Vex Ed

Jennifer McHenry couldn’t get the images out of her mind: her own burly step-father pushing into her as hard as he could every night for god knows how many nights. Then there was the judge who only gave him a ninety-day jail sentence because of his “service to the community”? Ninety days could only last so long, but the psychological trauma was forever. Jennifer’s eyes were lifeless, her frown was saggy, her posture was hunched, and her emotions were dulled. She might as well have walked through this life as a zombie.

She paid no mind to the other high school students around her nor did she immediately wake up from her robotic trance when Martin Hitch, the sex ed teacher, entered the room with a handful of books. Everything around Jennifer was a blurry haze in her numbed out mind. Not even Mr. Hitch’s booming voice saying, “Alright, class, listen up!” could startle her like it did the other students.

The tall, middle-aged, crew-cut having teacher placed his palms on his desk and drummed his fingertips while everyone in the class was slowly quieting down. The fire in his eyes made him look like a hellfire and brimstone preacher. Just one word could send electricity through the bodies of those who disobeyed him.

“Now that I have your attention,” said Mr. Hitch. “I’d like to begin by welcoming you all to sex education. You may think this is going to be a fun-filled ride with plenty of pornographic thrills. But trust me when I say this, there’s nothing fun about STD’s and pregnancies. Genital warts, gonorrhea, HIV, there are so many nasty things that can come from sexual contact. And don’t give me that unholy garbage about how condoms will save you. They won’t. There’s only one thing that will save you in the end: just saying no.”

Jennifer’s droning haze turned into a sniper sight of anger. Her breathing sounded like soft growling and her eyebrows were tightly furrowed. Oh, how many times she wished she could have said no to her disgusting step-father. Two letters, one word, one syllable: no. Who was this teacher to say that a simple word solves everything? Her fists clinched as she heard his offensive oratory.

“That’s right, children,” said Mr. Hitch as he stood up and started pacing sternly back and forth. “All you have to do is say no and it’ll all be over. For those of you who say no, you can spare yourself from green paste and a fishy discharge coming out of your genitals. Those who continually give in? You’re just a piece of chewed up gum. And the more you chew gum, the less flavor it has.”

The fist clinching became even tighter than before and Jennifer’s head felt like it was going to burst like a bomb. Her heartbeat sounded like someone smashing a bass drum. The fiery sensation running through her body could turn this whole school into a matchstick, which lost its color after one strike.

“You don’t want to be a chewed up piece of bubblegum, right? You don’t want to be one of these fools who think that condoms and contraceptives are the panacea of sexual diseases, right? All you have to do is say no! Keep your pants on and never remove them!”

As the images of her step-father assaulted her mind like kicks to the skull, Jennifer let out a thunderous scream before jumping on her desk, running across the other students’ desks, and landing a flying knee right against Martin Hitch’s temple. While the teacher fell to the ground and tried to gain his wits about him, other students flocked to restrain Jennifer’s arms and legs while she screamed every obscenity in the book. Those who dared get in her way were met with vampire bites, soccer kicks, and boxer punches.

The other students began to back away when Martin stood back up and yelled, “Quiet! Shut up!” The frightened pupils backed away even further while Jennifer McHenry’s breathing intensified. Martin pointed an accusatory finger at her and yelled, “You are out of control, young lady! Do you realize what you just did?! You assaulted a teacher and now you’re in huge trouble, my friend!”

“Trouble? Trouble?” said Jennifer in a trembling whisper.

“Yeah, that’s right! Trouble! Big trouble, at that! You’re going to the Principal’s Office right now! You’re lucky I’m not calling the cops on you!” shouted Mr. Hitch.

“Who’s going to call the cops on my rapist?!” screamed Jennifer, turning her teacher’s authoritative anger into a somber frown. “I never wanted that secret to get out. I know how the kids at this school treat rape victims. You like to call us sluts and whores. You like to say we deserved what we got. You blame us for the crime because of what we wore that day. Does saying no solve everything, Mr. Hitch? I don’t think so! So I guess that makes me a chewed up piece of gum!”

The suddenly defensive Mr. Hitch held his arms out to control the distance between him and Jennifer. “Take it easy, Miss McHenry. It’ll be okay. I seriously didn’t know you were the victim of sexual assault.”

