After reading about Maria and her six year old, Bella, I felt enraged. I am furious that a public school has been able to get away with this for almost an entire school year. I am incensed that young Bella was “punished” for exercising her Constitutional right while whoever was getting the kids ready for lunch was breaking the law. Yes, anything Unconstitutional is illegal and the worst part is the perpetrator of this particular crime was doing such to innocent, impressionable children. Punishing a child not involved in the law breaking hardly seems fair, but this entire debacle is one big mess candy coated with religion.

You can check out the full story on Maria’s blog at http://www.icanonlybe.me. However, in short, the event that occurred at Eastern Wayne Elementary in the Wayne County School District (North Carolina), involved daily recitation of a prayer before the kids were to go to lunch. These children were led in a prayer familiar to most of us raised Christian, “God is Great, God is Good…” What some may dismiss as just a harmless incident holds tragic implications for those who do not practice Christianity or even those that do, who prefer to be the ones to introduce their young children to the God they believe in.

This is a public school. Prayer is not allowed in a taxpayer and government funded institution such as this. Maria, a taxpayer and an atheist, pays for these teachers to be in this school. She does not pay for her child to go to a school to learn about a God that her daughter knows nothing about nor one she (Maria) does not believe in. If a teacher were leading a prayer based on Islam, Judaism or any other religion, you can bet Christian parents would be throwing a fit (with the school scrambling to fix this), and yet, Maria is still waiting for answers to why such law breaking practices are allowed to occur in a school she helps to fund.

Every child has a right to pray if and when they want to, but it should not be required or led by a teacher or other authority figure at any public learning institution. Every child has a right NOT TO pray. I am sick of self-righteous people of any religion trying to stuff it down the throats of everyone around them. I am sick of them believing non-believers must be coerced to convert from their own beliefs. The forefathers believed religion was a private thing between man and whatever God (or lack thereof) he believed in. Thrusting religion into the public sector defies everything the forefathers stood for and disavows all of the freedoms they offered to American citizens.

This apparently, does not apply in North Carolina. If you don’t subscribe to the religious practices of the public school, you get punished. After Maria raised the issue, Bella was put out in the hall, so all the other little kids could be led in prayer. Bella was punished for upholding her constitutional rights; rights she is too young to understand she has. Instead, she just knows she is the one put out in the hall, while those in her classroom continues to break the law.

Technorati Tags: Religion in schools, Religious, Atheist, Eastern Wayne Elementary, Wayne County Schools, Children, God, Religion, Prayer, Prayer in School, Constitution, Illegal, Break Law

Ash shopped around for another school, both public and private, before deciding that homeschooling was the best option. A series of discriminatory instances at his public school (damaging incidents that no child should have to endure), led to his removal from public school. They were sending his work home for Ash to ‘make him do’ anyway, so why bother making him endure such a hate-filled, negative environment, when she was doing all the teaching?

The options for other schools were slim around here. With public school, he could face similar, negative environments (the school had a special ed trailer parked in the school lot for crap’s sake!). The private schools in the area wanted Ash to sign waivers allowing them to physically discipline CT in any way they saw fit. With a child who has mental health problems, and most educators unsure how to deal with these children, we saw daily beatings in his future. That does not help kids like CT. It just makes them mad and they act out worse than they do when they are misunderstood. Ash realized the travesty of such a situation and wisely declined enrolling him at one of these establishments.

So, back to my comment.

Here is what I said: “I homeschool my son to give him a better education.”

In his situation, the best education he can receive is at home. He does a lot more work, work that challenges him and work that does not assume he will never make something of himself. He’s reading classic literature, taking high school level courses, and taking part in college prep. He’s not spelling cat, because his teacher assumes he is a moron simply because he’s socially awkward. He is expected to perform on a level befitting his intelligence, and it may not always be easy to get him to do so, but when he does, knowing we didn’t give up on him is worth it.

Well, this simple little statement set off a hail storm. The teachers on my friends’ list and those related to teachers vehemently disagreed. There were cries of, “who said homeschool was better than public or private education in a school?” I guess I can understand that. If I’d have spent years in college to get a degree, I’d hate for others to assume it was worthless. I tried to explain I was not saying homeschool was better than public school. I was saying it was better for my son. While I believe homeschool has the potential to offer so much more than an in school education can, I also realize some parents SHOULD NOT homeschool. Some parents cannot homeschool. Their children need public school and in these instances, public school is the better option.

