Awk Squawk: Backbreaker

The "back"story on my spine (whomp whomp) is that I'm all sort of hideously deformed: legs different lengths, tilted pelvis, two curves of the scoliosis, and my head isn't properly straight on my neck. It's a good thing beauty is only skin deep, because I have one ugly-ass skeletal structure.

This, understandably, used to cause me all sorts of pain. Aches, migraines, wailing and gnashing of teeth - just awful. Dr. Dad does not believe in chiropractors (MDs and Chiros and kind of like werewolves and vampires; they'll never get along and they're always bothered by whiny mopey chicks who want to be saved) but he discovered a new "osteopath" at his work. This osteopath proceeded to work all sort of miracles and actually MOVE MY SKULL AROUND, and I went from a migraine every two weeks to maybe once ever six months.

(We will call him The Spineanator, not to be confused with my beloved keychain Spiney.)

I really like The Spineanator; he's a nice young dude with an office next to Dr. Dad's, very professional, and also saved me from a life of misery and woe. I enjoy some good natured teasing (re: the flipper baby story) which is made more amusing when The Spineanator does not know how to respond to my screwball comments.

For example, a recent session:
[The entire duration of this conversation my neck is either twisted behind my shoulder, or he has me in a headlock and is bending me over a table. Again, super professional, but the must amusing position for Dr. Dad to walk in on.]

Me: So, Spineanator, could you like, break my neck if you wanted to?

The Spineanator: What?

Me: You know, if you wanted to, could you snap my neck right now and paralyze me? Or would that kill me?

S: I would have to have massive arms... like Steven Segal... but I would never do that. That would never happen. You're totally safe right now.

Me: That's not the point. So your arm muscles are strong enough to break my neck? Is it physically possible for you to do it, right now? Just snap it?

S: R. Grace, I would NEVER do that -

Me: Yeah, but I mean, hypothetically...

S: It would be really difficult.... you would have to be in a really weird position...

Me: You mean like right now? My chin is already behind my shoulder, isn't that pretty weird?

S: I don't know / I mean I've never tried / Not that I would ever do anything like that / I would never put you in any position that would endanger you

Me: So... in the movies, like Titus (best Shakespeare adaptation ever, fyi), you couldn't just come up behind me and snap my neck with one arm?

S: No... probably not... I would never try to...

Me: It just seems so easy to break someone's neck... Like when you read in Seventeen -

S: Can't say I've ever read Seventeen....

Me: There's all these stories about girls who get pushed into a pool and they just tap their head on the concrete and BAM - paralyzed right before their wedding. How is that so simple, but you've worked with spines for years and can't just - snap it?

S: Well we're trained to fix spines, not break them... and I guess in that situation it's their whole body weight coming down at an extreme angle on their head, so it's possible.

Me: So if you stood on top of the table and jumped down you could probably do it?

S: I mean, I don't know....

Me: HYPOTHETICALLY...

S: I don't know? I would never do that! I'm not going to break your neck.

[enter Dr. Dad]

Dr. Dad: Hey! Can I watch? We're so grateful for you, Spineanator. We had just given up on R. Grace ever not being in pain again until you came along. We thought she was going to suffer forever. What were you guys talking about?

Ummm...

The Satanists and CS Lewis Incident

I have a confession.

I am a bad Christian.

And by that, I mean, I don't have multiple CS Lewis quotes on my Facebook profile. Seriously, if I had a dollar for every Facebook friend who has that line about ~Is he safe? No he's not safe, but he's GOOD~ [get it guys, Aslan's a metaphor for Jesus! This quote is so deep. So. Deep.] I could buy a pair of pants at Anthropologie. But I don't plaster my Facebook wall with CS Lewis quotes because it's overdone or vastly taken out of context or because some people just post 'em cause it's cool and don't actually understand the depth and the need for conversation behind them. Well, you see...

CS Lewis kind of caused a major childhood trauma.