“It’s not the kind of thing I go around advertising on a daily basis, you sick bastard!” shouted Jennifer.

“Hey, hey,” said Mr. Hitch in a calm voice. “You’re going to be alright. You obviously need to see a counselor. We can hook you up with one after class is over.”

“I’m already seeing one,” said Jennifer with tears cascading from her eyes. “No matter how many times I talk about it, no matter how many treatments we do, no matter how many pills I take, it’s not going to make it all go away! I still see his face every night! I’m going to see him a lot more once he gets out of prison!”

A depressing hush fell over the classroom with neither Jennifer nor Martin knowing what to do. The two of them just stared at each other with bloodshot eyes. And then one by one, students quietly shuffled toward the door and exited the classroom. In a matter of seconds, the only two left in the room were Jennifer and Martin, still staring each other down, still at a Mexican standoff.

The tension was cut when Martin inched closer to his pupil and said in his softest voice, “Truth be told, I didn’t choose this curriculum. You see those books over there? They were given to me by the board of education. They were the ones who thought teaching abstinence was a good idea. As far as what I said goes…” Martin drew a deep breath. “I, uh….I was told to do that. I’m following orders. If I don’t follow them, I could lose my job and then I’d have no way to feed my family.”

“Bullshit! You’re a liar!” sobbed Jennifer.

“Jennifer, you need to trust me on this one. I’m being honest with you. If you don’t believe me, you can look in the text book on the top of that pile.”

The shaken student dragged her feet to her teacher’s desk and picked up said book. It was a hardcover book. It was heavy. It felt natural in her hands. She turned around and smacked Martin over the head with it, knocking him unconscious. She then assaulted her teacher’s desk by slamming the text book against it.

Only then did campus security storm into the classroom and try to hold her still. No matter how big and strong they were, Jennifer still bit down hard, she still kicked like a warrior, and she still punched like her fists were made with granite. All of the rage and all of the pain was accompanied by images of her step-father pushing inside her over and over again. The wet ending made her feel like butcher’s meat. And then her vision blackened as the last of her violent energy surged out of her body.

She could have stayed asleep forever if she wanted to. A dreamless state of mind was better than the fucked up nightmare she lived every day, now made worse by Martin Hitch’s speech about chewed bubblegum. Jennifer purposely kept her eyes closed for as long as she could before slowly opening them to a world of whiteness.

She awakened to find herself in beige pajamas while laying on a comfy bed surrounded by white walls. “Excellent. You’re awake,” said an elderly Indian woman in a white lab coat.

“Where…where am I?” asked a weary Jennifer McHenry.

“You’re in a safe place, Miss McHenry. The Principal was adamant about taking you to juvenile hall, but your sex ed teacher waved him off. He told me everything that happened today. You caused a lot of injuries in your rage. But there’s something more to this than a simple attack. You have something on your mind that won’t let go of you.”

Tears welled in the teenager’s eyes as she said, “What the hell’s going on with my brain, Doctor? I can’t do my homework, I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t pay attention in class…I can’t do anything!”

The doctor placed a sympathetic hand on her patient’s and said in the softest tone, “I know how hard it is for you. But unless you allow us to help you, we can’t find out what’s going on aside from the rape story. It may not be as simple as Post-Traumatic Stress. It could very well be schizophrenia you’re experiencing. If that’s the case, then managing your symptoms will be much harder than anticipated. But the most important thing you remember is…it’s not impossible. It’ll take time, but we have all the time in the world. Get some rest, dear. Treatment starts tomorrow morning.”

Once the doctor stood up and left, the door was closed behind her and Jennifer was alone with her thoughts. Actually, she wasn’t completely alone since there were nurses standing guard in case she had a mental health emergency. But for the first time in a long time, she welcomed her aloneness. She used this opportunity to have conversations with herself. They appeared to be quick whispers to the nurse’s outside, but in her world, every word meant building towards the big day tomorrow. And the big day after that, and the big day after that, and the big day after that. The road to recovery would be long an exhausting, but it would be traveled nonetheless, even if she had to walk her way to the light at the end of the tunnel with blisters on her feet.