The discussion spiraled out to discuss how unsocialized homeschool kids are (proven to be not true except when kids are kept locked up/sheltered by parents). Some who were homeschooled themselves spoke out positively towards their experiences. Others took my stance, that it depended on the parents, children and the school environment in the area. I am just amazed at how polarizing a topic like homeschooling children can make people. It just adds to my belief that people find it hard to get along with those with whom they have differing opinions; a trend becoming more and more common with these new, later generations.

That brings me to the point of WHY I am writing this blog post. My little Facebook comment explosion made me reflect upon all of the problems with public education. I wasn’t hurt, but I was disappointed that some people felt Ash and I were making the wrong decision with home educating. It is our job as parents to determine what is best for our child and to be told that isn’t right is insulting. So, I began to think about all of the problems with educating in a classroom and this made me realize, our children aren’t safe anywhere.

This really has nothing to do with home education. I was just led down this path in a very twisted way by my comment on home education. This is about the safety of children and how that has changed since when I was a kid. At school, kids are not safe. It is less of a risk to imagine a child being kidnapped by a stranger or another, demented parent, at the school, especially since so many schools have police on campus, metal detectors, etc. The real concern is with those working at the school. Not all teachers, but some, and you never know which ones until it is too late, party with their students, have sex with their students, and do other crude and lascivious things with their students.

I was browsing the web recently and I saw a blog post (with pictures) of the Top 50 Most Infamous Female Teachers Involved in Sex Scandals. There are so many sex scandals in schools that they are able to make a Top 50 list. All of these teachers were semi-recent (90s and beyond). These were just the female teachers. There is no count out on the males, especially since male teachers who engage in such acts with their students get far less press than the females. We are shocked when a female teacher does such things, but apparently, it should be expected of the males. Why would I want to send my teenage son who has no ability to say no, even when he knows he should, into such an environment?

The sad truth is that our kids aren’t safe anywhere. They’ve been kidnapped and harmed from within their home. They’ve been snatched up on their way home from school or during recreational activities proceeding school. Playing in their yards with no parent watching every single second can mean a child could be snatched. Stores, restaurants, and other public places are just as vulnerable as neighborhood hangouts. So, where are our kids safe?

It is amazing the way my mind works. It is crazy that my brain got to this place and this question from where it started…on the benefits of homeschooling. That being said, it is a valid question. I would love to say kids are the safest at home with their parents. In most cases, they are. In some cases, it is the parent the child fears most, because they are the abusers. For those of us who aren’t abusing our kids, we cannot be with our children 24/7. We have to sleep. We cannot keep them locked up forever and not let them experience life. These things can happen in a split second, and they do happen.

So, where are our children safe? In this world…nowhere. We just have to hope that in the event something does happen, we did the best we could as parents to prepare them to fend for themselves.

Technorati Tags: homeschool, child safety, abuse, parenting, education, children, home education, thoughts, family, environment

My dad wasn’t the friendliest of guys. He was grumpy. He slammed the drawers on the cupboards. He swore and screamed at the television. He would get so angry he would shake. I knew how to push all his buttons and he mine. In many ways, I see how I’ve adopted some of his habits, especially yelling at the television when my team is losing and losing my cool relatively easily.

Davey, as I often called my dad, when I wasn’t calling him stupid or some other childish name, passed away eight years ago today. I have moved on and I don’t feel pain at his death, or regret about our failed relationship anymore. I’ve made my peace with my dad, and I’ve realized, he’d be more likely to accept me, as I am, then any of my other relatives, because deep down, that’s the kind of guy that he was. Sure, we’d fight, but I found, perhaps a little too late, that in the end, he had my back.

My dad and I did get along well, if we were on our own. Yes, this did happen. In fact, we spent the morning together (he took me to the doctor) the day he had the first of his four heart attacks. When he was sick, we talked on the phone every day.

Unless you knew my dad, you probably wouldn’t know he was deaf. Our phone conversations often consisted of him yelling “what?!” into the receiver and then eventually him asking the nurse to tell him what I said. I called him every day, but the day he died. I had two finals and a meeting that day, so by the time I got home it was 7 or 8 PM. Exhausted, I got into bed early that night, only to get out to head back to Toledo because he’d died.

