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dani-sdiary · 11 days

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Dr. Cinnamon Roll, Ph.D., NCSP, LMHC

Well, I've seen it all: one-sided crushes, flings, situationships, horror stories, heartbreak, love, love triangles, and all the messy, hard-to-define ways of knowing someone in between. Rude to the waiter, rude to my friends, rude to my parents, rude to themselves, rude to me. Peter Pan, Madonna-whore, Oedipus, God, hero, inferiority, superiority, Napoleon, and savior complexes. The liars, the cheaters, the fuckboys, the gaslighters, the jerks, the assholes, the players, the closeted gay guys, the short kings, the golden retrievers, the bad boys, the mistakes, the phases, the ones who were jealous, insecure, clingy, possessive, and/or unavailable, the ones that got away, and the soulmates. Oh, and, just in case it wasn't clear, I was referring to ex-therapists, not boyfriends.

I guess I'm a little bit of a therapy hussy; I've burned through five therapists in as many years. Here's a tour of them, along with some honorable mentions:

Dr. #1: Took my therapy flower.

I wasn't too jazzed about seeing her at first. My parents were forcing me to go after my friends' parents had eavesdropped on a conversation between my friend and me and narced.

As cliché as it is, we just...drifted apart (deep sigh). We broke up after a year when I came back from spending 2 months away from home because her private practice wasn't covered by my insurance. It had been okay for a while but wasn't sustainable. I learned a lot from her, but I didn't really want to be in therapy at that age and I didn't feel like I could be honest with her about the way I really felt about myself without her feeling obligated to tell my parents what I said, which I really didn't want to have happen to me again.

She diagnosed me with dysthymia, generalized and social anxiety, O.C.D., and suspected I might have PCOS (she was right). You never forget your first.

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Dr. Chucklefuck: The school counselor for last names H-K, another unintended, unanticipated, unwelcome, and shit-on-a-cracker result of that 1 conversation with my friend. This fuck carrot, who had a doctorate, certification, and 15 years' experience in school psychology told me, "suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem," inspiring much emo poetry. If any cock lemurs who don't know anything about the permanence of your situation have said anything like this entirely untrue and insensitive statement to you, I am so, so sorry. Please don't believe them. You deserved so much better.

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Dr. Pushy: Insisted I have my camera on during our zoom meetings, after I repeatedly told her I was more comfortable with it off and felt it would be easier to talk honestly. She diagnosed with me body dysmorphic disorder. Plenty of fish in the sea.

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Dr. Heartbreak: Shattered me. She was my first love, my high school sweetheart, my prom date, my ride-or-die, my steady gal. We were together for all 4 years.

I was having a rough go of it: failing classes, missing so many days of school I might not have graduated, and barely able to leave my house. I was seeing her twice a week, but things just kept getting worse and worse for me. There was no structure to our meetings, no plan for treatment and no goals. I would bring up an issue and she would just tell me the first advice that popped into her head. I would tell her that I couldn't see the point of getting out of bed, and she would recommend putting on some good music first thing in the morning. She was kind and she wanted the best for me, but she couldn't tell me anything I couldn't have googled myself. I had wanted to see a different therapist for a while, but my parents didn't want me to have to start over and build up a relationship with someone new.

I knew something else was going on, something beyond my previous diagnoses of depression and anxiety. I had been meeting with a professional twice a week for 4 years, but it was watching tiktoks, 30-second videos filmed by random children on shaky, blurry iPhone cameras that made me suspect I had autism. I felt more understood in those videos, where such niche, specific experiences from life were described by a stranger so impossibly similarly I thought they must be talking about me and not themselves. Dr. Heartbreak gave me a months-long evaluation, during which time she forgot to bring the papers she needed to the office with her, forgot to send me the results for several weeks, made multiple errors on the final report, and I failed 2 more classes. I was then that I found out I had not only autism but ADHD and an eating disorder, too late.

After the evaluation, I started looking on my own for other therapists, and talking to my pediatrician about ADHD medication. Dr. Heartbreak told me next time she had a new patient, she would immediately start them with a comprehensive evaluation. "What about me?" I thought.