Predator

VERSE 1
You took something of mine I may never get back
You took something of mine in a vicious attack
My soul, my sanity, my very spiritual essence
Taken away by the world’s harshest lessons
Never turn your back on a hungry predator
When it comes to the past, you can’t be the editor
Dormant and dumb, that’s how you left me
I might as well be a package of fresh meat


CHORUS
The tears, the pain, they were all for nothing
When all I wanted was the smallest something
How can I rise from the smoldering ashes
When you dictate my fate like a fascist?


VERSE 2
I let my guard down for the shortest of seconds
You were already waiting for me with your weapon
Sex and love became known as boots and blood
Of all the nights, this is my least romantic one
I want to vomit, but nothing is coming up
I want to cry, but my eyes are drying up
All that remain are flashbacks and numbness
How can anybody in their right mind love this?


CHORUS
The tears, the pain, they were all for nothing
When all I wanted was the smallest something
How can I rise from the smoldering ashes
When you dictate my fate like a fascist?


VERSE 3
Disgust and distrust are all the same to me
I’ve learned to hate you to the highest degree
So much venom running deep in my veins
Knowing none of this could ever be the same
I think about slaying my demons every night
With brutal barbarism and a warrior’s might
But in the end, I’m back on the same page
Another day to continue this cycle of rage


CHORUS
The tears, the pain, they were all for nothing
When all I wanted was the smallest something
How can I rise from the smoldering ashes
When you dictate my fate like a fascist?


VERSE 4
Demons and predators both equal shit
They like to say, “You’ve asked for it!”
No honor among thieves of the heart and soul
Bury all the wasted pieces in a fiery hole
You disgust me, so do all who support you
The gentleman in me says to just report you
Gentleman I am not, only a vengeful madman
Who will leave you bloodied in the badlands

Crystal Math

If Danica McKellar can write a book called “Kiss My Math”, then I can write one called “Crystal Math” and use the blurb “There’s never been a better time to get high…grades in school.” Let’s face it, you just might have to be high on drugs in order to understand some of these “laws”, especially if you’re taking physics. For me, math was a hit and miss subject. Whenever I took a class, I was either really good or really bad. I either got A’s and B’s or I got C’s and D’s. I remember one point in my scholastic career in which algebra came naturally to me. It was ironically enough during my freshman year of high school, where as many of you know I’ve had a lot of PTSD problems floating in my head. I was so good at math at the time that I would be happy to tell you what the cube root of 27 was. It’s 3, by the way. But math class was also the birthplace of where all this psychological torment began. Who would’ve guessed that simply standing next to an unattractive woman would spark a firestorm of rumors about how the two of us were in love (even though it was nowhere near true).  This all happened in 2000. A little under a decade and a half later, I have a dream about writing a book for my math class called “Crystal Math”. I wake up from that same dream without ever knowing what in the world would make me qualified to write a book about math. Realistically, I could write a book where math puzzles are used as obstacles for my characters. But a how-to guide on math? Not with a D+ in physics and a W in advanced computer science. So what exactly could this dream be telling me? That there was a time when I was good at math despite the hardships I went through, but I’m not anymore? If that’s the case, my subconscious is either telling me that the war is over or I’m a has-been. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. Maybe it’s trying to tell me that after everything I’ve been through, I can’t salvage the remains, because there are no remains. If it’s all the same to my innermost thoughts, then I don’t need remains to build a future. The past is something to be left behind. The present and the future are all that remains. The dream could be creative fuel, but the memories are not. My emotional makeup may be a byproduct of my memories, but if I let a whole bunch of crappy memories rule my life, I wouldn’t be here in Port Orchard telling you about it. I’d be locked away in a mental institution, most likely. The lesson of the day is, let the past be the past. If you can’t forget the past, seek professional help until you can. Nothing is worth agonizing over. If you let trauma rule your life, how exactly are you going to find the concentration to read “Crystal Math”? It won’t be on the shelves for a long time, but hopefully you understand my point.

　

***ANIME QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Every boy has the right to dream. Every man has the means to make those dreams come true.”