Our house is full of books - a bookshelf (or two) in every bedroom, and a big one in the hallway. Books everywhere. And as an awkward tween, I had plenty of free time to read for pleasure (reading for fun is a totally foreign concept in high school, except when you geek out and read the entirety of your Media Effects textbook because it's SO INTERESTING). I went through a big classics kick in middle school where I read tomes like "Peter Pan," "Mary Poppins," "Tarzan," and for some unknown reason, "Jane Eyre." In between these meaty books I liked to read your typical fluff tweeny-coming-of-age tale or one of my mom's murder mysteries. My middle school crush on Hercule Poirot rivals my current friends' swooning over Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock.

So I went to my parent's bookshelf to find a good murder mystery. Leafing past the heap of "How to Deal with Your Awful Daughter" and "Times to Torture Terrible Tweens" (which I also read for fun so I could learn how to sabotage my parents' punishments, haha!) I found a slender book in a purply-pink cover. It looked pretty old and well-read, and the lettering on the cover was gothic and foreboding. I requested myself away in my room to begin reading.

An hour later, I realized my parents were Satanists.

This book, you see, was correspondence between two demons on how to corrupt a good Christian. It was so frightening and utterly detailed on how to corrupt a good, pure soul that I put it down halfway in. Why would my parents have such a book? Why would it be so obviously well worn, and half-hidden behind the usual books? Wasn't I a good Christian - didn't I go to church and youth group and stuff? Maybe this was a key, a small snippet, a glimpse into the terrifying truth - my parents were worshipping the devil and just playing along until they could destroy us.

Suddenly, my parents' explanation for me not being baptized: "The church we went to when you were born didn't do infant baptism, and at this point we want you to make a conscious decision" paled in comparison to the real truth: they didn't want me baptized so I would have no protect when they tried to ruin my soul.

[[[[ Let me explain how I jumped to such an extreme conclusion. You can skip this part if you too would have totally believed your parents were the right-hand of the devil after uncovering a hidden, menacing tome of evil.]]]]
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1) I was a tween. Tweendom is God's joke on humanity. You hate everything. You hate yourself; you hate your parents. Everything is uncomfortable and nothing makes sense. Your brain is overwhelmed with hormones and the sudden capacity to do complex reasoning, without any sort of guidance on logic. YOU ACT WEIRD.

2) "I have a vivid imagination" doesn't even being to explain it. My imagination is through-the-roof wild. Usually this is a good thing in my chosen career and hobbies. However, at the time, it was partially fueled by a totally unchecked anxiety disorder. I was scared of a lot in middle school and for (seemingly) good reason. I now know how to stop being ridiculous, but ten years ago, nope. Grand ideas + fear = YOU ACT WEIRD.

3) Everything about the book seemed evil. I had seen television shows about this, I think. Every demonic possession movie has something about an old evil book. I might have just watched the Exorcist. Demons talking in detail. All signs point straight to hell. YOU ACT WEIRD.

end explanation
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What's a twelve year old to do when she thinks her parents are worshipping the devil? CONFRONT THEM ALONE, OBVIOUSLY.

I checked on Lil Watz in his room, reading peacefully about whales. So unaware. So uncorrupt. I could not let his soul be eaten or whatever my parents were planning on doing to us.

I carried the book outstretched away from my body downstairs. I don't think I was actually clutching a Bible, or had a circle of salt or anything. I was the most ill-prepared demon hunter ever. But you know, the power of Christ compels you or something or other. Lady mother sat in her favorite chair, seemingly innocently reading a book about a garden/bed-and-breakfast-owner-turned-crimesolver-in-a-sleepy-english-town. But she couldn't fool me, not any more. I knew I had to play it cool; I couldn't let on that I knew her secret.

"So, lady mother, I found this book in your room." There. Easy. Non-confrontation, open to interpretation. She looked up, startled. Was that concern in her eyes? Did she guess that I knew?