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Dr. Rebound: A one-night stand and my first experience getting back out there after the big heartbreak. Rodney Dangerfield must have been her fashion icon, because she wore a very loosely-tied bathrobe to our one and only zoom meeting, which was unfortuitously scheduled at the same time as her three cats' yodeling jam session. {From what I gathered, there's a feline Yoko Ono, and more drama then Fleetwood Mac had during Rumors. I give the band maybe another six months (in cat time) before the lead yodeler tragically O.D.'s at 27 like all the great artists before him.} You know what they say, the best way to get over someone is to get under the copay plan of someone else.

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Dr. Cinnamon Roll: Love and savior of my life. The suicide hotline set us up on a blind date. After 5 long years of searching, of "I'm not really looking for anything serious right now" or "I still hang out with my ex-girlfriend, that's cool, right?" or "I'm allergic to latex," just as I was ready to give up, all of a sudden, the smoke cleared, the crowd parted, and I saw her. Love at first sight! A bolt straight to the prefrontal cortex! And we lived happily ever after.

Everything she tells me is something I need to hear 10 years ago. She has this incredible way of verbalizing what I've been trying to tell her but just don't have the words for, of summing up my whole life in one sentence. I struggled to connect with every therapist I had before her because they were all so far removed from anything I had experienced as middle-aged, married with 2.5 children, white women. She's only 26, just 8 years older than me, and biracial like I am. You really do a feel a difference with the right therapist. You realize just how wrong the wrong ones were.

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Dr. Cup of Chamomile Tea: Basically the Dr. Garth Fisher of pediatrics. She's the most sought-after, highly-reviewed pediatrician in the state, but remembers the smallest details about every single one of her many patients. She has a lovely, soothing lullaby for a voice and makes Mother Teresa look like a total bitch. She diagnosed me with PCOS.

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Dr. Feelbad: A medication-management referral from Dr. Chamomile. Prescribed me unwellbutrin, then prozac efron, then lexacon, then zoloft (sorry, I don't have a pun for that one, ooh, wait, crossing the sertraline!). She's a trooper, putting up with my bad puns and my treatment-resistant depression.

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Dr. Meanie-Face (Dermatologist): What can I say about this doctor that is complimentary? Oh, the bathroom right outside her office is a good place to cry. She's got that going for her.

She spent my first appointment talking about how she was bullied in middle school because her parents could only afford to buy her 1 pair of bright-yellow, too-small pants. This story was related to my skin, but I don't remember how.

She prescribed a miracle: spironolactone. She said this medication would make me lose a significant amount of weight, take me up a cup size, permanently cure my acne and my hirsutism to the point where I wouldn't need to shave at all, and make the hair on my head grow noticeably thicker, faster and longer. After all, she took spironolactone herself and that's what happened for her! I couldn't believe this pill was even legal and that she was just giving it to me, just like that! Imagine, in a couple months' time, I would be free.

When I came back for my follow-up with none of those results, she completely changed her tune and said spironolactone might have a small effect on all or some or none of those features. When I told her I was still losing quite a bit of hair, she said I wasn't, and joked that even if I was, my dad (who is bald) and I could just go on Rogaine together. When I told her spironolactone hadn't helped my hirsutism at all and that I still had to spend four hours getting ready every morning, she said it absolutely should not take me that long, because she remove all her hair in 3 minutes. She sympathized, saying she "knows how hairy you guys are," ("you guys" referring to Latinx people) because she had so many Latina friends growing up.

When I came back for my third follow-up visit (I know) and told her I had only used the cream she prescribed once because it made my skin peel, she said that was a very common side effect, but explained how the peeling was actually a good thing, because every time my skin cracked and broke off of my face like an extremely painful cheese danish, my acne scars would come off with it. Said peeling would also reveal beautiful, youthful, Freddy Kreugeresque skin and prevent wrinkles. I was 14.

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Dr.s Chatty Cathy and Son (Dentists): I imagine the final (50% of your grade) in the toughest, most brutal weed-out class that causes at least half the students each semester to run out of the room in tears in dental school is a presentation on saying the most asinine things while you're wrist-deep in someone's mouth like, "you're going to {Name of College} next year, huh? That's where we send all the hippies," or "so, guess how old I am." (I didn't guess, but he told me anyway and said he thinks he still looks pretty good for 64, then sung The Beatles song to me and recited a story about Paul McCartney's childhood taken directly from his Wikipedia page.)