-Outlaw Star-

Psychological Literature

Not every schizophrenic patient is going to grow up to be the next Henry Lucas. Even fewer autistic people are going to be the next Richard Ramirez. And yet, the stereotypes of mentally ill people are running rampant in the movies we watch, the books we read, the videogames we play, God knows what else. It doesn’t just begin and end with people confusing schizophrenia for Multiple Personality Disorder. Even I did that back in the day before I became the person I am now. I’m talking about stories on internet news sites that say a mentally ill person was shot by police whilst holding nothing but a cell phone. And then there’s another story where a mentally ill person refuses to drop a knife while staring out in the distance. And then there’s another story where cops shoot a suicidal depressed person. These mental illness stereotypes aren’t just ignorant. They’re changing the way we look at public policy and criminal law. It has somehow become okay to shoot a mentally ill person simply because they’re automatically classified as evil serial killers or sociopaths. What does any of this have to do with literature? I’m glad you asked. I always appreciate it when a published book manages to portray a mental illness with honesty instead of ignorant fear. There’s a recently released memoir on Amazon called “January First” by Michael Schofield that chronicles his struggle to raise a daughter with childhood schizophrenia. Yes, she has become violent and argumentative. But is any of it malicious? Hell no. Something’s happening to her brain that she has no control over. The aggressive voices in her head scream violent orders at her until she actually does them. And then the voices want more, and then the voices want more, and then the voices want more. Speaking as a schizophrenic who’s had it since my late teens, this is what an accurate portrayal of what the mental illness is like. It’s relentless torture using sounds and imagery that only exist within the patient’s world. It has nothing to do with being a serial killer or a rapist. While it’s true that there are some serial killers and rapists who were classified as mentally ill, it doesn’t say the same thing about the rest of the disabled population. We need more books that portray this sentiment accurately. And for God’s sake, not every PTSD sufferer is going to grow up to fill an entire town full of holes like Rambo did in “First Blood”. Yes, we’ll reach out to those who can help us, but only if those people recognize us as pain-wracked sufferers instead of vicious monsters.

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“How can you just be yourself when you don’t know who you are? Stop saying, ‘I know how you feel.’ How can anyone know how someone else feels?”

-Dialogue from “Song of Myself” by Nightwish-

The Present Tense

When I was a writing rookie, one of the many mistakes I would make was mixing past and present tenses without realizing it. Everybody does it at some point in their rookie years. Now that I’m older and more conscious of the way I write, I choose to write in the past tense. However, after reading “Fifty Shades of Grey” and the first “Hunger Games” book, I’m starting to realize there are other options in that department. Those books in particular are written in the present tense. There’s something about the present tense that quickens the reading pace of a novel. There’s somehow supposed to be a difference between saying, “Oleg chopped the monster’s head off.” and “Oleg chops the monster’s head off.” I’ve often been told that present tense puts the reader in the moment as it’s happening, just like a movie would. The past tense merely tells a story while the present tense takes the extra step in showing instead of telling. It made me wonder if the present tense could ever be used in period piece genres such as fantasy and sci-fi. With the fantasy genre, the best way to utilize present tense is if one of the characters is telling the story around a campfire and using arm gestures to signify the action going on. With sci-fi, since it’s normally set in the future, it would be ideal to use a future tense, right? So far, I haven’t read anything that has successfully done it, so I won’t do it myself until I’m more secure with my surroundings. If all of these things are true about using present tense in narration of a story, then how come I’m not using it when I writing my own pieces of fiction? It’s because I’ve gotten so used to using past tense all of this time that I’m not ready for a radical change in style just yet. It seems like a little thing to change the words “was” and “is”, but here’s the deal. As a writer, you actually have to be aware of what you’re doing in order to be successful at sticking to a particular tense. If you’re so used to doing one thing all the time, then doing something else might result in too many errors on that first draft. So despite the strong case made for a present tense, especially on a blog about fast-paced books, I will continue to look back at the past for the moment. Besides, who’s to say that the past can’t be powerful as well since we have diseases like PTSD and schizophrenia? That would look particularly painful through the eyes of a first person narrator. Lots of potential power-wise.

　

***BUMPER STICKER OF THE DAY***

If you think education is expensive, try ignorance.