My dad was a funny guy, in retrospect. We shared a love for music, obscure television shows, and sports. He was a rampant Ohio State Buckeyes fan. What started out as preteen rebellion grew into my longstanding love for the Michigan Wolverines. He would get so mad if my Wolverines won and I would gloat ceaselessly causing him to not talk to me for the day. Of course, if his Bucks managed a win (rare in the 90s), I never heard the end of it, either.

My dad was born to Polish speaking, first generation Polish Americans. He grew up speaking Polish and also could sing in Latin (something I assume he picked up at the Polish neighborhood/Catholic church he attended for church and school). Sometimes, when he’d take me to places alone, mainly events for MDA or when he took me to the Polish festival, he’d sing songs.

I assume they were church songs because they were in Polish and Latin. Despite being deaf and requiring the use of hearing aids, my dad had a nice, deep singing voice. When I’d ask him to teach me, he’d insist he didn’t know anything worth teaching. This was very frustrating, as I found my heritage quite intriguing. In the end, he would teach me how to count to three (how exciting) and I learned a few different swear words (like dupa – which he sometimes would call me in those early mornings when he woke me up for school – I’m sure he was joking, of course).

My dad showed he loved me in ways I never realized when I was growing up. They weren’t outright displays of affection, because I often thought he didn’t love me. For example, when I was little, I often had Vicks smeared over my chest and back. I hated Vicks. It’d make my skin burn and I remember crying because it hurt to wear it. My dad would hold me on his lap and it was one of the few times since I was a baby I’d let him hold me.

He also caught a fly ball for me during a NY Yankees/Cleveland Indians game. He later admitted it hurt like heck as the ball bruised his side from the impact of being hit so hard, but he wrestled it from a man who tried to snatch it from him, telling the guy it was for me. Of course, no man wants to look like a fool and take a ball from a kid in a wheelchair. My dad also took care of me when I got sick during that trip to Cleveland, too. He didn’t do anything but clean me up and tell me it’d be okay. He didn’t even say we had to go home. He let me stay and enjoy the game because afterwards I’d “felt better”.

I never realized until he was dying that all these things he did, these small things showed he loved me. It took me quite a few years of guilt-ridden shame to accept we’d made our peace before he died and to forgive myself for all the mean things I’d done to him. I know he forgives me though and I know he’s in a better place, free of pain and sickness.

Today, I don’t feel the guilt, the pain or the sadness I felt. I can finally say I have moved on. I will miss Davey Lawniczak and I will never forget him, but I know he’s on another plane of existence watching over me and encouraging me to scream at the television with him, whenever my favorite teams play.

Technorati Tags: my dad, death, anniversary, David Lawniczak, parent, mourn

Hoyer Lifts get people in wheelchairs in and out of bed and to their wheelchair. They are a safe way to lift a person with a physical disability. I once did unsafe transfers and that is how I fell and fractured my tibia, which created all kinds of other health problems. Now, I would be lost without my Hoyer lift.

My old Hoyer lift is manual. The pump gets stuck. The knob gets stuck, shooting me down towards the ground quickly and scarily. It’s starting to creak and groan. It’s over 5 years old, so it’s about time for a new one. The best, recommended option by my doctors is an electric Hoyer. My current insurance will not pay for the electrical part of the Hoyer. Since an electrical Hoyer is safer and the buttons won’t stick like the manual (a safety risk), we decided to hold a fundraiser to make money for the Hoyer.

I couldn’t just raise money for myself though. I decided to give 15% of the proceeds to a charity run by my friend, Danny Brown. 12for12k holds a charity event per month. 12 charities are chosen and the goal is to raise 12K ($12,000). This months charity was Hospice of Peel. My grandmother, Melba Ryan died in Hospice of Northwest Ohio on 12/17/08. Hospice is such a wonderful organization. They were amazing to my grandfather who lost his partner and wife of 69 years (4 of those courting).

So, I spent the whole weekend with Ashtyn on Twitter and Facebook. We posted and posted to raise money for the Hoyer and Hospice. Something happened today though. I was accused of running a scam and begging for money. It wasn’t by a stranger. It was by someone I’ve known my whole life.

I didn’t feel as bad for myself as I did for Danny and the cause I was raising money for. At the hint of accusations, our donations number dwindled and stopped. I then decided I’d give it all to Danny. It was drama that followed me around that had caused this shift in donations, but Danny would hear none of it. Like a prizefighter, he jumped to my defense. There was no proof to such allegations, anyway.

