This post may not be popular but I feel the need to get it off my chest. I am hurt and disgusted and I just have to say my peace because I am so angry that I can't see straight.
I don't write this as a minority. I have been unfairly judged for my hair color, my sex, and my disability but never because of the color of my skin. So, I wont pretend that I know what that is like. I do not. I am not writing this as someone who judges others because I don't, except in this case. No, I am writing because I am a mother...of a twelve year old boy.
We have become a country afraid....so afraid of stigmas, bias, and discrimination that we have killed in the name of fear. We have been so riddled with fear that we have lost all of our common sense and in many cases, our compassion. Fear makes us do stupid things like suspend a seven year old for eating a poptart into the shape of a gun, threatening an eight year old for drawing a ninja Halloween costume at school with suspension, and punishing a five year old girl with suspension and a forced psychiatric examination for threatening to shoot another student with a Hello Kitty bubble gun that shoots...bubbles.
And last year, what can only be described as asinine behavior by adults, turned fatal.
When I look at a picture of Tamir Rice, I see a happy, normal, typical boy. I see my son because I am a mother and all of our children are equal. All children are precious. He is was the same as my son. He was in the same grade. He seemed silly, and goofy, and intelligent like all twelve year old's are. No, they are not the same race and but I don't see race. I see someone's child. I see someone's baby.
Tamir Rice was a twelve year old boy who was given a toy gun by a friend to play with. He did what many kids would do, he went to a park and played with it. For that, he was gunned down by a police officer. It took two seconds from the time the officer pulled up until the officer opened fire on a twelve year old boy. His fourteen year old sister was wrestled to the ground and arrested for running towards her fatally injured brother and his mother was threatened with arrest if she didn't calm down when told. Tamir laid on the pavement in his local park in a pool of his own blood for four minutes before he was helped. He received no first aid by the police officers. He received treatment from an FBI agent that happened to be in the area. Apparently, his size was menacing at 5'7" and 191 lbs. Menacing enough that the armed police officer feared for his life from a boy armed with a toy. I suppose now, if your child has a growth spurt it can be used as an excuse to shoot them by substandard police officers....and they will be backed by the city that employs them.
It hurts to see the video. It was even more hurtful to hear what the city's attorneys of Cleveland Ohio said today about the shooting/murder of Tamir Rice.
Tamir and his family “were directly and proximately caused by their own acts. . .,” and they added that Tamir caused his own death “by the failure. . . to exercise due care to avoid injury.”
Later on the mayor apologized saying, "In an attempt to protect all of our defenses we used words and we phrased things in such a way that was very insensitive, very insensitive to the tragedy in general, the family and the victim in particular, So we are apologizing today as the city of Cleveland to the family of Tamir Rice and to the citizens of the city of Cleveland for our poor use of words and our insensitivity in the use of those words."
So as a mother of a twelve year old, I just want to say this....a twelve year old is a child. They are not held responsible if they drink, the person that gives it to them is. They are not held responsible if they are given drugs, the drug dealer is. They are not held responsible if they accidentally burn themselves on the stove. They are not old enough to consent to sexual activities, go to a bar, buy a pack of cigarettes, or drive a car. They are not put in the adult justice system if they are offenders because they are juveniles. If you fail to provide food, shelter, or adequate care for a twelve year old, they are taken away. They are not permitted to call the school and call in sick, a parent has to do that. They are not allowed to get a job, live on their own, buy certain video games without their parent's consent, or even see movies rated higher than PG13 without their parents in a movie theater. Hell, you have to sign a freaking permission slip for them to go on a freaking field trip for chrissakes, because they are too young to give permission on where the school takes them. They are not held responsible because at twelve years old they are not responsible....they are children.
He was being immature and "irresponsible", according to the city of Cleveland, because that is what kids do. Just like we did when we were kids. Most people in this country have played cops and robbers, or have made a poptart into a gun, or for God's sake pointed their finger like one when they were small. It's normal. What is not normal is being gunned down and then accused of being responsible for your own death because you did what all kids do. And I think adults have forgotten that. I think adults have forgotten what they were like at twelve years old.