That's the elder Dr. Chatty Cathy. I always hope I get Dr. Son, he leaves me alone for the most part and just gossips with the tooth nurse (dental hygienist) about her brother's two-timing girlfriend and time in prison. Maybe they're under the impression the sunglasses they give me double as ear plugs, or maybe they just don't care what someone with a cavity thinks of them (fair).

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dani-sdiary · 11 days

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"Summertime Sadness" is more than a Lana Del Rey Song

I was so touched by all the support you darlings gave me after my previous post about seasonal affective disorder. I've learned so much from you and I can't thank you enough!

There is an endless supply of mostly useless listicles about winter S.A.D. with generic and vague advice like "go to therapy" or "seek support from friends" or "buy this super cool product that will cure your depression," or, my personal favorite, "don't beat yourself up," and some with genuinely helpful advice on using light therapy, caring for indoor plants, and taking vitamin D, but there's not as much available for summer S.A.D. I want this post to be a running list of realistic, affordable advice. Feel free to add anything that isn't a miracle, and may not work for everyone, but has worked for you.

Drink the amount of water you need to feel hydrated.

Find a new indoor hobby, book series, t.v. show, or fandom that you genuinely (being the operative word) like.

Take cool showers or baths.

It doesn't always have to be summer if you don't want it to be. Watch The Holiday and listen to Mariah Carey.

Create an enjoyable, flexible structure to your day that really works for you, makes sense, and changes as you need it to. If you are a student or a family member to a student and the change in routine or lack of structure is difficult for you, make up your own schedule.

Use soft lighting, the reverse of light therapy for winter S.A.D. Try combining light filtering through your curtains, some candles, and a desk lamp rather than using one bright overhead light.

If you are currently in any kind of treatment, you may need additional or different support during the summer. Don't feel that you have to keep your treatment plan exactly the same just because it works during the winter.

You're not weird, I promise. Not everyone looks forward to getting melanoma. Not everyone enjoys sweating like a hooker in church. Not everyone eats hot dogs. It's fine. You're fine.

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dani-sdiary · 13 days

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The Opposite of S.A.D.?

Hooray! Summer.

Oh, fuck me, not again.

Jesus fucking Christ. Why can't summer be something you only have to get over with once in your life? Seems like more than enough.

I mean, why should the classes be accelerated, why should they be any different than the rest of the year? It's not as if I'm needed at home to help with the fucking harvest. And fucking daylight savings. God. Fuck.

It's far, far too hot. Torns mi brien too soop.

Two summers ago, I stopped with the fucking hazmat suit wardrobe in 90 degree weather. Since then, it's been all thin cotton skirts and sleeveless halters. I'm able to do it now, but it's still so fucking hard. I hate the idea of forcing anyone, even a stranger, to look at this body. It's wrong. I feel offensive just stepping outside my door, like I'm hurting people with my existence.

Is there such a thing as reverse seasonal affective disorder? Winter and fall, cold weather and early sunset comfort me, make me feel safer and less exposed. I hate spring and summer, when the sun rises before I can wake up so I feel like I've failed and I'm behind as soon as I start my day. Hot weather and early sunrise add to my stress. Does this have a name?

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dani-sdiary · 14 days

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My 504 Plan Story

It wasn't until the tail end of my freshman year of high school, after being a student for 12 years, that I found out that such a thing as a 504 plan existed. Until that time, I believed there were no other options, that I was completely on my own, and that I would just have to buck up and power through.

504 plans simply weren't talked about. There was the cookie-cutter general education classroom, or the completely separated special education classroom, no in-between, and absolutely no blending of the two. My therapist was the one who identified that I needed a 504 plan, after I had failed a class.

I have always benefited from the privilege of having a mild, non-apparent disability, and of course this isn't the case for everyone who has a 504 plan, but almost every accommodation on my plan should have been automatically available to all students. It would be impossible for everyone to have an accommodation like priority seating (and of course not everyone needs it), but many accommodations basically just boil down to respect. It makes sense for me to have a formal written plan because I need these accommodations regularly, but being able to take a break when feeling overwhelmed, show one's learning in an alternative way, have extensions and learn at one's own pace, take tests in a distraction-free environment and with enough time, and have the freedom to feel comfortable and safe should be universal. Students shouldn't have to feel they must earn consideration and kindness from their role models through proving they experience a sufficient level of suffering. Respect for students and their needs should go without saying, especially for those who do not have the privilege of being diagnosed, like I have, or for the younger students whose diagnoses have not been identified yet, or those who are too overwhelmed, stretched too thin, have scheduling conflicts, or are otherwise unable to have the several required meetings that it takes to write and use a 504 plan. I sincerely hope that my classmates do not have the emergencies that would lead them to need my or other accommodations frequently, but when they do (and they will), they deserve them just as much as I do. I have watched my classmates be punished for things outside of their control consistently and throughout the grades. Life happens, in spite of, before, during, after, around, at, unavoidably, and taking precedent over school.

