Disordered Thinking and Organized Religion

Originally posted to my Facebook on August 24, 2026

I'm only going one specific place with this one today.

There are probably lots of ways to read the story of Job in the Old Testament of the Bible. Maybe that has to do with the personal questions you have going in.

It is fairly standard to read the story and calamity in the life of a 'righteous' man, and then the man's receipt of restorative blessings.

I'm fine with that interpretation. A good solid, what we call at church 'Primary answer' (aka - one acceptable and understandable by children).

I'm never really sure why certain things get left in the scriptures, while others seem to be left out.

The story of Job seems odd in the 'to-ing and fro-ing' of Satan on the earth. And God essentially telling Satan, 'look at the prime specimen'. I'm not convinced that is the way things went down. But I'm not the storyteller or the transcriber of this history.

It's entirely possible I've been reading the question section wrong this whole time. The way I read it - each time God asks Job a question (beginning in Chapter 38), we proceed with the flowery language / descriptors, which I also don't think are the point.

Sometimes you need the view from the mountain.

I think that is what God gave Job.

Not an elevated view of his own life.

Not understanding about his trials.

I think God gave Job a revelation about the foundation of the world, like you would read a scroll or see the expanse of the heavens. Maybe there was a conversation that included, "Look . . ."

where God would direct Job's attention to something He/They understand (having formed the earth for a specific purpose). And because Job was able to experience it (sort of) for himself (in a personal revelation), he was able to understand it (the majesty of God's world).

I'm not saying every trial becomes worthwhile. I think we've covered my opinion on the idea that God sent us to 'test us' (as malarkey). We might need a personal revelation about what we value most (a sorting of our own priorities by personal ranking or hierarchy, perhaps). I think God already knows us pretty well.

I do think, sometimes in the intensity of incredibly hard things (individual to each of us), sometimes we get answers to questions we didn't ask. And I'm not sure the individuality of those answers (and that time w/ God), weren't the actual point.

The restored blessings which came later were just the 'gravy'.

I'm not an interpreter of scripture.

Occasionally though, I wonder how often we can be told to content ourselves with 'what is' or 'current revelation' which frustrates the souls of the ones who need better answers.

Not a criticism of organized religion, just an observation.

Whether, possibly . . . spirituality is what answers God's questions, while religion only answers the questions humans can conceive to ask.

Disordered Thinking and Advocating for your offspring

Originally posted to my Facebook on August 22, 2026

When I was in elementary school, we had lunch first and left the cafeteria for the playground by ones and twos, once we were done eating. I guess that wasn't satisfactory, because they do it different now. I'm not sure who alerted me to the opportunity of staying in during lunch recess, to help bus tables in the cafeteria, in exchange for my reduced lunch ticket being free. But I jumped at the chance. I didn't really enjoy recess anyway (think AZ heat at lunchtime = sweat + dust).

However, when we had the end of the year awards assembly, those of us who stayed in to help in the cafeteria received certificates. It seemed a bit odd, but what kid doesn't love another certificate. And that is my first solid memory of advocating (or being obnoxious on another person's behalf). Hank was one of the taller boys in our grade, so he was hard to miss. He'd also stayed in the cafeteria to help during recess. But they didn't announce his name when it came time for certificates. So, I made a big deal out of making sure everyone knew Hank needed his certificate too. It wasn't fair for the rest of us to get them, and have him left out. He thanked me, which seemed unnecessary. In 5th and 6th grade, I had this absolute need to fight (verbally) when things were unjust. I argued a lot, with my parents, and my teachers, my classmates/church-mates, even (and especially) my friends and siblings.

I wonder how much of the deep sense of justice-denied (I felt at that age) is simply normal child development. I'm guessing it had more to do with the incongruous use of rules (and rewards/deterrents) I experienced then. The arbitrariness of it all didn't seem to be based in logic; and the cognitive dissonance (whether or not we had a name for that back then) was emotionally deafening.

All I wanted in 5th and 6th grade, so desperately, was to be normal. Instead, I became part of some post-Sputnik era, US Education Dept / National Defense Education Act (NDEA) program (aka human science experiment) aimed at enhancing educational opportunities for gifted and talented students (and those of us who came up with off the wall answers to Rorschach inkblot tests). Yes, I'm different; but gifted . . . well, if you consulted Mrs. Potter (our ELP teacher), she might have described it another way (willful, stubborn, unable to take direction). But I digress.