My twelve year old is smart, funny, sarcastic, and brilliant. He is a great kid but he does stupid things, sometimes. And he does that because, like all twelve year old's, his brain has not yet fully developed enough to understand the ramifications and all of the consequences for his actions. But you know who does understand all of the ramifications and consequences? The guy that shot Tamir in the chest and claimed that he was a big twenty something year old black male. The guy who lied about the shooting. The guy who failed to protect and serve a twelve year old boy and ended up killing him instead.
If it wasn't horrible enough that an innocent child was shot because of a toy, to purposely and willfully not offer first aid to a dying child for whatever the reason, is completely unacceptable. Period.
I am not against the police. There are some great police officers out there. This is not about the decent hardworking police officers who do their job. This is about those who do not. As for the city attorneys and mayor, there is no apology you could give that would make what has happened, right. There is nothing that can be said that would bring Tamir back or erase the pain that his family will face for the rest of their lives. But if you were to give one, it might help to not bother to apologize about the wording some asshat lawyer made about responsibility and apologize for the death of the beautiful young man who had done nothing wrong but was failed in every way by the people that were supposed to keep him safe. Failed by the police officer that swore to serve and protect him. Failed by the justice system that excused his murder. Failed by the city that refuses to accept responsibility for his death and then failed again by the city trying to put what was their fault onto an innocent, unarmed boy. Because Tamir didn't kill himself he was killed by a police officer and there is a difference.
I do not accept the apology of the mayor of Cleveland. Such drivel is back tracking and covering up what appears to be the unequivocal stupidity of a group of people that can not seem to understand the difference between a child's life and an adult's decisions. I hear a lot of police officers say that at the end of the day they want to go home to their families and I get it, but maybe Tamir wanted to go home to his family that night too. And sadly, they both could have if the officer had not decided to shoot first and ask questions later. Yes, the gun looked real but even the 911 caller said he thought it was fake. There was not an orange tip on the end but the police officer didn't even know that because the toy gun was in Tamir's waist band. Even if there was an orange tip he would not have known until he pulled the toy out of the boy's pants as he lay there dying. Tamir was not given a chance to explain. He, much like the poptart kid, was judged guilty by an adult and punished on only the merit that something looked like a gun, except this time that judgment came with a death sentence.
For the mayor to say that the attorney's words were "insensitive" is ridiculous. What they said was hurtful, smug, ignorant, arrogant, and shameful. Insensitive is when you bump into somebody and forget to say "excuse me". Blaming the victim is not "insensitive" it is inexcusable.
And you would think that of all the education the attorneys and mayor and city "higher ups" had to get where they are today, they would have more sense than God gave a gnat to understand that. But what do they care, Tamir wasn't their son.
To accept this behavior is folly. Tamir isn't my son and yet he is. As is the poptart kid, the kids that made legos into guns and got in trouble at preschool. So is the girl with the bubble gun and the kid drawing Halloween costumes in class. These are all of our children. To accept such horrendous behavior and consequences and lack of responsibility based on our fear is dangerous, not to mention wrong. The city should care because Tamir is their son. He is all of our sons and he did not deserve to be mowed down in a hail of bullets on a freaking playground and there is nothing that can be said or misconstrued to change that fact. To accept the way he died and the lack of responsibility taken by those that killed him is the same as saying that you accept this happening to every child. Because he...was...just...a...child. He was twelve.
Neurotic Nelly
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
105
I did everything right. It's the one thing I can absolutely say I did everything right on in my whole life. Both pregnancies I stayed on the gestational diabetes diet and never cheated. When my first quack doctor told me to check my blood sugar six times a day even though I was only borderline with gestational diabetes with my first baby, I did it. I stabbed myself in the fingers six times a day with the blood sugar meter, I affectionately call it the finger torture machine. I drank only water and tea. I quit smoking. I walked a mile a day because my mother told me that it would make childbirth easier on me. I went to every appointment and did everything the doctors suggested and told me to do. I put soft music in my headphones and placed it on my belly because I had read somewhere the babies can hear it. I stayed away from alcohol going so far as to not even eat food if it were cooked with it. No sushi, no medicine, nothing. I even refused to take nausea medicine when I had morning sickness unless it was approved by my doctor. I did everything in my power to make healthy babies, smart babies, safe babies. I did everything right.