It isn't just jumping through all of the hoops of writing a 504 plan, but the additional, exhausting work of being able to actually use it. Unfortunately, I'm sure all of us 504 plan-havers have had some kind of negative experience around this. We've been told that it's impossible, that our necessary accommodations "aren't really going to work" for a teacher, or have received the unsolicited advice to drop a class, because there is no way to pass it and meet our needs.

Many of my teachers have been amazing, kind people who supported me before and after I had a 504 plan, and many have made assumptions about my experiences and me based off of it or simply refused to recognize it. One high school teacher who required random, unpredictable oral participation which caused me to have anxiety attacks or dissociate frequently asked me to stay back after class had ended to apologize and admit she "shouldn't be doing that to me," yet continued to call on me when I had not raised my hand. An administrator at my high school very publicly and loudly pulled another girl and me out of class in the middle of a lecture, to a chorus of "oohs...". The administrator wanted to tell us about requesting accommodations for an upcoming AP test, which, apparently, could not have been an email instead of an interruption to our class time, and prioritized the convenience of telling both of us at the same time over respecting our privacy. In the hallway, she discussed the girl's IEP in front of me and my 504 plan in front of her. One college professor told me it would be unethical to give me an extension unless she gave it to every other student in her class. I didn't see the issue with that; those who needed it would benefit from it, and those who didn't wouldn't be disadvantaged by having it the way those who do are by not having it.

In high school, meeting with my incredibly understanding and dedicated counselor a very easy and positive experience. She simply opened a word document, typed up the accommodations list my therapist and I had come up with, and emailed it to my teachers. My therapist and pediatrician signed notes, my parents and I met with my teachers and the principal, and that was that. Though using it was sometimes challenging, at least my plan was created by, for, and around my needs and me.

In college, my experience with accommodations was starkly different than my previous one in high school and than what I had expected from a small, liberal, predominantly BIPOC and working adults community college that espoused rhetoric about inclusivity and serving the community. I was so excited for my meeting with a member of the access services division, an entire group of employees whose jobs were dedicated to and revolved completely around accommodations.

The accommodations coordinator had already come up with a list of accommodations prior to our meeting, ever speaking to me, and knowing what any of my disabilities and mental health conditions were. Some of them I needed, and some of them were unnecessary and would have given me an unfair advantage over other students. Many of the accommodations I need are not available, either at all or in the way that I need them. If I need an extension for an assignment, I have to request it before the original due date, and it is up to the discretion of each individual professor to give me between a minimum of 24 and maximum of 72 hours based on how difficult they believe the assignment to be for me. I'm lucky if I can get a professor to respond to an email in the first place, and a professor in an online class with hundreds of students who has never interacted with me will not know how long I need, and should not be expected to make that decision without any information to base it on. Also, they have already decided on the original due date based on how difficult they believe the assignment will be, so it just doesn't make sense to ask them that and give them the responsibility of making a choice for me. Finally, if I was able to spend a stressful hour crafting the most perfectly-worded, respectful, polite, and professional email before the due date, then I would also have the energy, motivation, and emotional stability to do the assignment. When I can't complete an assignment on time, it's because I can't get out of bed and do anything at all or because I can't stop crying and calm down long enough to do it. I'm not in a place where I can write an email, either. Alternative assignments are not available, including for the oral presentations worth 50% of my grade, answering questions on the spot, and spontaneous debates without notes in front of the class.

My needs are not currently met by my college. This fall, I will transfer, and I hope my new 4-year university will have a different way of doing things. I know for sure my classroom will be different when I am a teacher.