I've mused to myself sometimes that family members are the least capable people of advocating for their own children, when the root of the issue is genetic (or multigenerational). If the thing you struggle with most (as a parent human) is what is required for advocacy (for your offspring) . . . help me envision how that works. It doesn't in my mind (because although creativity goes with actual giftedness, it isn't something that I've been 'gifted' - how to envision something like that).

Like everything else, advocacy is defined by people who want you do it to participate in their process. So, advocacy can be documenting - what you observe, ie. the minutiae of diet, sleep, frustration, outbursts, meltdowns, their strengths, executive functioning, etc. Advocacy can be showing up for meetings other people called for their own purposes. Advocacy can be testifying at a hearing in front of a panel to plead for funding, or reciprocity, or compensation. Advocacy can be bringing people into your home or taking your child into public spaces to facilitate normal behavior and routines.

No one has ever said, advocacy is allowing your child to feel that life in his own skin is normal.

*I'm not being literal, it is possible someone has - just, not to me.

And yet, as I examine the memories - my best advocates have been:

(1) my parents - who let us talk, and talk, and talk, and talk, and listened to my siblings and I, almost as if we were peers

(2) my siblings - who were fiercely loyal, and in whose presence my being different mattered zero percent

(3) the girls at church who became my childhood best friends - even when I wasn't fiercely loyal, and their time investment might have been better spent elsewhere, but I only ever saw them as 'my friends'.

(4) the boy in Junior year English class (which I hated - the class, not the boy) who swapped writers notebooks with me when I got tired of writing song lyrics and morbid drivel (just to fill the pages at the teachers request) - and never judged me for being bat-sh**-crazy with how privileged I was, while simultaneously being completely self-absorbed/unaware.

(5) college roommates and friends who ever so gently nudged me toward some sense of normalcy by just including me, and inviting me to absolutely everything - even when my face told them, 'this is going to be an uphill battle'.

(6) the person who schlepped me to events, including me in their friend circle (after my divorce)

(7) And this, from a person who crossed my path recently: Why do you think you are bothering me?

To wit: the people who allow me to approximate being normal around them, while they ignore seeing all the other stuff and pretend it doesn't actually bother them.

Because at some point, what society assists in helping you learn about yourself (for better or worse) is in order to be accepted, you are going to need to learn to conform your behavior, your words, your appearance, and your tone to their standards . . . regardless of whether that requires you to turn yourself into a human pretzel (inside and out). And once you've done that = forcibly disguising your own personality and human traits by smothering them with . . . lies. You discover, you are still unacceptable (in very meaningful ways).

So, let's face it, I'm struggling to be human myself, and while you (my sons) may need an advocate . . .

I'm going to be mom.

And for as long as you need me, we will talk and walk together.

And you will be your normal

for me.

And for the rest of it, we'll just continue to develop

together

semi-oblivious, to the others,

until we are forced to into being obnoxious

on another person's behalf (or timeline/schedule).

Disordered thinking and long distance sibling-hood

Originally posted to my Facebook on August 21, 2026

My older sister once wondered aloud, "How would your life have been different, if you had come to college at Ricks (now BYU-Idaho) with me?" And if I never said it out loud, I certainly thought it: 'I would never have grown up . . . and you'd still have to be playing interference / caretaker for me.'

Instead, I went to college, found friends, made my own mistakes, (by some miracle) got married, had children, finished my Bachelor's degree, had jobs, and learned the truth of Victor Hugo's words: “To love another person is to see the face of God.”

My brain simply doesn't process words the same way as the majority of the people on the bell curve. So, I guess that makes me different.

Secretly, I think we are all a little different in our own way. Mine just makes communication a challenge (and everything tangentially related to communication).

It isn't something I'm proud of;

it just is.

And yes, sometimes it makes for a confusing, humiliating, rocky ride. But it is all I've ever known, so I have nothing to compare it to. Honestly, I'm more surprised when everyone else just assumes they understand each other - that seems more bizarre to me.

Less bizarre though, was using the pay phone in the dorm hallway to call home my first semester of college,

and crying.

The year my older sister left for college did cause a huge upheaval. At least a third of my friend base disappeared, along with her - so, most of the wise mentors and people I looked up to vanished. But I still had friends my own age, along with a part time job, school clubs, and church. There wasn't really time to think or be lonely (or think about being lonely).

