First, there was a peer conflict with teasing and bullying, so Angel suggested I take Kiran on a walk to get away from it. He actually took me on a walk, though, moving at an almost impossible pace, in like zig zag motion (we kept bumping into each other??). He was carrying the full recycling bin (our ostensible task was to bring it to recycling by walking a long detour). We had to cross a busy ass street with no walkway or light (because fuck you, city) it’s technically a highway straight through residential blocks with SCHOOLS ON THEM (double fuckyou, city, and DRIVERS)… back to the story: Thank god my feet were feeling okay. It was scary as hell crossing the highway with wreckless child, who was somehow leading me, because he was more confident about it. terrible. I wish I knew where the hell we were headed on this walk— I just WENT. It was beautiful out! It was late afternoon, the golden sun lighting greenery up, not too hot. I really love September. On the way back, he started running, like laughing and looking back at me. I said Oh my GOD, please don’t leave me, kid! We’ll both get in trouble! But then I decided to run anyway. I wanted to. I felt happy. Coming back with the empty bin (we put the stuff in the write dumpsters together, feeling accomplished). Walking back, he handed me the empty bin, and started running. I said, Oh if we’re running, you’re carrying the bin. He’s a very skinny 14 year old (90 bucks total?) with almost infinite strength when angry. He has not one ounce of self-regulation skills, no sense of proportion or logic, no ability to reason when stressed (most of the time), hyper-vigilant to threats (he tries to watch all the trees for falling branches that might “fall on your head and kill you” — he tries to make me watch for them, too), he’s sneaky intelligent, and friendly (opportunistic). But the fact was, I wanted to run with him. It was easier than breaking out into conflict with him on the public street. So I ran with him like 3 blocks! That is unbelievable for me. I was proud of myself and my feet. I felt that exercise seratonal boost from it. We came back into the house happy. But I also knew that he clowned me by running and wasn’t supposed to do that at all. So I was just putting off the inevitable interaction which is the main one he knows: conflict over rules with adults. It’s still better to have it in the property than off the block with cars driving by.

It happened over juice. First, I gave him juice when we got back. He was only allowed water though, and Angel was irritated with me, and sat me down, and explained what a dick Kiran was all day, how he cussed at her, kicked her, spit at her, etc. (his normal behavior when feeling threatened). Well, it’s CRUCIAL to get along with the mother and other staff (learned by making dozens of mistakes over the years) and you shouldn’t contradict each other unless the stakes are really high, like someone being abuse and you witness it, or really out of control or out of line. But if it’s a disciplinary difference, and I’m there to support her, I’m going to follow what she says. So, no juice. Nothing nice for that little asshole. Okay.

Ten minutes later Kiran comes up to me on the patio, where people hang out. “Can I have some juice?” He knows that Angel told me no. He knows that i’m going to say no. So I say it normally, “Angel said no juice, sorry.” He escalates in seconds. He starts cussing at us, “cunts, bitches,” “I’m gonna find a knife and kill you,” etc., and get away from him evasively and go in the cottage. All the kids have to go in when the crazy ones are going off. So (first we lock up all the kitchen scissors and knives), we just try to calm down and relax in the living room with Alice, the other house kid who’s there, and ignore him banging on the door and plexiglass as hard as a 300 pound man for at least 10 minutes. I wasn’t worried at all. I mean, I was a little worried about if he got through the glass and came in. He doesn’t really want to hurt us, but he throws shit and accidents happen, people GET HURT. Total ugliness. Best to avoid it. no need for restraining kids if you can just get safely away from them and keep an eye through the window on them. Make sure they don’t run off, or attack someone else, or do anything suicidal. He did finally calm down enough for two other staff to talk to him. We gave him dinner through the door to eat with them. He came in around 7, for TV, showers, and snack. He still tested boundaries (sitting too close to me, moving furniture, making loud noises— lifting couch up and dropping on floor), but was overall happy and completely forgotten about his plan to kill us. I hope he has a good first day of school today, but there’s no way a kid like that can function at school. He’s gonna hurt someone. It’s not fair to them to send him. But everyone gets sent. Better than him pacing the patio 12 hours a day, looking for things to be mad about. He needs a serious med change, but that’s a whole process. Needs to go inpatient. But no, they’ll wait till someone really gets hurt or dies. Or he gets arrested. Definitely headed for life in prison. Sad, cuz his IQ probably like 60. Like a lot of people in prison.
Kiran has been a ward of the state for his whole life. He’s like those babies who never got held in the orphanages. And these are the kind of kids born to parents who are addicts, mentally unwell, have disabilities, and no resources. Baby in a basket on the orphanage steps.