I understand how demanding and difficult that career is, and I do not want nor expect my teachers to upheave the tried-and-true teaching methods they have used for decades. My accommodations are simple, clear, and reasonable. If oral participation is required, then I will do it at lunch, before school, after school, during office hours, in-person or over zoom, whenever the teacher is available in a one-on-one conversation, or record myself and email the video. If that's not a possibility, I would feel much more confident with a weekly schedule posted online, so that I could at least know in advance and prepare myself for public speaking. I don't ask for special treatment. I can and will do the exact same amount of work and to the same standard as everyone else, but it may not be possible for me to do it on the exact same timeline.

A student's grades shouldn't have to suffer in order to meet their accommodations, or because their accommodations aren't being met. A student's selection of the classes they're signing up for shouldn't be informed by fears, anxiety, or doubt that their accommodations will be met. Many times, both before and after I received my 504 plan, I deliberately failed an assignment because completing it was not a possibility, or skipped class because I did not feel safe enough to attend, which made coming back the next day even more terrifying.

Going to school should not be a dreaded, stressful, draining series of almost insurmountable hurdles. School should be a place where students feel safe, included, and respected, not only because they deserve it, but because it will provide an example for them for how to treat others and themselves. Students should be taught from a young age to advocate for themselves and they should know that there are options available to them, and that their disability, circumstances, and who they are should not prevent them from receiving a quality, comprehensive education.

There is always, always, always a way to meet a student's accommodations. There is a way for a student with social anxiety who is unable to complete any assignment that involves public speaking to earn an A+ in their speech and debate class. There is a way for a student who has severe depression that significantly reduces their motivation to pass AP calculus with flying colors. There's a way to teach students with disabilities without the student's learning or the academic rigor of the class being sacrificed or the student's mental health being pushed aside or ignored, or an additional burden being placed on the teacher. There is a way for every student to be supported, celebrated, and challenged, in every subject, to succeed and to fail, to find their strengths and weaknesses, to be self-actualized, capable, and independent, to give and receive help, and to learn, if we are willing to find it.

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dani-sdiary · 17 days

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AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHOWIRMGEQOIGEQ]PIMJBQ]PIBJB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

IT'S APRIL and I will find out if the school I have based my entire life around has accepted me either this Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday. Out-of-state tuition is not an option for me and there is no other program in my state that even comes close to the level of this one. All my life, everyone I've talked to about my career path has recommended this school to me. If I am accepted, I am guaranteed to finish the program in two years, but it would most likely be three at another school. This program has an incredible reputation as the best in the area and would significantly improve my chances of getting into my dream grad school and finding a job. I have already paid the housing deposit and multiple other fees that are due literal months before we hear back from the school.

If I do not get in, I will be absolutely shattered. A rejection would permanently destroy my entire identity. How the hell do I make it through the weekend without going bald from ripping all my hair out?

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dani-sdiary · 18 days

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Am I sexually active? Dr., I don't have it in me to fold my laundry, I am definitely not getting laid.

#pediatrician #pediatriccare #alone with my thoughts #life #thinking #thoughts #inner thoughts #thought #late night thoughts #experience #laundry

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dani-sdiary · 19 days

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The Romance Novel Renaissance

God, what a time to be alive. How lucky are we to be young and here and now? To grow up and get to experience this?

Right now, we are living through a literary renaissance. A movement just as impactful, industry- and life-changing, and far-reaching as the beat generation, and one that would be recognized as such and taken as seriously, if only the authors and readers were primarily men and not women.

A young man can be a million things. A tortured poet, a starving artist, a dreamer, a hippie, an asshole. Brilliant, depressed, thoughtful, controversial, rude. He can also be nothing, if he chooses to, and a million excuses will be made for him. Young women, girls, can only be silly. Our books can only be ridiculous fantasy. Our characters can only be unrealistic and one-dimensional. Our movement, our time, can only be a footnote.

We don’t allow ourselves to enjoy things. Nothing can be corny, or weird, or niche, or fun. And nothing can be two things at once: both funny and serious. Nothing less than an unreadable classic can be meaningful.

Romance novels have been seen only as foolish escapism. As what the repressed housewife or the dowdy schoolmarm fill the spaces of their empty lives with. Romance novels are written and read by teenagers and adults, by social butterflys and introverts, by aspiring writers and by people who have no idea what they want to do, by everyone. Their characters are just as varied as the audience. We love them both because we can see ourselves in them and because we can see someone completely different.

And if it is escapism? So the fuck what?