I'm not sure I even felt lonely at college. I was alone with my thoughts so much of the time anyway, it didn't seem unusual. But nothing was familiar - and maybe that is the Autism spectrum talking (or age awareness). And that felt isolating.

There were no people (at college) with whom I had a shared history - unlike the quasi-puppy litter we were at home, all constantly stumbling over each other.

After you get to know someone, or spend enough time with them, you begin to see micro-expressions. Or you just become accustomed to what they do when they are happy, carefree, or quiet. I don't know how true this is, but supposedly there is a 55/38/7 formula that explains communication: 55% through body language, 38% through tone of voice, and only 7% through spoken words.

It takes me a little longer (than the average) to pick up on non-verbal cues, even though I look for them. I think I just have a hard time determining what they mean - feelings, intentions, etc. So when I went to college, not only did it take an incredibly long time to get to know people (beside my own roommate); no one knew me. And that second bit hit harder than the first.

If you don't realize people think they know you, because they quickly take in that 55% non-verbal communication of body language they are reading; it is easy to come across as shy or dismissive. And then they hear your words and tone of voice, and some people think you are abrupt, too direct, or rude.

And you are just on the side feeling overwhelmed and confused, because you can't read anyone . . . yet. And they've all made assumptions about you.

So, as my siblings age (and change), and I realize they are much more complex people than I knew growing up; it has been fun to watch them - mostly as (new versions of) people I once knew so well (as children). And I like to imagine they are still the ones who make that effort to bridge my communication gap; because they see me as I really am, (and maybe someday really will be - when I don't have to try so hard at this communication thing).

Disordered thinking and the boogey man

Originally posted to my Facebook on August 20, 2026

This may be one (in an ongoing set of posts) that makes absolutely no sense - to anyone else. Right now, I'm not even sure where it is headed.

Disordered thinking and the boogey man . . .

For every year you are alive, you gain more experience. Typically this also includes some knowledge and awareness of the world around you. It may also include some facts, stories, myths, and well-intended but poorly executed advice.

The boogey man, in my mind, falls into this last category of well-intended but poorly executed advice.

I grew up listening to this version of Pandora's Box

(many thanks to the YouTube user for this link:

https://youtu.be/AYph2G3kzHI?si=BLJVMre2EBxnOGED )

If you aren't familiar with the story, in a nutshell: Pandora is told not to open the box. She opens the box and lets all the bad things out, before slamming it shut again. And then, finally opens the box and lets hope out as well. It is much better if you listen. But I digress.

If morals, a code of conduct, or 'religion' gives you something to strive for, as well as things to avoid, in your pathway through life; this is generally thought to be good and helpful. When you experience disordered thinking, it is possible to get the incoming wires crossed.

So, the list of things to avoid (if you have no experience with them in real life) just sort of become an un-embodied boogey-man. Essentially, you *could* begin to fear stuff that isn't actually scary, and you might over-emphasize your behavioral obedience into a self-made straight jacket - just to avoid the boogey-man (or whatever evil is lurking out there in the 'scary' world).

Sometime between my 19th-21st birthdays, a college friend shared a story with me about an experience from his full-time missionary service. He and some of the other missionaries would get together to play basketball during the week at an outdoor court on (or adjacent to) the church property. And soon, some of the neighborhood children and young adults saw them and joined the game(s).

* For the record, I love to watch basketball (in person, not on a screen). I am simply amazed at what a human body can do, on a court, with a ball. My human body does not do that. Again, I digress.

The missionaries are technically assigned one day per week to prepare for the coming week - laundry, cleaning, shopping, etc. (I've never been a 'full-time missionary', so this list is rather vague). My friend told me the mission rule was something along the lines of: missionaries were only supposed to play basketball on Prep days (or during exercise hours?). And weren't supposed to use basketball playing, in place of teaching, with investigators - a guideline my friend and his fellow missionaries sometimes didn't follow to the letter of the law. They viewed it more as a form of 'building relationships of trust' (also a mission guideline).

The point of my friend's story was to help me understand, not so much that rules are made to be broken; but, not all rules, if breached, have an immediate negative consequence (or possibly any negative consequence at all). A principle that had been drilled into me during my youth.

I think of those days as some intense life-coaching by this friend who (I believe) struggled (albeit, incredibly patiently) to get through to me, in my lack of self- (and worldly) awareness.