I realized this morning what I should’ve done about the juice. I forgot, for some reason. Probably because I was working hard to stifle my urges to lead and teach (let Angel be the boss because that’s her role even though it’s going poorly with them)— but I forgot the best response, it would’ve been:

“What do you think?” (about if you can have juice) Then I could lead him to show he already knows the rules, and make him feel proud for what he knows. It would’ve let HIM enforce a rule he overheard us discussing.
“Do you think you’re allowed to have juice right now?” He might’ve said, “No,” and smiled. He might’ve said, “Juice is only for MEALS,” reciting the rule (that I didn’t know).

He might’ve still started into rage because it’s the first habitual instinct, but with a soft tone and that question, there would be better chance for positive outcome. Note to self: please remember to turn it around, let the kid feel good and also surprise, distract them.

Now I’m mad at myself. Fucked that one up. Move on. We can mend that and go past it, next time I work in their house.

Alex is 10. She has a noticeably short forehead (there’s only like an inch and a half between her eyebrows and hairline. Her medium length, snarly brown hair is always in her face, like it’s growing in that direction from the damn forehead. She has a boyish body, obviously because she’s a child, but with some fat around the middle. She has a considerable overbite (consider it, because under duress she DOES bite), and has a goofy, unexpected smile. She doesn’t say ANY words except “go go go go go,” which has some relationship with going to the bathroom (and none with Dora the Explorer), but it’s not a close enough correspondence to time it right and “potty train” her. She wears pull-ups. It seems like at least sometimes when she needs to poop (or is already pooping), she yells like a wild animal and rocks forward and backwards, saying go go go. She knows words like “food, time to go, not yet,” etc., but doesn’t use them. She bites down on that overbite and grimaces her face into a smile, getting too close to the adult (me). She scooted right up to me sitting at the dinner table, because she was having nuggets and fries, but I had a frozen pizza. I had to push her back to sitting 1-2 feet from me, and push her face out of my face. Of course we gave her a piece and she ate the bread part of it. She was randomly (autistically) laughing and giggling at the table, at first I was thinking, maybe she doesn’t JUST want my pizza, but likes or trusts me? That would be great, either way, but I also smelled poop because she shit (loose, muddy stool!) her diaper while we were eating dinner. So who knows why she was acting affectionate and silly? She moves like a boy. It’s annoying they bought her all these short pink shorts and butterfly rainbow t-shirts. One time in the evening with her after changing her pull-up three times (of DIARRHEA), she went nuts in her empty, pink room (it’s a residential housing for orphan situations), slamming her head, hands, legs off the wall while crying. I felt so bad for her. All I could do is use her pillow to block the hits and try not to get bit. Her little pathetic face haunts me. I hope I get to see that kid grow up. I don’t think she has any family, been fostered or institutions her whole life. The first time I washed her I was nervous about her trauma, but she spread em and bent over for me to wipe her areas, so she was fine with it and used to it. She is SO HAPPY in the bathtub though, I love seeing her fascination with water and enjoyment of the sensory like a little fish. At least she has one happy place! She also now has a group of adults who really care about her. They noticed she had an ear infection and due to wearing wet headphones (sound cancelling), because she wouldn’t take them off in the shower. But they got an extra pair (pink, of course). I hope I’m there when she talks, if she ever does. I like working in that house.

I got my first plantar fibroma around age 10.
The parts I remember are: the scary, painful biopsy; the doctors counting me down from 10 to 1 till unconscious to perform the surgery, then sucking on ice cubes they gave me to help wake up afterward. My foot feeling swollen, numb, scary.
Waiting at my aunt Carol’s house after the surgery, in the attic with the dolls. Who knows why I had to go there post-surgery? No explanation of what the “bump” was or why it needed to be cut off, other than, it’s not cancerous. It’s benign.

A couple decades of feeling uncomfortable, off balance, and desperate to stop walking every time I was walking, which was all the time in New York.

I had another surgery in 2014, in the summer. A Manhattan podiatrist donated a “free surgery” to me, when I wandered in, saying how no one would help me. Podiatrists kept poo-pooing me, saying it was nothing, “take ibuprofen (or more) of it, or use ice/heat, or get special shoe inserts. Did all that stuff. Hips went off balance. Begin pinchy feeling behind neck, wings, and terribly tight thigh… avoiding the main locus of fibroma, now swirled and encased in scar tissue. (then encased in terrible, rotting scar tissue). Why the fuck do my feet stink so bad? I used Lysol on them at work. I shoved paper towels in my shoes. Once I put one of my favorite low-heel pumps in a bucket of litter because someone on line says it took away the smell. That’s sad that I really did it. And I had to throw both shoes away afterwards, of course. If litter removed smells, my cat’s litter box wouldn’t torment me daily as it does from the back of the kitchen area (by the trash).