So, in stepped SuzeMuse to re-rally the troops and 30 minutes later, the donations started to pour in again. Everyone was so very supportive. People don’t like sabotage, especially when its clear the person having the fundraiser is only trying to do some good. With it down to the wire, we made our goal for the Hoyer and then some!

Well the first thing I did was make an announcement. I wouldn’t just give the 15% to Hospice of Peel. I would give $300. That left a little over $500 for my Hoyer. We could pay the rest out of pocket. Yes, we make enough to feed our family, clothe ourselves, and take care of our basic needs (a 4 person family). We are incredibly LUCKY and grateful in this respect.

That being said, when you are in a wheelchair you have MANY more expenses. Insurance doesn’t always pay for these expenses. In fact, some things no insurance will pay for (like van lifts) and government assistance is usually only available if you are under 18.

I am so grateful my friends were willing to help plan this fundraiser and help see it through. I HAPPILY donated $300 to Hospice of Peel (if you don’t believe me email Danny Brown through the 12for12k link up above — he will tell you he already received payment). I donated it in honor and in the memory of Melba Ryan. I want my grandmother to get the credit for this one. Noonie, I miss and love you. It is you who inspire me. It is you who I think of every day. It is you who I know would want me to donate to Hospice.

Thank you Noonie. The world was a better place with you in it, and now that you are gone, we will never forget.

Technorati Tags: Noonie, Danny Brown, Melba Ryan, donate, Hospice of People, In Memory, Melba Louise Ogle, Hoyer Lift, Thank you, donation, charity

That statement above is not referring to the actual salad dressing. Who in their right mind would be giving salad (or dressing – or both?!) to a Shih-Tzu? Oh no, my beloved furry face hates the Hidden Valley Ranch commercial. He can pick it out of any that play on our television. Heck, he can hear it three rooms away and go into psycho-barky Shih-Tzu mode. He hates the commercial with a violent, little dog passion!

Oliver has been watching television since he was a baby, when we first got him. At first, we thought our little Muffin Man (as we commonly refer to him) was just staring blankly at the television, but oh no! He actually watches. He will pay rapt attention to the television shows he watches. He loves watching Soap Operas with Nana (especially General Hospital) and sports with me. He even likes the occasional cartoon, though kids’ shows aren’t his favorite.

Of course, Oliver is mainly a critic of commercials. He has commercials he loves, commercials he can tolerate, and commercials he downright hates. Eventually, his tastes evolve and change though none have remained the same quite like his feelings about that fun, Hidden Valley where every kid loves their veggies.

At first, we thought it was just the sound of children on television. His first love/hate relationship was with the Band Aid commercial. Then, just to annoy him, I started singing, “I am stuck on Band Aid…cause Band Aid’s stuck on me…” Well he didn’t much care for my rendition either, so I know he happened to hate the song, but he’s slowly come to tolerate Band Aid and its commercial. I’m almost proud of him for his doggy evolution.

Not so with Hidden Valley Ranch. When Oliver hates something you best turn the channel or face the repercussions. He barks, whines, cries, howls, barks, lunges at the television, barks some more and he might just attack the clicker holder for refusing to mute or turn said channel. If it’s two AM and Hidden Valley comes on the television Nana leaves on (to help her sleep) look out! He’ll wake up most of the house, if they aren’t already awake. If Oliver had his way…Hidden Valley Ranch would be dead…from the airwaves.

Hidden Valley Ranch is his enemy and I’m almost afraid to play the video of the Hidden Valley Ranch commercial simply because I know he’ll hear it, three rooms away, over two fans and loud rain. He’ll hear it and want to destroy it (and me for playing it) because to my little puppy face, Hidden Valley Ranch is worse than Satan to a Christian. He, hates it so much…I don’t think he’ll ever come to respect Hidden Valley Ranch. Luckily, he can’t read, so I can continue to enjoy it on my salad!

On a side note: Ash was watching Big Top Pee Wee on television, and we’ve learned Oliver dislikes Hippos. He put his nose right up to the hippo on screen, holding the fat animal that could crush him like a toothpick to a stare down. The hippo, being on television, was uncooperative, so that just pissed Oliver off even more!

