Apparently there's some big football game going on today. I don't know, I don't watch football. I attended one football game my freshman year and failed to grasp the appeal of a sport that can't go unpaused for more than five consecutive seconds. It was a game against BYU though, so at one point the big screen in the stadium said "Win or lose, you still live in Provo. Nuff said." That was worth the price of admission. This was back when it was Romney Stadium, before capitalism ruined it. Now it's named Maverick Stadium after a chain of gas stations. I kid you not. I refuse to call it M------- Stadium. In all seriousness though, this is like the biggest weekend of the year for sex traffickers, so... I don't know what I expect anybody to do with that information, but it seems like something we should all be aware of.
As it happens, I am busy all this weekend with unrelated things like moving out of my crappy apartment, so I'll make this mercifully brief. I've kept forgetting to follow up on a post from five months ago where I reflected on how broken and hopeless I felt after being told much too late in life that a. oppositional defiant disorder is a thing and that b. I was diagnosed with it as a child. The only thing I have to add is that I brought this up in group therapy, and I can talk about this because I can talk about the things that I talk about in therapy, just not the things that other people talk about. My wonderful fellow group members were pissed on my behalf about the timeframe and circumstances in which I got this information. My wonderful therapist, who was considerably older than me, said that in his experience the majority of ODD diagnoses are wrong. It's basically a label that mental health professionals can attach to behaviors with zero regard for context or motivation. That's exactly what I thought when I heard the term, but of course I have no expertise to judge. And he said that even when the diagnosis is correct, most people grow out of it anyway.
I'm cool with that. Psychiatrists aren't gods, and frankly the more I look back the more I feel like if the ones I saw were much good they probably would have been stationed almost anywhere else besides St. Lawrence County, New York. So for now, I'm going to go with the assumption that I don't have this made-up disorder after all. Because, as I detailed in my earlier post, it was far too late in life for me to give a damn about overcoming an alleged disorder that nobody could be bothered to tell me about for well over a decade, the only real difference this makes is that I loathe myself a little less than I did immediately after getting the unwelcome news. And maybe it turns out that I'm not quite too broken for somebody to love me someday.
Nah, that's pushing it.
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About the Author
C. Randall Nicholson is a white cisgender Christian male, so you can hate him without guilt, but he's also autistic and asexual, so you can't, unless you're an anti-vaxxer, in which case the feeling is mutual. This blog is where he periodically rants about life, the universe, and/or everything.