My husband is handsome, smart, handy, and kind. He is considerate, loves to read, loves history and Egypt, can cook, and he is completely and beautifully normal. I thought that when I had my children surely his genes would be more dominant. His normal genes had to trump my withered poisonous mentally diseased genes. My kids surely had a 50/50 chance of not having OCD right? I mean my mother had three kids and I am the only one with OCD. Sure, my siblings have other mental illness issues but they do not have OCD. Let them be smart and creative like their father. Let them be strong and brave like their father. Let them be normal like their father. Just please don't let them be like me. Please don't be like me. Please don't be like me. Please don't be like me.
It started with my oldest child around two. He would line up his crayons by color. Not too unusual but I just thought maybe it was due to quirkiness. My oldest is brilliant and could read by the age of four. The age of four was also when I realized my son was not quirky. He has OCD. I tried to glaze over it and I hoped and prayed my illness would go away from him. That it would just cease and not plague him with the guilt and shame that has plagued me all of my life. My mother had bought me a pair of shoes exactly like hers. My oldest son was bothered by me wearing them. They were Nana's shoes and he would get highly upset if I wore them. No amount of talking to him or explaining that they were not Nana's actual shoes but ones exactly the same would calm him. I had to put them in the closet and never wear them in his presence. It's hard to describe how I knew this was OCD except that I have had OCD since I was four and I have a deep understanding of it and how it works. I can spot it anywhere. Kind of like OCD radar if you will. He seemed to be exactly like me in a lot of ways. He is smart, funny, and over sensitive. I know my child and I know OCD. I can't explain it except that a mother knows when here child is suffering. I just knew. To me it was obvious. However, I felt that maybe it would just drop off or be a very slight case and all would be okay.
Last year at the age of nine I started to discuss with him a little about OCD. I told him that I have it and if he ever had upsetting or unwanted/scary thoughts he could tell me because I would never judge him. That I have them too and therefore I would understand. We are very open and honest and I love that we have a very strong bond and we can talk about anything. I learned how to be that way because my mother was that way with me and I thank her everyday for being that way with me. She saved my life by being there for me with OCD and I have no illusions of what my life would have been like if she hadn't been my mother. Three months ago my son confided in me that he has intrusive thoughts. He didn't know what they were but I did. We are in the process of finding him a therapist. I felt like I was kicked in the stomach. God, please why my children? I wanted to scream. Please don't let him hurt like me. Please don't let him feel the guilt of the thoughts and images he can not control like me.
Last night, I sat alone on my porch at three in the morning. I listened to the crickets chirping and the air conditioner fan buzzing and I wept. I silently sobbed for an hour and a half. I had accepted that my oldest was like me even with everything I have tried to do to prevent it. I accepted it but I was not ready for last night.
My six year old is all elbows and knobby knees with his two front teeth missing. I have seen the signs in him as well. He washes his feet more than I wash my hands. He is very particular about his bed being made....ect. He was getting ready for bed. He accidentally cut his gum with a straw. No big deal, but his reaction was. He was afraid to go to sleep. When I asked him why he said because he didn't want to bleed to death in his sleep. He didn't want to die. It wasn't just the statement that got me, it was the fear in his voice and the tears in his eyes. Again I failed. He is also just like me. After explaining to him that he was just fine and was not going to die he looked at me and asked if I was going to leave him. When was I going to die? I was flashed back to 1985 and my bedroom obsessing over these same questions. Crying to my mother and being so terrified that I would be left alone. That she would die. That I would die. Anxiety and fear pulsing through my veins. God, help me how did they both end up like me? I did the only thing I could do. I reverted to what my mother used to say to me that worked for my six year old brain. My mother would tell me that I would not die until I was 105. That she too would live to be 105. Anytime the death fear plagued me I would say under my breath, I am not going to die until I am 105. It helped me. It worked for me and so I told him the same thing. He nodded off to sleep with old tears rolling down his face and peaceful smile on his face. Because he thinks I know everything. Because I understand what is going on. Because the 105 worked. Until next time and the next obsession comes.
