Dona E. Bowens

‘PPRECIATE

I know I’m getting old because everything annoys me. I don’t want to become one of those bitter old ladies, but all roads seem to be leading that way. Most of my bitching and moaning is related to language. I love English. It’s the medium with which I work. I love the bendy-ness of it. I could go on forever. But what I hate about English is when young people invent new ways to use old words that confuse that shit out of me. ” ‘ppreciate you.” First of fucking all, what happened to the beginning “A” in appreciate? And “‘ppreciate, me?” Sounds like you’re going to do something to me that involves crushing my windpipe and snuffing me out. “Keep talking, Old Lady, and I’ll ‘ppreciate you.”

SPACES

And “spaces.” Oh man, this one makes me homicidal. Everyone is occupying spaces and making sure there’s representation in certain spaces and proceeding with caution in new spaces and learning how to operate in unfamiliar spaces… Bitch! You’re talking about a grocery store. Not everything has to be treated like a goddamn social expedition. Be careful when entering the space between my fist and your face…how about that?

NEURODIVERGENT

Since I’m on a roll, let’s talk about new words for old problems. “Neurodivergent” comes to mind. It’s so new that the spellcheck on WordPress doesn’t even recognize it. This word irks me despite having been a mental health therapist for a good chunk of my life. Just seems that everyone needs to have a diagnosis for their weirdness and the names for the quirks are always changing to become more vague so that you can hardly recognize what the original problem was.

“Two neurons diverged in a normal brain.” What the fruit cup does that mean if your neurons diverge? Is it even neurons that we’re talking about? Diverged from what? Who is representative of the norm from which we’re divergent?

But I digress—or diverge, as the case may be. As much as I hate the new labels—let’s call them what they are, “labels,” I’m afraid my friends that I got one of those new labels and, goddamn it, I fall under the umbrella of neurodivergent.

Fuck. Me. Running.

I’m an HSP. Highly Sensitive Person. Yup. Took three different tests and it turns out the same every time. The result always is, “Haha! You’re a weirdo who cries at art museums and during concerts.” Sure do. I’ve accepted this aspect of myself for a long time because how can you NOT be moved by such beauty? What are you? Artistically-challenged neanderthals?

But HSP is not just about being moved to tears by art and music, it’s also about being rubbed the wrongest of ways by noises and harsh light. I had this overhead light in my living-room in Barcelona that I turned on once during my 12 years of living in that particular apartment. I only had to turn it on once to know that i didn’t want to live in my own house with a helicopter search beam drilling down on my head.

HSP got me plugging my ears when sirens go by, arranging lamps for proper ambiance, getting weepy thinking about Picasso and now here’s a brand new twist…I cry at parades. I’m talking about celebratory parades in which everyone marching by, and everyone watching people march by, is joyous…except me. No, that’s a lie. I am joyous, I just have a fucked up way of showing it.

Maybe this highly sensitive thing gets worse as you get older. So instead of becoming a bitter old lady, maybe I’m destined to be a constantly sniveling bitch of an old lady. I didn’t used to cry at parades, but there I was this weekend on Akron’s Main Street, watching State Champions Buchtel and Hoban march by with well-earned pride and I’m bawling like a 3-month old. I could’ve seen it if I had a kid on the team, but I don’t…not even a nephew or cousin. I have no relation to any of the players, cheerleaders or staffs, but something about the drum corp and the steppers stepping in jubilation got me to gushing.

I had to explain to the friend I was with, in true Gen Z fashion, that I’m neurodivergent, and while crying in the parade space is unusual, I ‘ppreciate my friend for not laughing at me like the clown that I am.