Technorati Tags: Hidden Valley Ranch, Watch television, Oliver Twist, Shih-Tzu, Shih Tzu, commercials, dog, puppy

One of the shining gems in nearby Flint, MI is the Flint Cultural Center. The cultural center features a Planetarium (Longway), Sloan Museum (which has lots of fun stuff including the annual car show), stages, Youth Theatre, a place for music, and the Flint Institute of Arts. The Museum features awesome visiting galleries, and the past few months there has been a Comic Book/Comics exhibit.

Well, we just found out about it, right before it ended. That meant, Ash, CT, and I piled into the YourRide (accessible, but often unreliable public transport) van to head downtown to the FIA. Of course, we decided to go on the day it poured and had thunderstorm warnings. Well, CT & I rode downtown alone, because Ash was running late (it took a little longer to get me ready — oops!) and Your Ride was running early.

So, we get there, and as soon as we scoot inside to wait for Ash, a downpour happens! Ash has to run through the rain from the non-accessible car we own, to get inside. She’s not too soaked as she was dropped off by her mom just two steps from the door. Well, we weren’t allowed to take videos/pics in the comic book area, but we could in the area with other exhibits. The trip was really fun!

Check out the fun I had in the following videos/pictures:

Pretending to Chew Gumballs

This is My Bike After the Accident…

Technorati Tags: Flint Institute of Arts, Dominick Evans, Fun, Family, Comic Books, Art, Flint Cultural Center

Oliver can be a total lover or aloof and unwilling to even be held. He’s officially been diagnosed with a form of doggy ADHD. Training doesn’t work unless he’s on medication. Of course, this leads us on many, interesting adventures. The latest one we’ll call: The Ice Cream Truck.

Oliver has a love/hate relationship with cars. He’s been known to try and chase them, to eat the tires. This has led to him realizing they just might run him over, and he’s become VERY terrified of cars. If he’s down in our yard or driveway and a car passes by, he will run for the house like his tail has just been set on fire. No vehicle is more intimidating for him, though, then the dreaded…Ice Cream Truck!

Yesterday, I was outside enjoying the weather. I had Oliver on my lap. As long as he’s on my lap, up on my ramp platform, he’s fine with cars passing by. Sure, he stands up and looks at them, as though he’s challenging them to come get him, but this is Oliver being relatively calm. As we sat outside, I had no idea of his fear of the Ice Cream Truck.

Well, Ashtyn knew, and she saw it coming. She decided to stand by me, without explaining to me what I was about to experience. It didn’t take long for me to find out. As that dreaded truck of frozen milk-made goodies came into view, poor Oliver went nuts! Of course, I don’t have the best grip, so holding him became nearly impossible.

He climbed up my arm, his little claws digging into my flesh (I had on a short sleeve t-shirt), trying to get to his Mommy. He was clawing at Ash, as she stood next to me, and his poor little Shih-Tzu head kept darting around looking for a way, a place to escape. He spotted the truck in front of our house, as it stopped right in front. Another car was in its way so it had to sit there, for what seemed like forever.

It was like suspended animation for my poor little dog. He’s digging, clawing and whimpering. It’s as though he’s begging to be taken away or the Ice Cream Truck will turn, drive through our yard, up my ramp and eat him. So, I’m sitting there half-laughing at the ridiculousness and half wincing at pain as he claws into me like I’m a dirt pile and he’s digging a hole to China. Ash is holding him to me, because otherwise he’ll be clawing up her arm and into her arms.

Well, just as soon as it had begun, it ended. The Ice Cream Truck moved on to another street and Oliver quieted down, snuggling back against me like nothing had happened. I sat there with a sore arm and renewed knowledge that if the Ice Cream Truck comes around again, I better make sure I’m inside or don’t have Oliver on my lap!

Technorati Tags: Oliver Twist, Shih-Tzu, shih tzu, puppy, Ice Cream Truck, dog, adventures, ADHD

When I wasn’t sleeping, I spent the day watching old episodes of Xena: Warrior Princess unable to do much more other than staring at the screen and drooling mindlessly. Well, I’m better, so I’m going to talk about the big debate we’ve been having in our house; Whether to move to Detroit or Ann Arbor.

There are Pros and Cons to both places. The Pros outweigh the Cons, of course. Sure, any place is better than Genesee County though. We have to get out of this hell hole that offers absolutely no help or assistance to those of us with disabilities.