And so as I sat there alone on my porch, I wept. I wept for the frustration of the whole mess. I wept because I know the things that will go through their heads. I wept for the guilt I am afraid they will carry with them like I do. I wept because no one wants to see their children in pain. I wept because I do not have the option to glaze over what OCD is like. I have no illusions on how devastating this illness is. I know on an intimate level how OCD mentally abuses you. I wept for the hard road they are both going to have to go down. I wept for the injustice of it. I wept for the stigma they will face. I wept for the judgments others will throw at them. I wept because I am sad. I wept because I am angry. I wept because I felt emotionally eviscerated. I wept because I feel gutted. I raged in my head and blamed myself. After all, the poison from my family tree ran from my veins to theirs. And even though I know it is not my fault, not really, I can't help but feel like when I was doing everything right I missed something. I have somehow failed them.
They are not doomed to be like me. There are people with OCD that lead perfectly normal lives. There are people that go to school, college, and work. Just because I can not does not mean they will suffer the same fate. They are brilliant, sweet, funny, little boys. They are so much like their father in that way. There are therapies and help now, unlike when I was younger. I know that they are going to be happy and productive men when they grow up. It will be hard but I know that they can do it and I will be there every step of the way to encourage them. I will be there to pick them up if they fall. I will be there to talk to and understand all of the OCD issues and all that entails. I will be there to hold them when they need it and let them go out into the world when they are ready. I am a mother first, it's my job.
So when people talk about my blogs and they say they wish they had courage to speak up like I do, the are misjudging what I am doing for bravery. I am not brave, I am a mother. I want the world to see my children as the amazing wonderful people they are and not judge them because they have OCD. So I have to stand up. I have to speak, not for me because I can handle the snide remarks and negative comments. I have to stand up for my children. I have to try to change the world's views on mental illness because one day they will stand where I am standing. I want them to be able to hold their heads high and feel good about themselves. I want them to have self worth and positive self esteem. I have to stand up because they deserve better treatment options, better representation, and better understanding from others. I don't just choose to speak up and put myself out there, I have no choice. I am their mother and I only have until I am 105.
Neurotic Nelly
My husband is handsome, smart, handy, and kind. He is considerate, loves to read, loves history and Egypt, can cook, and he is completely and beautifully normal. I thought that when I had my children surely his genes would be more dominant. His normal genes had to trump my withered poisonous mentally diseased genes. My kids surely had a 50/50 chance of not having OCD right? I mean my mother had three kids and I am the only one with OCD. Sure, my siblings have other mental illness issues but they do not have OCD. Let them be smart and creative like their father. Let them be strong and brave like their father. Let them be normal like their father. Just please don't let them be like me. Please don't be like me. Please don't be like me. Please don't be like me.
It started with my oldest child around two. He would line up his crayons by color. Not too unusual but I just thought maybe it was due to quirkiness. My oldest is brilliant and could read by the age of four. The age of four was also when I realized my son was not quirky. He has OCD. I tried to glaze over it and I hoped and prayed my illness would go away from him. That it would just cease and not plague him with the guilt and shame that has plagued me all of my life. My mother had bought me a pair of shoes exactly like hers. My oldest son was bothered by me wearing them. They were Nana's shoes and he would get highly upset if I wore them. No amount of talking to him or explaining that they were not Nana's actual shoes but ones exactly the same would calm him. I had to put them in the closet and never wear them in his presence. It's hard to describe how I knew this was OCD except that I have had OCD since I was four and I have a deep understanding of it and how it works. I can spot it anywhere. Kind of like OCD radar if you will. He seemed to be exactly like me in a lot of ways. He is smart, funny, and over sensitive. I know my child and I know OCD. I can't explain it except that a mother knows when here child is suffering. I just knew. To me it was obvious. However, I felt that maybe it would just drop off or be a very slight case and all would be okay.