I was living with Jay, married to him at my second surgery. The pain killers erase all memories of the recovery except him being mad at me for being high.

At age 47, I’ve been using a surgical blade (small, obviously) to shave callous and dead skin from the bottoms and sides of my feet almost EVERY DAY FOR YEARS, at least 2 years (do you know how much shavings that is???) and I found the baby bumps. They DO come as bumps or lines. They grow along all the lines, like knots and twists on a telephone wire. I’ve been shaving, shaving, shaving (skills based on youtube videos of podiatrists debride and cleaning out foot ulcers of diabetic feet), and believe me, there’s NO FEELING in dead tissue. The bumps are in dead tissue, but sometimes shaving them off— it bleeds. I found ‘near’ ulcers under the front pads, under very thick callouses. I found out 25% of my feet were dead, and removable.

I’ve never been a barefoot person, always a sock person. But now I’m a person who will not walk AT ALL if I don’t keep up with these nodules, these invaders, these growing scars that live among the children of the corns. Yes, I had a wart, too. Still shaving that area, and finding more scar tissue and tiny circles that bleed. Strips of nonsense.
I want to walk. I used to run! (before the scarification proliferation cancelled that hobby circa 1999). If I wouldn’t have gone verbally ballistic at work in April (or was in March?), I would still be sitting all the time. I was sitting more and more, eating candy, getting crazy fat (for me). I never had even a pinch or squeeze of waist fat before, and I do know. So I had to get up and on my feet again. But it turns out they’re disintegrating beneath me. I believe there’s real foot underneath, though, and won’t stop shaving until I can stand properly, and not hobble around.

What’s a good name for my client today? Let’s call him, Clay. Clay’s wires between commands and body compliance aren’t reliable. The higher the anxiety, the greater likelihood he will freeze, and it looks like a refusal, but it’s pure severance, failure or misdirection of signals, so his hand, holding an item to consume, like french fries or a bottle of water, stops halfway raised, and it won’t go further, even if people yell at him to drink or eat or walk, whatever it is, he can’t do it. You have to move the body for him, or at least act like you’re doing it, like a gesture of helping pull up pants after using the toilet. Sometimes you have to remind him how to walk, breath, one step at a time, first in, then out, and give some words to the event, for memorability, like left foot, right foot, drinky drink then put it down, raise em up, pull em down, etc.

After hours of singing, reading, taking walks, taking a bath, eating snacks, saying scripts from TV shows/movies together, we get tired. I doze in the chair. I think, I could climb onto that bed and we both take a nap. I could, actually, probably. But it would be in another decade, not this one. It would be weird in this decade. I’m starting to feel like we’re twins. I’ve let him latch onto me, and I’ve latched onto him, in a natural way, that could doze off.
I’m convinced that EVERYTHING is going in, while very little is coming out in words. He’s aware of everything. He just can’t say any of it. He can whisper sometimes. He can recite scripts that may have tangental meaning with the present moment. He’s great at mimicking things (so am I). We spend time just going back and forth with fake laughter, or saying something that he likes to say, sometimes nonsensical. There’s NO ONE else I’d feel natural having hours of eye contact and hand holding with but him. If he was a speaking, high functioning neuro-norm person, I could never do that/this. That’s AMAZING.

Who are they? What are they? What are their languages? My guy communicates the most with his hand, and facial expressions. You should see him show, “I’m just a little sad.” It looks SO SAD. But why, buddy? He cannot say “why” yet. I try sentence starters and connecters: because.. I’m sad because…” “I want… Clay wants…” He can’t finish them yet. I have to guess based on experience.

“My tummy hurts? I have to go to the bathroom?” “I have to go to the bathroom!” (question/prompt based on the smell of human gas emitted, haha)

I’m grateful for Clay. I wonder how long I’ll know him, work for his family. I hope we’re close until the end of my working, knowing times.