What is so wrong about wanting a break from all of this? That’s exactly what books are meant to do, transport you, take you along with the characters, invite you into the world. And that is precisely what the talented artists of the romance novel renaissance are doing. Creating stories that are saccharine and hilarious and sexy and lighthearted and devastating and good. Well-written, quality work. Beautiful, moving novels that have changed literature and culture forever. Can we just leave women alone to read what they like?

Our books are at the top of the bestseller’s lists. Our masterpieces are displayed in the windows of every store. And I hope that soon our authors will have respect and our readers will have peace, long overdue and well-deserved.

Here’s to Ali Hazelwood, Tessa Bailey, Emily Henry, Talia Hibbert, Julia Quinn, Ana Huang and their readers, geniuses.

#love #lovers #relationship #relationships #couple #couples #romance #romantic #romance novels #bodice ripper #bookblr #booklover #bookworm #books and reading #reading #booklr #books

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dani-sdiary · 22 days

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Anyone Else?

I am 18 years old and I just found out I am intersex.

I started puberty at an earlier age than average. I had severe acne, oily skin, and hirsutism in second grade. I remember my dad telling me to wash my face because I was getting "a type of pimple called a blackhead" (he had to explain to me what it was, I had never heard of them) when he dropped me off at before-school daycare at 7 years old. When I told my mom I had hair under my arms that same year, she flat-out refused to believe me. She simply said I did not, that it was impossible.

I started shaving my legs in third grade, after begging my parents to let me for a year. My mom said I should only have to shave every other day, and again denied the truth when I told her that wasn't enough. Once I started shaving my legs, I noticed the hair everywhere else: my back, my chest, my face, all over.

I googled my symptoms over and over, scouring the internet for a documented experience of any other woman who was like me. I questioned my gender identity over the years. I had wondered if it was possible for me to be intersex, but I had a very limited view of what that could mean, and I assumed if I was, it would be very physically, externally, obvious. At that time, I didn't think it was possible for my doctors, my parents, and everyone else in my life to miss something so important.

For about a year, I identified as non-binary and used they/them pronouns. I think that part of this came from a place of being young and exploring my identity, but it also came from deep insecurity. I didn't feel like being a girl was an option for me because of the way I looked, so I thought it would ease my pain to pretend I wasn't a girl. I want to make it abundantly clear that I am in no way saying questioning one's gender identity is only about being insecure. That was my personal experience, and I am in the minority. I am the exception to the vast majority of experiences.

I bought plain, solid-color, clothes 3 sizes too big and wore pants and long sleeves all summer to swallow me up. I always wore my hair down and I always had bangs to cover as much of my face as possible. I wanted to make it impossible to see my face at all, and, between bangs, glasses, makeup, and a mask, I was fairly close.

By the time I was 12, I had developed a four-hour daily routine for removing all my hair. After a year of seeing my therapist, I finally broke down and told her about my hirsutism via pen and paper and through tears. I was so, so ashamed that I couldn't even say the word "hair" out loud. She immediately told me I might have PCOS, something I had never heard of, and it turns out she was right.

It was only recently, six years after my PCOS diagnosis, that I found out there was any discussion at all about PCOS being considered an intersex condition. I am ashamed to say my first reaction was one of more fear and insecurity. I have been chasing womanhood all my life, and this felt like yet another barrier to it. Even if I didn't identify as intersex after reading about this, it's taught me I have quite a bit of unlearning to work on.

I am in no way qualified to declare PCOS to be an intersex condition, and I am not telling other people with PCOS that they have to be intersex, but I now identify as intersex. I love that PCOS awareness is a trending hastag on tiktok, but there is still so much more research that needs to be done, especially into this particular area. I read peer-reviewed journals from scientists and blog posts about individuals' real experiences and I found a term that feels like home for me, that fell in line with the way I had always felt about myself. I will still use she/her pronouns, because they also feel right for me.

When I experience things like this, I don't know what else to do but write about them. I hope we learn more about this, and I hope I can talk to someone who has also had this experience. Thank you.

#intersex #nonbinary #gender identity #genderqueer #trans #her #she/her #they/them #pronouns #lgbtqia #lgbtq community #lgbt pride #lgbtq #queer community #queer #diagnosis

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dani-sdiary · 22 days

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Vent: Autism Misinformation in Textbook

This is a homework problem and data set from my online Intro to Statistics class:

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"Is there a relationship between autism and what an infant is fed? To determine if there is, a researcher asked mothers of autistic (A) and non-autistic (N) children to say what they fed their infant.