Last year at the age of nine I started to discuss with him a little about OCD. I told him that I have it and if he ever had upsetting or unwanted/scary thoughts he could tell me because I would never judge him. That I have them too and therefore I would understand. We are very open and honest and I love that we have a very strong bond and we can talk about anything. I learned how to be that way because my mother was that way with me and I thank her everyday for being that way with me. She saved my life by being there for me with OCD and I have no illusions of what my life would have been like if she hadn't been my mother. Three months ago my son confided in me that he has intrusive thoughts. He didn't know what they were but I did. We are in the process of finding him a therapist. I felt like I was kicked in the stomach. God, please why my children? I wanted to scream. Please don't let him hurt like me. Please don't let him feel the guilt of the thoughts and images he can not control like me.
Last night, I sat alone on my porch at three in the morning. I listened to the crickets chirping and the air conditioner fan buzzing and I wept. I silently sobbed for an hour and a half. I had accepted that my oldest was like me even with everything I have tried to do to prevent it. I accepted it but I was not ready for last night.
My six year old is all elbows and knobby knees with his two front teeth missing. I have seen the signs in him as well. He washes his feet more than I wash my hands. He is very particular about his bed being made....ect. He was getting ready for bed. He accidentally cut his gum with a straw. No big deal, but his reaction was. He was afraid to go to sleep. When I asked him why he said because he didn't want to bleed to death in his sleep. He didn't want to die. It wasn't just the statement that got me, it was the fear in his voice and the tears in his eyes. Again I failed. He is also just like me. After explaining to him that he was just fine and was not going to die he looked at me and asked if I was going to leave him. When was I going to die? I was flashed back to 1985 and my bedroom obsessing over these same questions. Crying to my mother and being so terrified that I would be left alone. That she would die. That I would die. Anxiety and fear pulsing through my veins. God, help me how did they both end up like me? I did the only thing I could do. I reverted to what my mother used to say to me that worked for my six year old brain. My mother would tell me that I would not die until I was 105. That she too would live to be 105. Anytime the death fear plagued me I would say under my breath, I am not going to die until I am 105. It helped me. It worked for me and so I told him the same thing. He nodded off to sleep with old tears rolling down his face and peaceful smile on his face. Because he thinks I know everything. Because I understand what is going on. Because the 105 worked. Until next time and the next obsession comes.
And so as I sat there alone on my porch, I wept. I wept for the frustration of the whole mess. I wept because I know the things that will go through their heads. I wept for the guilt I am afraid they will carry with them like I do. I wept because no one wants to see their children in pain. I wept because I do not have the option to glaze over what OCD is like. I have no illusions on how devastating this illness is. I know on an intimate level how OCD mentally abuses you. I wept for the hard road they are both going to have to go down. I wept for the injustice of it. I wept for the stigma they will face. I wept for the judgments others will throw at them. I wept because I am sad. I wept because I am angry. I wept because I felt emotionally eviscerated. I wept because I feel gutted. I raged in my head and blamed myself. After all, the poison from my family tree ran from my veins to theirs. And even though I know it is not my fault, not really, I can't help but feel like when I was doing everything right I missed something. I have somehow failed them.
They are not doomed to be like me. There are people with OCD that lead perfectly normal lives. There are people that go to school, college, and work. Just because I can not does not mean they will suffer the same fate. They are brilliant, sweet, funny, little boys. They are so much like their father in that way. There are therapies and help now, unlike when I was younger. I know that they are going to be happy and productive men when they grow up. It will be hard but I know that they can do it and I will be there every step of the way to encourage them. I will be there to pick them up if they fall. I will be there to talk to and understand all of the OCD issues and all that entails. I will be there to hold them when they need it and let them go out into the world when they are ready. I am a mother first, it's my job.
So when people talk about my blogs and they say they wish they had courage to speak up like I do, the are misjudging what I am doing for bravery. I am not brave, I am a mother. I want the world to see my children as the amazing wonderful people they are and not judge them because they have OCD. So I have to stand up. I have to speak, not for me because I can handle the snide remarks and negative comments. I have to stand up for my children. I have to try to change the world's views on mental illness because one day they will stand where I am standing. I want them to be able to hold their heads high and feel good about themselves. I want them to have self worth and positive self esteem. I have to stand up because they deserve better treatment options, better representation, and better understanding from others. I don't just choose to speak up and put myself out there, I have no choice. I am their mother and I only have until I am 105.
Neurotic Nelly
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