the fates, I was testing, proving to myself that this was real, and not an imagined connection. (The fact that I didn't wear a helmet throws in a sort of morbid element to the test, a sort of statement that I would be nothing without this particular fairytale.)
Fact: Tex loves green grapes.
Truth: A couple of times, he actually got excited about eating grapes. It wasn't that he ever dislikes treats, and being fed them is never a bad thing. He does get excited about carrots sometimes, too.
I really remember the grapes because it was special, and unique, and not something you think of feeding a horse. But he did kind of mellow out about them after a while. And I forget that.
Fact: I always treated Tex with the utmost respect.
Truth: I was far from perfect. I hit him occasionally, usually with good reason. But not consistently.
He nips occasionally, and sometimes I'd slap him for it. Sometimes I'd just let it go. Sometimes I'd blow up in his face, but not hit him. Sometimes I'd outright hit him for it.
To be clear, all of those are valid training strategies, if you're consistent. If you do the same thing every time the horse nips, and it fixes the problem, and it's not something that causes physical damage to the horse (Trust me, my bare hands couldn't do that.), it's a more-or-less valid strategy. But the key is consistency. And I wasn't consistent. Nor does hitting him necessarily suggest respect.
When we did groundwork, I was a long way from respectful. When he was too close, or moving crooked, I would slap his nose with the loose end of the reins. I didn't have much patience or tolerance there.
In retrospect, Tex was a damn good first horse for me. In reality, he's still a damn good horse, period. And someday I'm going to take apart this fairytale more, I think, but it's not ready to unravel just yet. I can't really get into tearing it apart. It doesn't feel cleansing, like the others, it just feels like I'm needlessly tearing out part of myself.
So don't consider this one dealt with. I'm not ready to pull it apart just yet.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Monday, February 28, 2011
Fairytales of a Childhood That Never Was, Part II
This one is a bit rougher, and more personal, or at least even more emotionally fragile for me, than Part I. For certain privacy reasons, this one's harder to get at, but is for some reason I have a reader I don't know about, you can leave a comment, and I'll get back to you with a copy of it, or an explanation as to why, such as "I know you, and you'll get butthurt."
But I will give you all the following notes:
1. Expect more of these. Upcoming themes include my relationship with my father, my weight, and the role of class in my childhood.
2. Cliffsnotes of Part II:
Fact: I hated dolls.
Fact: I've always had issues with being seen in certain ways.
Fact: The Kentucky Incident was prompted by an internal need.
Truth: All three are misrepresented by the narrative I wish I could establish.
But I will give you all the following notes:
1. Expect more of these. Upcoming themes include my relationship with my father, my weight, and the role of class in my childhood.
2. Cliffsnotes of Part II:
Fact: I hated dolls.
Fact: I've always had issues with being seen in certain ways.
Fact: The Kentucky Incident was prompted by an internal need.
Truth: All three are misrepresented by the narrative I wish I could establish.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Fairytales of a Childhood That Never Was, Episode 1
(Consider this the first in a series of posts that may or may not appear. As I stress out about prelims and shit, I find it oddly cathartic to go back and question everything I ever knew about my own childhood. Up first: My history with depression.)
Today, I came to the sudden conclusion that my timelines are all fucked up. And I may never be able to sort them out in any meaningful way. I'm going to talk about my history of depression again, because in a lot of ways, I'm trying to figure it out. For a while, the narrative was simple, easy, undeniable. I was depressed for years, I went on antidepressants, and I stopped being depressed.
That was a story I liked to tell because it was easy and comfortable. It never really happened like that. I could state dates, but they all get tangled up into a mess. I can't remember any more which dates go with which years, and sometimes I put them together in different orders. And the fact is, the when I put them together in some ways, they make more narrative sense than others, but I'm not really sure that's how it pans out. But I'm going to try, and I'm going to be as honest as I can.
Fact: In Third Grade, I started having panic attacks.
Truth: I wasn't fine and normal up until third grade. The first time I went hysterical, that I remember, was in first grade, I think. I read one of those books designed to scare kids away from playing with matches. At least, that's what I've been told. The book scared me, and they had to call one of my parents to pick me up from school. Maybe the fact that I was so easily scared had a connection. Or the reading. That's another common thread that gets patched into my narrative. Keep your eyes out.
Furthermore, I don't remember having panic attacks. I remember a couple of times I was scared, generally in the same circumstances to the incident in first grade. I read something or saw something that scared me so badly a parent had to come pick me up, or maybe it just lingered scared in my mind. Either way, something happened. But I don't know what to accept anymore.
My narrative likes to link these to the start of my depression, as well as my grandmother's death. Both of these are a lie. I'm not sure I can point to any particular moment as me being depressed. What I was was different. I don't recall being happier in first and second grade, or even in kindergarten and preschool. I was always an outsider, and always kind of off. But again, my memory could be lying. But both were definitely not linked, no matter how I'd like to be able to remember them. The 'panic attacks' took place early in the school year. My grandmother died on christmas day. That much is true. I'm not sure how they'd connect to each other.
Fact: I was depressed without treatment for 3 years.