"Where'd you find that? I don't know if you'll like that book." Definitely a hint of concern. Why wouldn't I like the book? Because I'd find out her and Dr. Dad's secrets? Could she tell I was about to panic?

"I started reading it. I found it very... interesting." I stared at her. Knowingly. I raised my eyebrows. Time to come clean, demon.

She turned back to her book.

"MOM ARE YOU A SATANIST?" I half-yelped. So much for subtlety. She looked up, definitely concerned now.

"What? R. Grace, what on Earth, why would you think that?" How dumb did this demon think I was?

"I started reading this book. I know what it's about. You're looking for souls to corrupt. Why do you have this book? Why do I have to wake up early for church if you're a Satanist?" Gasp, gasp. As usual, I couldn't keep my big ol' R. Grace mouth shut and I poured out all my fears about this book. Most of them sounded incredibly silly once spoken aloud, though they made perfect sense in my head. Lady mother sat there, next to some embroidery project she was working on for a Nativity set, looking like the same ol' boring, reliable, loving Lady Mother I'd always known.

And to her credit, she didn't even laugh at me.

She explained that "The Screwtape Letters" was actually a very popular book with Christians, written by a really popular theologian named C.S. Lewis. I didn't quite understand how detailed instructions of how to corrupt a Christian was supposed to help Christians, but she said it was an example of what NOT to do, problems we face every day. I was more convinced when she explained this C.S. Lewis guy was behind the whole Chronicles Of Narnia series. She then suggests I try reading The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, as it might be more on my level.

"Eww, the Chronicles of Narnia? Those books SUCK. I'm definitely not worried anymore." And I went off to paint my nails electric blue and wallow in pubescent angst. I lived to be awkward for another day.

The Worms that Weren't Incident

Collegetown had a very mild winter this year, and for that I was insanely grateful.
You see, when I hear "Winter is Coming," I think of one thing:

Itching.

It also means Game of Thrones but underneath all that warm fuzziness of bloodshed and sex is scratch, scratch, scratching.

As mentioned in the Awk Squawk about asking a new resident if my treatment would give me flipper babies, I have eczema. It is gross and miserable and hideous. It also get aggravated by lack of sunlight, thick scratchy fabrics and long, hot showers. Those three factors define my winter in a nutshell. Dr. Dad is like a wool evangelist and as a doctor's child I have been sufficiently scared away from the cancer beds. I still don't understand why apartment complexes offer tanning beds as part of their "complimentary services," but you ask the staff for a pack of smokes and they look at you like you're crazy. And lukewarm showers in the winter? When I am paying for heating in my house and always cold? Surely you jest. 

Itch, itch.

These days, I have two powerful aids on my side. I possess super thick miracle cream from the doctor and very very (very very) mild soap. 

However in high school, I was not so lucky. 

First, I did not exactly know what was going on with my skin (Is this puberty? Dammit body get your shit together). Second,  I was the typical teenage girl obsessed with bath products. Super smelly lotiony all-moisture-stripping chemical-overload ground into my epidermis with a loofah? ... but the label says "Midnight Path" or "Brown Sugar Vanilla Bean Cookie Crumble"and who doesn't want to smell like a grocery store? Finally, big chunky (but still close-fitting? I never did figure out high school style) cable knit sweaters were "in." However, being in NC where it only gets legitimately cold maybe one month of the year, these big fluffy sweaters usually went on bare skin.

Or maybe that was just me?

Anyways, I was a senior and high school and AWESOME. Lead in the school play, President of the English Honor Society (nerd) etc. Winter hit and I reveled in turning down track&field because  I was so embarrassingly slow I wanted to focus on theatre. Our Advanced Theater class was a pretty close knit group, mostly because no one else in the school wanted anything to do with us.