As we've previously covered, I quite often struggle with the meaning (big-picture) of language. I'm not sure this friend ever felt truly successful, but the mighty try was endearing in a way I'll be forever grateful. The lessons repeat in my mind from time to time.

So much of my youth was spent trying to unravel meaning (or find any meaning), and paying attention to things I had no earthly experience with. So, until I experienced something for myself - or saw it played out by others - I had very little comprehension of the lessons involved (religious or otherwise). When I say, I think in pictures, I'm being honest. So, concepts meant to scare children and teenagers into being good just became anxiety for me - on top of all the other stuff I was already confused about.

With my own children, I avoided lying to them, if at all possible. And I did my best to call out lying (or mistruths) adults tried to pass off on them.

For example: when an authority figure informed my oldest they had a rule against standing in the window sill (that was 3 inches off the floor) during a parent night on campus, . . . I openly questioned (in front of my son) if it was really a rule, or if they just didn't want kids standing there, and to please give him an explanation.

And with my second son, when an authority figure informed him she was a 'handwriting expert', I didn't call her out (as perhaps I should have); but she lost my respect immediately.

Intentionally lying to children is stupid (in my mind), and generally backfires. Adults often aren't good enough story tellers that kids don't figure it out, eventually . . . even me (with some help).

If we want to talk about truthfully scary things - like poverty, hunger, famine, starvation, homelessness, genocide, etc. - we can label the boogey man for what it is. There are plenty of truly scary, evil things in the world. Why would we want to start fabricating them, just to prove a point? A question I'm still asking myself.

Disordered Thinking and Anticipatory Grief

Originally posted to my Facebook on August 19, 2026

The Facebook algorithm has begun feeding me lots of posts from: parents of medically complex children, Autism related groups, parents of children on the spectrum, and adults on the Spectrum themselves.

Most of them are good reading for me, primarily because we have shared experiences. And occasionally I'll come across wording for something I'm unable to explain; such as this gem shared yesterday (8/18):

Anticipatory grief is grieving a goodbye that hasn’t happened yet. (thx Amanda https://www.facebook.com/amanda.new.5846 )

To most people, this is probably self explanatory. To me this (experience) was revelation, the first time it happened. Though it hasn't been any easier to deal with each additional time - other than I recognize it, as a (personal problem) pattern.

My sister was convinced I'd had my heart broken, when I came home from my first year of college. I'm guessing she was looking at what I was doing (and not doing) and compared it to her own experience. And then told me so. At some point, if I didn't say it out loud (to her), I certainly thought it - 'Well . . . you would have to be 'in love' to have your heart broken."

So little did I know about love.

I think you can find yourself surrounded by people that influence your life for the better and not realize how much you begin to depend on them (the friendship safety net, or web), until you try to envision your future (without them in it). Then your mind begins to employ all kids of useless strategies to prevent that from happening - the future without them. Except in my case, with disordered thinking (and a huge lack of self-awareness) I live more in the day-to-day functioning realm. 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof' or however that goes - I'm so often overwhelmed by the moment, I forget to look ahead.

So, when I came home from college, the routine changed, the friend group was gone, the homework and long walks across campus were absent. Attending church with only my peers (and no children, parents, or elderly people) dissolved. Everything was different. It wasn't a single variable that changed.

I felt . . . strange. Absent. Lost.

How I'd begun to think of myself (or associate my identity, I guess), changed. And this seems to happen every time my greater peer group changes - as best I can tell. Church congregations, for instance; college classmates, (divorce, obviously), siblings living close by, etc.

If you don't know how you are feeling to even label it, it can be a challenge to describe it, or tell someone else how you are feeling - so they can help. You just begin to adapt to your 'new' normal and hope that in time you find some other people (or whatever else is missing).

This hasn't quite turned out to plan.

In each new season, there have been new family demands, and work demands, and church opportunities (we don't call them demands; 'volun-tolds' perhaps, but not demands). As for most adults (as I assume), personal friendships sometimes get relegated to the back burner of priorities.

I remember a friend insisting his young wife go and hang out with her girlfriends. 'Because she needs it', was his instruction. That also seemed like revelation to me, because up to that point, I looked on that as pleasure rather than necessity. And in my disordered thinking, pleasure was what you were required to give up when 'righteous' demands were high.

So as demands started increasing, pleasure became a very low priority (along with my mental health, sociologically speaking).