Truth: I don't know if it was three years. I can't remember when I went on antidepressants. I don't specifically remember the timeline in here, but I did see a few counselors. It didn't really help. I think I went on antidepressants in 6th grade, but I can't be sure. You see, I remember them having an effect within a few days, but I can't remember what it was. And I remember the spring as being when I got Tex, but I don't know when the Zoloft relates in there. Maybe it wasn't until after 6th grade, but I remember it, as well as my asperger's diagnosis, taking place before that. I really don't know, which makes me question.
I couldn't have been 100% depressed all the time, throughout 3 years. Something must have made me happy. You can't live for 3 years without any kind of joy, right? I like to paint it that way, like I lived in books so I wouldn't have time to think about suicide, but I did other things. I learned other things. And maybe that's why I couldn't remember the change.
Maybe I wasn't depressed at all. Except I sort of remember being depressed, but that could just be a lie I've constructed. Like, maybe I wasn't looking for that. You see, it really got better, I really remember being happy, in high school, with the cabal. Maybe I was just some outcast kid who didn't belong, and they seized on the idea of depression because it might have fit. Maybe the only way my medication worked was as a placebo. And in suppressing sex drive. That's a hard version of the story to take, though, because I fundamentally remember thinking about suicide, but in this kind of involuntary, side-along way. But never intellectually, never in a gut, might-act-on-it-cause-it-seems-like-a-good-idea way. More in a way where suicide was nothing but a song stuck in my head. Which sucked, don't get me wrong, but I'm not sure it was depression.
Fact: Zoloft worked perfectly for me.
Truth: My dosage had to be increased a few times. The first was during elementary or middle school, when it seemed to not quite be working. Like, I'd get a stray thought here and there of suicide, so up the dosage went.
The second was in, I believe, my freshman year of high school. Other narratives of my life, like the one in 4-H, run more poetically if it is, but it could have been sophomore year, too. Maybe even Junior. There was a crappy little pissing match the county hippology, and a crappy fight with my father on the way home, and then I walked outside barefoot in the snow, went back to the upstairs bathroom and cut myself. Opened a whole nasty can of worms, and most of it was freaking out because I'd actually like sliced myself open, and not because I honestly planned to do it again. My dosage doubled after that, because something was wrong with me because I was freaking the hell out because I did something stupid. Also, because I went and sliced myself open, but I'm still kind of kicking scared old me for needing my medication increased because I was freaking out like a normal person would be, instead of going along with it.
That's three facts I've disassembled, and it's taken a while. Analyzing it is still kind of hard, because I'm still piecing together a puzzle I've lost half the pieces to. But I'll let you know if I every find a concrete truth.
Today, I came to the sudden conclusion that my timelines are all fucked up. And I may never be able to sort them out in any meaningful way. I'm going to talk about my history of depression again, because in a lot of ways, I'm trying to figure it out. For a while, the narrative was simple, easy, undeniable. I was depressed for years, I went on antidepressants, and I stopped being depressed.
That was a story I liked to tell because it was easy and comfortable. It never really happened like that. I could state dates, but they all get tangled up into a mess. I can't remember any more which dates go with which years, and sometimes I put them together in different orders. And the fact is, the when I put them together in some ways, they make more narrative sense than others, but I'm not really sure that's how it pans out. But I'm going to try, and I'm going to be as honest as I can.
Fact: In Third Grade, I started having panic attacks.
Truth: I wasn't fine and normal up until third grade. The first time I went hysterical, that I remember, was in first grade, I think. I read one of those books designed to scare kids away from playing with matches. At least, that's what I've been told. The book scared me, and they had to call one of my parents to pick me up from school. Maybe the fact that I was so easily scared had a connection. Or the reading. That's another common thread that gets patched into my narrative. Keep your eyes out.
Furthermore, I don't remember having panic attacks. I remember a couple of times I was scared, generally in the same circumstances to the incident in first grade. I read something or saw something that scared me so badly a parent had to come pick me up, or maybe it just lingered scared in my mind. Either way, something happened. But I don't know what to accept anymore.
My narrative likes to link these to the start of my depression, as well as my grandmother's death. Both of these are a lie. I'm not sure I can point to any particular moment as me being depressed. What I was was different. I don't recall being happier in first and second grade, or even in kindergarten and preschool. I was always an outsider, and always kind of off. But again, my memory could be lying. But both were definitely not linked, no matter how I'd like to be able to remember them. The 'panic attacks' took place early in the school year. My grandmother died on christmas day. That much is true. I'm not sure how they'd connect to each other.
Fact: I was depressed without treatment for 3 years.
Truth: I don't know if it was three years. I can't remember when I went on antidepressants. I don't specifically remember the timeline in here, but I did see a few counselors. It didn't really help. I think I went on antidepressants in 6th grade, but I can't be sure. You see, I remember them having an effect within a few days, but I can't remember what it was. And I remember the spring as being when I got Tex, but I don't know when the Zoloft relates in there. Maybe it wasn't until after 6th grade, but I remember it, as well as my asperger's diagnosis, taking place before that. I really don't know, which makes me question.