"Maus I" by Art Spiegelman

It’s never been a huge secret that what went on in Nazi Europe during World War II was disgusting on Hitler’s part. With “Maus I” by Art Spiegelman, you get a closer look as to how brutal the dictatorship really was, as told by Art’s father Vladek Spiegelman. Getting a hold of this information didn’t come without verbal sparring between the father and son, not to mention with Mala as well, Vladek’s new wife. Vladek lived his life appreciative of what little he had since that’s how he was forced to live during his time in Nazi Europe. He pinched his pennies and stashed his food, because he knew that any moment, he could be shoved into a concentration camp or killed on the spot like a lot of his relatives and close friends were. All of this senseless violence simply because he was Jewish. Art Spiegelman could have told his father’s story anyway he wanted to. He could have written it in novel form if he so desired, but instead, he chose the route of a graphic novelist. He chose to represent the Jewish people as mice and the Nazi soldiers as cats. I probably don’t have to tell you what that kind of symbolism is supposed to represent. It would be like contrasting dragons to people or spiders to flies. It could be that the reason Art Spiegelman chose to draw Jewish people as mice is because of the harsh way in which they were depicted by Nazi propaganda films. Art would never suggest that his own people were comparable to rats or mice, but he drew them that way to depict a deadly reality that took place in those desolate times. The few happy moments this graphic novel has are far between each other. There is no happiness in a place like Nazi Europe. Just death, destruction, starvation, and hard labor. You know that Vladek Spiegelman survived this ordeal because there are frames of him telling his story to his son Art. You wouldn’t believe that this was a survivor’s tale otherwise. It was that torturous. If this doesn’t depress the hell out of you, you’re probably being poked in the belly like the Pillsbury Doughboy. Buy a copy for yourself and see why Art Spiegelman won a Pulitzer Prize for his hard work.

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“She sees him laying in the bed alone tonight. The only thing touching him is a crack of light. Pieces of her hair are wrapped around and ‘round his fingers. And he reaches for her side for any sign of her that lingers. And she says, ‘You are not alone laying in the light. Put out the fire in your head and lay with me tonight.’”

-Patty Griffin singing “Not Alone”-

"Walking Your Blues Away" by Thom Hartmann

Tea-bagging queens across America are going to see the name Thom Hartmann and immediately start running for the hills, where their military assault rifles and large magazines are often kept. In “Walking Your Blues Away”, Mr. Hartmann spends more time talking about psychology than he does about liberal politics, so keep your pants on. In this particular book, which doesn’t even make it passed the 100-page mark (good news for impatient readers), Hartmann talks about the idea of walking long distances as a way of neutralizing traumatic memories. Each left and right step can be seen as a different way of performing EMDR to those suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. In the ages of tribal hunters and medieval warriors, they obviously didn’t have things like Xanax and Bupropion. They had to relieve their traumatic stress somehow and since cars weren’t invented either, they had to pretty much walk everywhere they wanted to be, and hence got the treatment they deserved. Imagine that: a simple thing like walking can relieve stress. It’s universally known that any kind of exercise can release dopamine and serotonin into the brain and those are the two chemicals that make people happy. The best part about walking is that it’s not hard to do even for people who weigh well over 300 lbs. Not only are you getting relief from your angering memories, but you’re also shedding some pounds in the process. You’re probably asking right about now if “Walking Your Blues Away” worked for me. The thing you need to understand about me is that I don’t have PTSD, I have schizophrenia. PTSD is an anxiety disorder and schizophrenia is a psychotic disorder, and yet they do the exact same thing: torment the mind with disgusting images and words until the victim can’t take it anymore. Walking in the sense of an EMDR treatment doesn’t work for schizophrenia. But don’t take this as a warning not to buy the book. Walking can still be beneficial since it does release happy chemicals into the brain. I’ve been a long distance walker since the 90’s and I feel great every time I return home from one of my journeys to the grocery store. Besides, the book is less than 100 pages long. You’re really telling me that you can’t get through less than 100 pages? Come on, now.

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Twisting and turning, unable to sleep. Do the voices ever stop?! My thoughts speak louder the more I resist. And they’re driving me insane! Do they ever go?! Inside, I’m a danger to myself. Inside, I’m a prisoner of my own hell. Losing the battle I’ve waged on myself. Lock me up and toss the key! Toys in the attic, it’s all getting worse. Why won’t they let me be?! Oh god, make it stop! Fit me for a straightjacket! Put me in a padded cell! I’m a danger to you all! And I’m a danger to myself!”

-Five Finger Death Punch singing “My Own Hell”-