It could be true that the more you focus on what you really want and imagine it, the more likely it can manifest, be found, or be built. I really want to live in the forest. Not the city or the suburbs. Not a small town. But in the forest. With or without computers. With familiars, with pets, with forest companions. Okay, wait, I need a word processor, at least, and a few kitchen essentials: glass coffee dripper, cast iron pot, oils and herbs, a garden, a man (Odysseus), a son, (to slay Odysseus), the ultimate folly, an island, the forest, the body, pigs

Special education hospital residential programs run for non-profit appear similar to orphanages, and they have a similar purpose and function.
They are full of rejected children, and adults working for around 20/hour. Many adults come in feeling compassion, but it dissipates, because the kids are so annoying, disrespectful, gross, dirty, mean, aggressive, sweaty, bloody, covered in poop, etc. And the kids “don’t listen.” Why would they? Listen to who? Why? I want to tell staff: You’re no one. You’re no one to them. They don’t have to listen to you. They shouldn’t listen to you. You’re not even regulated right now. Adults join others in persecuting these kids for pay without much push. It’s contagious. One adults sees another adult tell the kid that’s been yelling all day to Shut The Fuck Up, he laughs, and they laugh together. Now they both think, Shut The Fuck Up, when the kid starts stimming. They want to shut him up. They want him to shut up. They want him to stop stimming. They have to change his pull-up again. Now you pissed yourself, they say, and drag you by the arm to the showers. Kid yells, fuck you bitch! Now they’ll get a strict response for the rest of the day. Remember when you said, Fuck you bitch, to me? Yeah, I aint doing nothing for you. No favors. Also, no snacks. You don’t like apples? Well that’s what we got. You should be grateful, having nothing else, right? They nod at each other. Kid starts swearing. Kid starts throwing furniture. And there you go again! Now you get hit in the head with a chair. Now you’re really pissed. No snack for bedtime! All prizes and rewards cancelled! He’s gonna learn to listen! You tell yourself. Worrying, why won’t he listen to me? Or DO WHAT I SAY? He’s just an asshole, he’s just a dick, shitty kid, fuck him. Still on the clock, aren’t you, getting paid to abuse kids. Take a break. Let me switch you out. Or I’m going to childline or adultline your fucking ass. If it’s me, tell me to go smoke, I will. It can happen to anyone. It’s a result of something I don’t understand. Some trauma shit, abuse cycles, dysregulation. Adults are kids inside. Kids are people.

When there’s a conversation happening between parts of yourself, when your mind is processing and stuttering on social propaganda that's beaten into your brain via societal osmosis (i.e. women are sluts, etc.), one option is to develop the conversation enough to beat or kill the voices that are against you.

If one says something like, “See? You’re a junkie, a moron, you have bad judgement, decision making, etc.” …

Those comments make me want to end my efforts.

It’s not even 5-star arguments that win against my basic self esteem, but any 2.5 star comment. “You are prideful and vain,” it might say.

Do I ever argue back? Hardly. “You’re right,” and I’ll drink to that, and I'll stop trying to grow friendships that will just die upon or in the soil of my personality that’s poisoned with pride.”

But you should NEVER stop trying to make friendships.

This morning I thought, while driving to Leo’s house to work for them, loving my dog the way I do (like a loved baby) is the same way I COULD treat myself. And why not? I could focus a loving light on myself the way I create it for my pets, and pet humans.

It would heal me, it would help me grow. It’s the magic, the love. So, do it. Argue back against the voices that degrade me, and all my efforts to live. My sins are petty, not grave. My sins are pride, and fear/disloyalty. My sins can be healed.

They’re not the sins of powerful men, or men with illusions of power. They don’t cause anything but inter/intra-personal shifts/movement/hurt feelings. These are okay sins to have or to do. They are normal for humans. We aren’t born knowing how to communicate.

But we are born primed for love. And we CAN love ourselves, despite EVERYTHING. That’s what I want to do and know— how far would I grow, and heal, if I shone love on myself, and argued back with voices that hate me, that have invaded me, that could be destroyed with one line of logic or another. Talk back to it. As if I’m protecting my pets, my children.

The morning when I got there, I was late (5 min., for the 5 millionth time), and I hadn’t logged out correctly from the time keeping app, and it looked like I tried to steal an hour’s pay, and Tracy told me, We need to be more careful. Then I turned my attention to Leo, and went with him to his room to watch TV. Then 9:15 struck, and I hadn’t set my alarms on the hour for the quarter after, when he takes medication. So looked MORE incompetent, and felt quietly ashamed of myself. Tracy came and said (with the utmost tact and kindness), once again, we need to be more careful. You’re right, fuck, fuck my stupid ass for being in the clouds.