I couldn't have been 100% depressed all the time, throughout 3 years. Something must have made me happy. You can't live for 3 years without any kind of joy, right? I like to paint it that way, like I lived in books so I wouldn't have time to think about suicide, but I did other things. I learned other things. And maybe that's why I couldn't remember the change.
Maybe I wasn't depressed at all. Except I sort of remember being depressed, but that could just be a lie I've constructed. Like, maybe I wasn't looking for that. You see, it really got better, I really remember being happy, in high school, with the cabal. Maybe I was just some outcast kid who didn't belong, and they seized on the idea of depression because it might have fit. Maybe the only way my medication worked was as a placebo. And in suppressing sex drive. That's a hard version of the story to take, though, because I fundamentally remember thinking about suicide, but in this kind of involuntary, side-along way. But never intellectually, never in a gut, might-act-on-it-cause-it-seems-like-a-good-idea way. More in a way where suicide was nothing but a song stuck in my head. Which sucked, don't get me wrong, but I'm not sure it was depression.
Fact: Zoloft worked perfectly for me.
Truth: My dosage had to be increased a few times. The first was during elementary or middle school, when it seemed to not quite be working. Like, I'd get a stray thought here and there of suicide, so up the dosage went.
The second was in, I believe, my freshman year of high school. Other narratives of my life, like the one in 4-H, run more poetically if it is, but it could have been sophomore year, too. Maybe even Junior. There was a crappy little pissing match the county hippology, and a crappy fight with my father on the way home, and then I walked outside barefoot in the snow, went back to the upstairs bathroom and cut myself. Opened a whole nasty can of worms, and most of it was freaking out because I'd actually like sliced myself open, and not because I honestly planned to do it again. My dosage doubled after that, because something was wrong with me because I was freaking the hell out because I did something stupid. Also, because I went and sliced myself open, but I'm still kind of kicking scared old me for needing my medication increased because I was freaking out like a normal person would be, instead of going along with it.
That's three facts I've disassembled, and it's taken a while. Analyzing it is still kind of hard, because I'm still piecing together a puzzle I've lost half the pieces to. But I'll let you know if I every find a concrete truth.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Anti- Adolescence
My peoples...some of you already know this. If I'm going to be pessimistic, all of you already know this. But anyways.
I went on an antidepressant when I was ten or eleven. I don't regret this. I don't think I ever will; you see, I'm pretty much convinced that those antidepressants, at that moment in time, saved my life. I was coping with suicidal thoughts by reading 24/7, could no longer go to sleep with the lights on, and needed my mother to read in q corner of my room when I fell asleep. It wasn't good.
For years, it was pretty good. In terms of psych drugs, it was perfect. I only needed one drug, the first one they tried worked, and any side effects were really minimal.
It was only in the past few years, as I started reading more broadly, including sexuality texts, that I began to reconstruct a very different version of events. After I went off my antidepressants, I realized how much of this was correct.
You see, SSRIs, the class of antidepressants mine came from have two notable side effects that no one considered when I went on them, or ever bothered to tell me: they can reduce sex drive and make it more difficult to achieve orgasm.
Reflect back on your own adolescence. Imagine going back and pulling out your sex drive. Think about how it would be different. Maybe you would have liked it. Maybe you would have hated it. I'm actually unsure specifically how it would have changed my life. But either way, I experienced my adolescence in a fundamentally different way than I would have without antidepressants, and I would have liked to have known it at the time.
How should it have been done? Probably not by telling me at age 10, but at a reasonable age, when I'm undergoing puberty. Maybe in middle school, when I got my period? I should definitely have been told by high school. Not that I would have chosen differently, but because I should have been aware of it.
I went on an antidepressant when I was ten or eleven. I don't regret this. I don't think I ever will; you see, I'm pretty much convinced that those antidepressants, at that moment in time, saved my life. I was coping with suicidal thoughts by reading 24/7, could no longer go to sleep with the lights on, and needed my mother to read in q corner of my room when I fell asleep. It wasn't good.
For years, it was pretty good. In terms of psych drugs, it was perfect. I only needed one drug, the first one they tried worked, and any side effects were really minimal.
It was only in the past few years, as I started reading more broadly, including sexuality texts, that I began to reconstruct a very different version of events. After I went off my antidepressants, I realized how much of this was correct.
You see, SSRIs, the class of antidepressants mine came from have two notable side effects that no one considered when I went on them, or ever bothered to tell me: they can reduce sex drive and make it more difficult to achieve orgasm.
Reflect back on your own adolescence. Imagine going back and pulling out your sex drive. Think about how it would be different. Maybe you would have liked it. Maybe you would have hated it. I'm actually unsure specifically how it would have changed my life. But either way, I experienced my adolescence in a fundamentally different way than I would have without antidepressants, and I would have liked to have known it at the time.
How should it have been done? Probably not by telling me at age 10, but at a reasonable age, when I'm undergoing puberty. Maybe in middle school, when I got my period? I should definitely have been told by high school. Not that I would have chosen differently, but because I should have been aware of it.
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