A: Breastfed: 10, Formula w/DHA/ARA: 40, Formula w/o: 66

N: Breastfed: 10, Formula w/DHA/ARA: 24, Formula w/o: 11

Since data were collected for _2_ _qualitative_ variable(s), the correct graph to make is a _side-by-side bar chart_"

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Well, I am autistic, and, spoiler alert, it has absolutely nothing to do with what my mother fed me.

I was shocked to see a question like this in the very first week of the quarter considering I live in a very liberal city and go to a community college that strongly emphasizes combating this very sort of thing. Every syllabus is required to have a land acknowledgement, a DEI statement, and information and links to many campus resources such as access services, tutoring, the student counseling center, financial aid, and crisis hotlines, and many professors include additional paragraphs about respect and safety specific to their class.

Since this a remote course, I don't know much about the professor, but, from her written posts, she seems kind, friendly, and easy-going. My professor did not write this textbook, and I am unsure as to whether she, the department head, or someone else chose it for the class, whether it's used in Statistics 101 classes taught by other professors, nor whether she's used it for her previous classes (if any). I'm not sure how long the school or this class has been using this textbook or how long this professor has been teaching, but I am almost certainly not the only autistic student who has ever taken one of the most popular 100-level courses that fulfills a graduation requirement.

I do not believe that she had any bad intentions or saw this question as anything more than a random example, but it's my lived experience. We shouldn't have to deal with misinformation and stereotypes at any time, but especially not an in environment we're paying to be in because we want to learn and improve ourselves.

I am also going to school to become a teacher, and I completely understand the lack of readily available materials that are up-to-date. The textbook she assigned was free, which I really appreciate, and I don't want my complaint to lead to her switching to an expensive textbook and create a bigger problem for myself and my classmates. I don't think it's necessary to switch to a different textbook, and she won't be able to since the class has already started, but she might remove that particular question from the homework, or replace it with another. I'm not trying to cause a huge issue, I just wish I didn't have to deal with this. I'm tired of it.

Should I email my professor? Should I wait until the end-of-course surveys and leave a comment there? As I said, I don't have much information. Should I let it go and move on? Am I overreacting?

Unfortunately, I'm sure many of you have had similar experiences, from elementary school to college. What should I do? Any advice is appreciated. Thank you in advance.

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dani-sdiary · 26 days

Text

Waltz

I had a dream about you, right at the very beginning.

We were in your apartment, only, I don’t know what it looks like, because I’ve never been there, so, my dream filled in the blank with my childhood bedroom, the one with the New Moon poster next to the window. We laid down on my bed, on top of the covers and next to the teddy bear.

And you were kissing me, and feeling me over my clothes, and our legs were locked together with one of mine in between yours and the other over your hip. You gripped me so tightly it almost hurt.

And you kept moving us around, over and over, holding me tighter and tighter and arranging me however it pleased you. We started out with me on your lap, then you leaned back and laid us down, then turned us so you hovered over me, then you took us back to lay on our sides. You spun me around and around as if we were waltzing, because you knew I would let you. You knew I would follow you.

Then we heard my mother coming up the creaky stairs and jumped apart, but she never opened the door. She must have stood on the landing, changed her mind, and gone back down, maybe three or four times. After each pause, you went back to kissing me, as effortlessly as if we’d never been interrupted. Struck up the band, took my hand and my waist, and led me again.

And then I woke up, lying on my back, just as you had left me. I had overslept and it was much too bright.

I saw you later that day, and, I don’t know why, but I felt that you knew, somehow. You could tell. You knew I had dreamt about you, you knew every thought that had ever gone through my head about you, and you were just playing with me now, drawing it out, teasing me, biding your time until it was the right moment to tell me you were a mindreader. Or maybe you hoped I would break and confess. You must have been able to sense it on me, I wore it like perfume. The dream was palpable and hung between us like us frayed rope. What were you thinking? I wish I could read your mind like you do mine.

I couldn’t sleep that night for fear of it happening again. It didn’t, and hasn’t since, at least, not that I can remember by the time I wake up. Sometimes I worry my mind is keeping secrets from me, that I have dreamt of you again but the dream doesn’t want me to know. Sometimes I can feel you lingering over me as my alarm goes off, like the muscle memory of a dance.

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