A particularly scratchy afternoon in the doldrums of January began to drive me crazy. I had on a pink fuzzy sweater from American Eagle - I remember this specifically because AE was SO COOL but Lady Mother would never spend money on cool name brand clothes. This was before shopping at Goodwill was trendy. She wanted me to focus on things like my grades and personality instead of dressing like the popular kids, that cruel fiend. But somehow, probably through a combination of prolonged whining and Christmas-present-time-mania, I got an American Eagle sweater.

And it itched like the fires of hell mixed with poison ivy.

So I scratched all morning and afternoon, but I would not take the damn thing of because it was AMERICAN EAGLE, for crying out loud! I almost could understand Kate Moss's statement that:"nothing tastes as good as skinny feels," because no relief from the horrible itching would feel as good as the brief nods of approval in the hallway. Beauty is pain, right?

However, there came a point in the late afternoon where I thought I might actually start pulling my hair out just to distract myself from the itching. I figured enough was enough and I would finally cave and-

roll up the sleeves a little bit.

Hah, you didn't think I would actually TAKE OF THE HORRIBLY AFFLICTING SWEATER, did you? That requires a level of common sense not present in seventeen-year-old girls who just want to be cool.

That particular day in theater we had a substitute teacher. Subs were great because we could convince them to do almost anything, like replay the sex-on-the-stairs scene from American History X at least four times in a row before she got suspicious. We pretty much had free reign.

I rolled up the sleeves as far as they would go, revealing three-inch diameter red, scaly, horrible circles of eczema on the inside of my elbows, with smaller circles smattered around my wrists. I tried to discreetly cover them by crossing my arms and sneak some slow, mournful scratches on the cracked desert battleground of my flesh.

"OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT" came a screech from the girl sitting next to me. I honestly don't remember her name or much about her, except she had the prettiest dirty-blond hair I've ever seen. The substitute stopped her droning and everyone swiveled to look at me. I crossed my arms tighter with my hands clamped over the inside of my elbows. Of course, that only aggravated the itching.

Oh, fuck it.

Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch.

"OH MY GOD YOU HAVE RINGWORM. R. GRACE HAS RINGWORM. R. GRACE IS GOING TO GIVE US ALL RINGWORM OH MY GOD SHE'S COVERED IN WORMS." The girl was almost hysterical. Everyone stared at the scaly patches on my arms. The substitute looked like she was about to faint.

"Actually ringworm is a fungus, it's not 'worms'."

That was my first response. I didn't think to defend myself, or deny it was ringworm, or assure everyone they weren't crawling with disease and would be detained at Ellis Island because of me. I am so glaringly Dr. Dad's own daughter, I had to CORRECT HER DEFINITION of ringworm first.

"OH MY GOD FUNGUS YOU ARE DISGUSTING WORMS WHY ARE YOU IN THE CLASS"

Well that didn't help matters.

I tried to calmly explain to the substitute that it was just eczema, that it always looks like this, that I wasn't contagious... and she was just a vehemently trying to convince me that I needed to go to the school nurse or anywhere far, far away from her.

Trying to save face, I suddenly remembered I had lotion in my backpack. It was something like "Moonberry Dream Vanilla Blossom" with extra added chemicals and perfumes. Utterly the worst thing possible to put on sensitive skin, with the exception of possibly hydrochloric acid. Possibly.

"Oh look, I will just rub some lotion on it and everything will be better. No worries!" I said cheerfully, as I clenched my jaw and bit back tears of agony as I rubbed the reeking, chemically lotion into my scales, shooting stinging pain up my arm. The flesh puffed up and looked almost oozy, but at least there weren't flakes. My arms were burning. The itching had not died down, it was now just complimented with fire and tingling stings.

But I could tell from the judgmental glares around me that it wasn't enough.

So I slowly, miserably, unrolled my sleeves, encasing my sad battered skin with the rough, irritating sweater. And I sat on my hand for the rest of the class, counting the seconds in my head until I could run out of the room and rip off that horrible sweater once and for all.

Except, it was still an American Eagle sweater. And it was kind of worth it, since that one cute boy told me I looked nice. I might have worn it a couple dozen more times.