Ann Arbor is hip, liberal, and seems pretty fun. It’s also home to my dream university. The U of M. On the other hand, Detroit is a much bigger city. I’m an aspiring filmmaker and there are many more opportunities for filmmakers. There are also many, big name movies shot in the area, which is perfect for an aspiring filmmaker. Add in the fact that Ashtyn can do her college internship in Detroit, but wouldn’t have an opportunity for it in Ann Arbor.

There are disability options and services in both Detroit and Ann Arbor that aren’t available in Genesee County. Public transport is more readily available in both locations, as well. That means even if I don’t have someone to drive me places, I can get wherever I need to go whenever I want. That seems like just a dream right now.

The main advantage to Ann Arbor is having services very close by for our son. There are better services in Detroit than in Genesee County, for him, but the best services are in Ann Arbor. However, Detroit is closer to A2 than where we live right now, so it’d be an easier drive then the one Ash will soon be having to endure to get him better services.

So, whats a guy to do? Go to Detroit or to Ann Arbor? Detroit has less expensive homes, which means they will be easier to modify, thanks to the less money we’ll have to spend on the actual home. I’m going to have to weigh the pros and cons and decide which place is truly the best choice for us.

Technorati Tags: moving, Ann Arbor, Detroit, Michigan, disability, autism, bi polar, wheelchair, accessible

So, stay tuned, for my return. I’m hoping its sooner, rather than later.

My grandmother, sweet Noonie, passed away on December 17, 2008. I loved my grandmother very much. We had our differences occasionally, but I never doubted her love for me. I am very close to my grandfather and I feel so connected to him that sometimes I truly believe I can feel the ache in his heart at the loss of his beloved wife of 65 years. They spent 69 glorious years together (if you count dating) and he’s had to endure his first day, Christmas, and New Year without her for almost 70 years. I am just distraught for him, over this.

When I called my Grandfather, to check up on him, my mother, a person I don’t talk to if I can help it, grabbed the phone from one of my cousins. I’m not exactly sure I can remember all she said. I know it was something about me writing about and bad mouthing her on my blog. I know she said she planned to ruin my life by telling the world about the “real me” and I know she did it all in front of my grieving grandfather.

I did the only thing I could do. I ignored her. I didn’t say a word. This was about my grandmother, her death, and my grandfather’s grieving. All I could think about was his hurt and how rotten it was of anyone to do this to HIM. He’s suffering and hurting and that day I hurt badly for him, too. It was a rather selfish thing to do, and I refused to take part in it.

The longer I thought about it, the more irritated I became. First, I scoured dominickevans.com for ANY mention of my family. There was nothing! I saw one mention about how my family was dysfunctional growing up, but I didn’t mention anyone specifically or by name. So, what the heck was she talking about? I checked my Myspace and Facebook, too. Again, no mention.

I don’t talk to anyone that I know she talks to, except my niece and cousins. Sadly, I’d been out of touch with them for quite a few months (except for an occasional hi), so I couldn’t come up with any RECENT mention of my family, at all. By choice, I choose to mention my mother, as little as possible. Still, I was just very confused about what “talking/badmouthing” was going on on my blog.

Second, why go as far as to say you’re going to ruin my life? Seriously! Is this second grade? I’m 28 years old, which makes my mother, 63. Doesn’t she have better things to do with her time then try to ruin my life? I felt like I was on the school playground and I could almost hear the neener neener neener sneer.

I don’t want to talk or badmouth anyone, but I do want to share my life and I want the truth about my past to be known. That is part of why I have a blog. I hope to inspire others, by sharing my life with them and letting them see they aren’t alone. I wasn’t going to mention the incident I listed above, but that has made me realize that perhaps I should be talking about these things, so people can understand my life, the way I see it.

This brings me to my darkest hour. I’ve been dreaming about writing down all of the things I’ve experienced. My dad died in 2001, but he often comes to me in my dreams. He comes to me and tells me I need to share my story. I need to share the truth. I need to tell what I’ve been through, so others, in similar situations, know they’re not alone. I’ve tried to ignore the messages, the calling, and my father’s voice, but I can’t any longer. He just won’t leave me alone!

I should probably mention the things that might “ruin me”. I was an evil child in some ways. I could be mean. I was an awful tease who picked on my brother. I was selfish, but sometimes I needed to be. I could yell and scream with the best of them. I invented insults when people pissed me off, one of my favorites being (when I was little) “you’re ugly and so are your clothes.” I wasn’t always the nicest person, but I’m happy to report I’ve grown out of that.