And now, I'm in another season of life, where I completely understand (as much as I'm able) the anticipatory grief that accompanies having children with Special Needs. There is a very real possibility that you may walk in the room some morning, and life may have escaped your loved one while you were sleeping. But that is just another in the bridge-too-far for my 'sane' mine to deal with. And with children, you simply can't plan for every contingency.

But I've noticed another pattern (or coping mechanism) . . . or mal-adaptive behavior, really. When I'm presented with something that feels real (to me), I short circuit the entire anticipatory grief process before it can begin. I let myself believe I'm living the fairy tale version of my life - not just fiction, but complete fantasy. And very soon I'll wake up. And I think my subconscious finds that sickeningly reassuring somehow; because as long as I'm able to mentally reinforce that (delusional) reality, it seems to carry me.

And I'm just back to living in my own make believe world.

Where everything is fine.

And we (my little family) are content.

And we want for nothing.

Because if we did want/need something, and I sincerely asked, Heavenly Father might desire to give it to me (just because He loves me and/or my kids).

And sometimes, it is just better not to ask.

Because sometimes Heavenly Father gives you exactly what you need, because the only words you can sincerely pray are 'Thy will be done,'

because

sometimes praying for anything (else) seems a little like lying to God . . . if that is even possible.

As if He didn't already know.

Sometimes disordered thinking leads to incredibly (dis?)ordered praying (and/or weeping, which just results in headaches).

Disordered thinking and self medicating

Originally posted to my Facebook on August 18, 2026

In October 1989, a religious man stated:

"It is my conviction, and my constant prayer, that there will come through research, through inspiration to scientists if need be, the power to conquer narcotic addiction through the same means which cause it.

"I plead with all of you to earnestly pray that somewhere, somehow, the way will be discovered to erase addiction in the human body."

- Packer, B. K., Revelation in a Changing World

As on other days, I'm here holding space for people who struggle, with addiction.

Years before I had my first prescription for Percocet, I heard (and felt) the strength of Packer's words, and the intensity of his plea to a congregation of about 7 million, and his Heavenly Father, about something I felt he likely never experienced himself - but somehow understood.

I'm convinced the only reason I've never suffered from addiction is I was never offered refills on my Percocet (and the education, warnings, and associated fear of what addiction could and would do to my body). And yet, I associate the effect of that medication with what I should feel like normally. A sense of release from the constant tension that exists in me.

If you haven't lived in a body that hurts or 'feels off' all the time, it may be easy to dismiss addiction as a lack of self control. I've loved too many people (who suffered with/from addiction) to know: that isn't the case. Yes, perhaps they chose a path you'd never choose, in their effort to alleviate their suffering. I'm not sure people who've never suffered in that way (or been with them in their suffering) understand the depth of what they experience.

While I am able to cognitively recognize the difference between the need to exercise and eat healthy and hopefully feel close to normal, and the urge to find something (anything) to help fix what is wrong; I've also never been so far down the road (of addiction) that I can't get back. I've seen people there (and cared deeply), and I've seen a few (miraculously) find their way back with help (not from me).

It isn't just addiction from self medicating through drugs/alcohol/supplements, I recognize. Its all those other things too - gambling, shopping, internet gaming, etc. My sister once commented that she couldn't figure out why I was listening to all the sad music on repeat, because it seemed to feed the depressive feeling in the room. So, I don't know how much of addiction is actually biological or neuro-chemical versus how much is behavioral or habitual.

I've heard that having a community helps. I've witnessed that being the case. I've walked next to friends in their struggle - sometimes without knowing / sometimes knowing.

I've heard it described as 'the otherness in me sees the otherness in you'. And maybe that is why, at least a part of me, feels very (much more) at home with those who struggle (or have in the past). Not because I truly understand; I honestly don't think I do (on that level). Maybe the yearning for it to change somehow, is what my mind (or heart, or nervous system) understands.

Disordered thinking and parallel conversations

Originally posted to my Facebook on August 17, 2026

When I was in high school, I was offered a job working for a software startup. The husband in a family I babysat for worked as a stockbroker. At some point in the rise of interest rates (1986-1989), he could see the market turning, and saw an opportunity to launch his fledgling company for a new stock trading software on the Apple platform. At the time I joined the company, it was just the owner, some behind the scenes investors, and an older-lady receptionist.