We sat there for awhile in the quiet, finding the Roku remote, and I said to Leonardo, “I feel kind of bad and a little sad. I need to be more careful.” He lit up like a light and started bouncing on the bed, “Yes!” “I had an accident,” I said, and then quote a favorite song from Yo Gabba Gabba, where Muno knocks Fufa’s blocks over: “I’m so, I’m so sorry, I can fix it, I can make it better!” Leo was transcendent. Bouncing, triumphant on his bed. And he said, “You heard me!” Which is an example of him communicating an alternate use of pronouns and identity. He’s referring to other people saying, “You heard me!?” when he shows understanding of conversations that we thought he couldn’t understand. We thought he was just sitting there in la-la-land, but he “heard” everything. I showed with my face that I was in love with the fact that he knew that I knew that he knew I got reprimanded. He’s been reprimanded; everyone in that house has gotten the “You need to be more careful” speech. Tracy almost NEVER makes mistakes. She’s a workaholic, a saint, sexy at 60-some years old. Prettier than me. Size D boobs. Size small waist. Wide legged pants. Business professional attire. Make-up five stars. I love Tracy. Other possible names: Madeline, Anastasia, Giovanna, Calista, Tunisia. I feel like trash next to her, but it’s okay. We’re wearing sweatpants, while she’s wearing couture. But sometimes she also wears sweatpants. Then her husband makes fun of her, but I do believe she’s at his neck now, and he’s paying up. She’s an angel of vengeance. She’s an immortal goddess who speaks real Italian. So I repeated my comments, “I feel bad. I made mistakes. I’m so sorry.” And Leonardo laughed with his head thrown back. He knows wtf I’m talking about. Everyone does. The person telling you in a very fair way that you could do better. You have to! What else is there to do. You need to meet her expectations. And I need to meet his.

WF: Whole Foods fucked up when they joined up with Jeff Bezos and Amazon. I did use it. I did love it. Who wouldn’t!? Awesome prices plus to-the-door delivery and immediate refunds for spoiled fruit, or whatever. I miss it. But I canceled it because first of all, *moderate intensity, fuck Jeff and hope he and his wife overdose together somewhere, really hate Amazon, and because while the prices were great for a professional, they are out of reach for a nursing aide paraprofessional type (to which I have descended by choice and fate), so, no more Whole Foods. I learned about WF in NY and BK, when I lived there and Michelle was my girl. Her friend, Gerlinde. Unlike any other person alive, so happy! Gerlinde radiates joy, health, love, goodwill. She eats a raw food diet, vegetarian. She works at Whole Foods. I go to the one in Manhattan for the first of a few times. Two floors in Chelsea. I get my cookie ingredients and walk back up to West 34th. I limped the whole way, though, because of the Ledderhose activation. I was JUST starting to seek help for my foot. Got my first cortisone shot. Whole foods was air conditioned and smelled like flowers, a better life, an organically beautiful face and skin, higher class living.

Trader Joes TRADER JOES IS THE BEST STORE THAT EXISTS. They are trained to chat you up in the most healing way during checkout. They have LIKE 7 CHECKOUT PEOPLE. (Whole foods also has checkout people).

Does Giant Eagle have checkout people? NO! Does Kuhns have checkout people? SOMETIMES!

There are enough checkout people, and they TALK TO YOU, WHILE BAGGING YOUR FOOD. You don’t have to tip them for it, it’s FREE. The lady today asked me at least four questions about my day/life. And they know how to group and bag items, cold with cold, etc. And they have a NEWSPAPER. And their prices are SIMPLE AND REASONABLE. YOU DON’T HAVE TO GET A CALCULATOR OUR TO MAKE SURE A SALE IS ACTUALLY WORTH BUYING 5 OF THIS OR THAT FOR 30% OFF. The things always cost the same. All of their “copies” of “name brand” foods are on point. THEY SELL FLOWERS and AT A REASONABLE PRICE. Their choice of organic produce is unparalleled. God Bless Trader Joes. Trader Giotto.

Aldi: We call it “Aldi’s.” Aldi is one of the only company that makes NO POLITICAL DONATIONS. Trader Joes might be the same, but Whole Foods sided with big tech/data by getting in bed with Amazon. Hopefully they’ll “pull out.” God Bless Aldi, with your quarter slots on the shopping carts, with your free cardboard boxes everywhere, with your stunning cost cutting setup. Your produce is GOOD ENOUGH, unless I don’t mind paying a LITTLE MORE for Trader Joes. Your produce is often good, and sometimes bland, and your orange juice selection kind of a deal breaker, but the cauliflower crust uncured pepperoni pizza is— sometimes sold out. The “random shit” isle is fun for a broke ab like me. Finally to see stuff I could buy if I want to. I could “splurge” on a new welcome mat or something. I love Aldi, too.

Aldi is the most moral, practical company around. But they do have some self-checkout lanes now, for which the punishment by the public is (even more) shoplifting.