I don’t want to get into all the particulars, but I have a diary that was written when I was born and when I was little. It stopped being written in around the time I was diagnosed with Spinal Muscular Atrophy. I hope to one day share some of the unusual things said in this diary, because they are quite telling.

I don’t think she (I have trouble referring to her as my mother — because I can’t fathom any mother doing to a child what she did to me) had children to have them. I believe she had children to be loved. She felt a void in her life, and she thought having kids would fill that void with love. Well, when I wasn’t born a lovebug, cuddly, friendly little thing, I feel like I was looked down upon unfavorably.

While I don’t remember being physically abused when I was young, there were instances of manipulation. It wasn’t until I was a teenager and I had come out that the real abuse began. I was living with my very own version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and I couldn’t seek help. I’d heard about what CPS had done to my friend in a wheelchair. My family knew I was too scared to call for help, and didn’t think what was going on was wrong, anyway.

In my darkest hour, I tried to slit my wrists. I wanted to die. I wanted the pain of living in such a harmful environment to go away. I was being fed depression pills because I was believed to be depressed, but all of them made me sick. In my darkest hour, I took a sharp metal watch edge, and whittled my wrists until they were raw. In my darkest hour, I didn’t feel a thing.

I was over 18, during this time. I was stuck living in my parent’s home. I can’t recall why I was punished. Perhaps I was mouthy. Perhaps I was a jerk, but Dr. Jekyll told my brother to turn off my wheelchair in the back (so I couldn’t move or reach the button to turn my chair on) and wheel me into my bedroom to sit, alone. My brother pushed me in and then I couldn’t move. My wheelchair, once a source of such freedom became a jail cell to my body and I felt such terrible anguish. In my darkest hour, I grabbed the only thing I could reach; a metal watch and I whittled. I whittled and whittled and cried out for someone to end my misery and my pain.

Then Mr. Hyde came into my room, acting like nothing was wrong. Looking at my wrists, Hyde threatened to put me in the hospital, but my dad didn’t have insurance (which meant I didn’t have insurance), so it wasn’t all that important anyway. It wasn’t a real suicide attempt, so it wasn’t worth seeking help for, I guess. I ended up enrolling at Wright State, three hours away, shortly thereafter. That was truly the first step in saving my life. You know the funny thing? Once I finally got away, no medicine was needed. I’m no longer depressed!

To think this was an isolated incident is foolish. There were many more abusive things that I feel were done to me, but other people seem to think I deserved them. I was taken care of, in a wheelchair so why shouldn’t I be grateful? I don’t know if taken care of is the right word. I do know that I should be grateful for “sacrifices” made to care for me. I’m not sure if being abused is constituted as care you should be grateful for, but that’s my big dilemma.

There was something done so bad, I’m still embarrassed to talk aobut it. It’s the most traumatizing thing I’ve ever experienced and my girlfriend, Ashtyn, is the first person I’ve told about it. What I can share is all the slaps across the face I received. Dr. Jekyll would get mad if I was mouthy and I’d get flat palmed across the face. Angry, I’d go to bed and I would cry myself to sleep. Knowing my weakness for sleep and my ability to say anything people want to hear when asleep, this would be the time when Mr. Hyde would come out to beg forgiveness and not allow me to go back to sleep until said forgiveness was received.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m crazy, because I’ve not spoken about this with very many people. I’ve blamed myself for this. I’ve thought I deserved this. I believed I had all of this coming to me. I’m no longer at this place where I believe it’s my fault, but this truly has helped to shape me as a person. I am who I am, and this has affected my life. There’s so much more I could say or share, about what I’ve endured, but this is getting pretty long, as it is.

So many people go all their lives with other telling them they’re not abused. Any unwanted touch or treatment IS abuse. I didn’t want Dr. Jekyll to lay her hands on me in the way she did. I didn’t ask for it. It affected me negatively and therefore it IS abuse. It’s abuse because I SAY it’s abuse. It was my body being violated by a slap or something worse, and I didn’t want any of it. That’s why I wanted to share this with all of you.

If you’re in a similar situation, you are not alone. There is hope. I got out and I’m in a wheelchair. I require the care and help of others, but I managed to find a way to get it without Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde, or her iron fist.

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