Keep in mind this was the 1980s when home computers were just becoming a thing, and Apple's Macintosh were more user friendly than the IBM DOS. The older lady and I overlapped a few months. Once the boss taught me the file system and how to process credit card transactions, he let the older-lady go. He tried to explain to me, she was a lovely person, but didn't quite get what he was working toward. I commented something like, 'Oh, she just operates on a different wavelength.' And he agreed.

We've all had grandparents, I assume, who simply lived a different (and perhaps in some ways, a simpler) life. Without the latest tech, the need for things to be instantaneous, wasn't really a thing - unless you were talking about obeying your mom (or dad . . . depending on who wore the pants in your family).

I don't necessarily think the receptionist suffered from disordered thinking, geriatric dementia, or even old-age. She was just raised in a different era. And I wonder how much of what we expect from children & teens in (the pressure-cooker of modern) life, is the result of disordered thinking about child development and how we acquire skills, as well as sound judgement . . . sans experience making lots of our own mistakes.

Then again, I'm reminded from time to time that my mind is the one operating on a different wavelength. I've described many a conversation to my sister(s), only to have them reveal the subtext, plot, or true nature of the discussion from what I tell them didn't make sense to me, at the time (or even later).

It makes complete sense that my sons and I would sometimes have parallel conversations. They are boys (men), 21+ years younger than me, and experienced a different home life, school system, and religious upbringing than me. When I have mom-brain, I'm not always focused on the details of what they are telling me at the time. Their sense of urgency, or desire to communicate slips my notice; because there was so much conversation in my home growing up - toddlers to teens and in-betweens. I forget, they (my sons) rarely talk, just to canvas the day. It nearly always has a specific purpose (the limited utterances), and if I don't catch it the first time, it may not come back around again during my lifetime.

Trouble with English?

Originally posted to my Facebook August 14, 2026

Not everyone has this much trouble with English as their first language. Right?

I'm looking at this post

and thought #1 is "enduring joy",

Sometimes it does feel like enduring . . . and I mentally explore what that would look like <<loading / buffering>> suffering through . . . when you know you are supposed to be happy, and you are, but its tricky, because it is also challenging . . . and

thought #2,

Oh. This is church. They mean lasting joy.

Imagine having this problem with every conversation you've ever had online / texting.

And sometimes even in person, when you struggle to read the person's facial expressions (or they're good at (1) poker face, (2) sarcasm, (3) joking).

I'm not sure whether this is disordered thinking or Autism, or both.

But it makes me feel crazy,

and slightly disabled

having any type of normal interaction

because half the conversation is lost in translation

in my primary tongue.

Analyzing my brain is unproductive

Originally posted to my Facebook on August 14, 2026

I know some of what crosses my mind on a daily basis isn't typical (whatever typical is - on the bell curve of mind musings). I also don't usually spend a lot of time actually thinking about it (how disordered it is). I don't have time. Analyzing my brain (to death) wouldn't necessarily be productive anyway.

There is something to be said for agency, and the ability to make personal choices; the concept of being free to act and not be acted upon. There is also the drive (or will) to rise above one's circumstances. Not being a trained social worker or psychologist, I don't have professional insight into when the balance tips, and you simply must employ more compassion to accommodate what is beyond a person's control. I'm fairly certain I do more than my fair share of inadvertently teaching maladaptive skills to my offspring by 'accommodating' them.

If I understand it correctly, psychology's big six events that put your mental health at risk, if not addressed properly, are:

trauma

loss of a loved one

chronic stress

relationship issues

financial problems

and significant life changes (moving, loss of a job, etc.).

I'm guessing that is the list for normal people, those who don't already experience disordered thinking.

If, say, on a regular basis (3-4 x per week), you catch yourself thinking the words "You really have no business being alive," at roughly the same time every morning (while plucking your eyebrows or selecting your clothes for the day), hopefully you also recognize it as disordered thinking. You mentally label it as such, and banish it from occupying any additional mental space in your head (or psyche).

I understand the strong urge for religious people to say, "Oh that is just Satan". And I'm not saying it isn't. It is entirely possible that before I came to earth, Satan (or Lucifer, or whatever he was going by at the time), and I spent lots of time arm wrestling on the playground, or passing notes in class - to the point that he pretty much knows me. But, I'm not going to spend a lot of time blaming things on some unembodied spirit either. I can't spend my life using that as an excuse (however true it may be). That would simply be too easy (for me - mentally).

At some point, you have to do the work. You have to address the problem (once you recognize it is happening) and deal with it . . . even if it something you unconsciously / subconsciously employed as a coping mechanism for something even more problematic.

For years, I attended meetings with 'professionals' about identifying areas of strength and weakness, along with targeted, measurable goals during Individualized Education Plan (IEP) meetings for my sons. Admittedly, I probably went in feeling a bit defensive, given what it took to get the meetings in the first place. The system itself is designed to wear you down. It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a Special Needs student, however deserving, must be in want of services. And services can be expensive (in the short term). So, a budget, in want of being balanced, must deny at least a few services - no matter how needed (in the short term), or deserving (across a life span).

The mental effort it took to not only attend the meeting, but deal with the fallout eventually exacted its price on me. I attended more than one meeting where the obvious 'hidden curriculum' was to 'diagnose the mother'. If you can make a sleep deprived mother (of a child who occasionally experiences meltdowns and other developmental delays) begin to question her own sanity, she may not be so eager to seek another meeting to request assistance.

I attended meetings where I was taken aside afterward and praised or congratulated about all the preparation I'd done, only to come away with a document containing everything we discussed, and nothing ever came of it.

And unfortunately, I also attended meetings where the clear message was 'the school has no role in this', which was effectively gaslighting (or outright lying).

If you keep going back to those meetings, it would be reasonable to question whether you are just reinforcing mental anguish upon yourself (and your own son/daughter, once they are old enough to be expected to attend in person). So, you think, hmm . . . maybe I should recognize this for what it is. And stop allowing it to occupy any additional mental space. But often, by the time you've come to that conclusion, your child is aged out of a system designed to accommodate and teach them, while purposely underfunded to make an education budget appear palatable.

I'm not sure when this post became political. It didn't start off that way. I was discussing disordered thinking, and somewhere my disordered thinking was hijacked by another disordered thought (or illustrative experience). The goal . . . it seems like there was a goal. Make discussing mental health more acceptable in the mainstream? I don't remember anymore.

I'm just tired . . .

Originally posted to my Facebook August 13, 2026

Not that anyone is actually worried about my mental health; but just in case these recent posts have given you pause, making you concerned that you need to check in (in person). I'm just tired. It tends to happen regularly around this time of year (haplessly coinciding w/ Max's bday). My sleep gets a little messed up. There are a lot more sun hours during AZ summers than AZ winters, and my internal clock struggles to adjust. About the time I realize I need a coping strategy (and then institute a change), the earth has tilted once again.

And I'm trying to avoid the OTC sleeping pills the online pharmacist influencers are warning cause increased geriatric dementia. I'd like to avoid helping any genetic predispositions from traveling that road faster than is necessary. These are the same OTC allergy pills that I heavily relied on to calm whatever it is that cause rashes, itching, welts, nausea/stomach upset, and headaches. Sigh - I'll need to make another appointment soon.

Years ago, in college, I dealt with some of the same social anxiety that appears to plague me today. I don't read the room (properly). I fear becoming an obligation (and/or burden). I allow situational social occasions to paralyze me (buying a birthday card, for instance). And I generally worry waaaay to much about what other people think.

Fortunately, I worry much less (existentially) about what God / Heavenly Father thinks about me, thanks to some incredible college friends. I'm not sure why my experience seems to be so very different from my peers. I go along thinking most other people experience the world similarly to me, until I'm confronted with the truth (or . . . someone else's truth . . . ?)

For so much of my younger life, I was educated (indoctrinated . . . manipulated ?) into believing there was a prescribed method for achieving or attaining most things. Probably, I'm guessing, because that was how it was explained to me. School teachers describe a process of calculating math problems, such as how you combine enough in the 'ones' column before you carry a one into the 'tens' column. Religious leaders explain the process of repentance (or the remittance of sins). Mothers demonstrate how to knead bread, sweep the floor, and tend to a baby. So, I guess I just naturally assumed there was a process for most things, and eventually you (I) receive(d) so much instruction in the myriad of life's education, I just began to replace my own internal compass with the instruction of my superiors (or subjugated it).

It is a bizarre way to live, come to find out. On one hand, you have people explaining a method that has worked for them (and countless others ?). And on the other, you also have them telling you that you will need to defer to God / Heavenly Father, your gut, your instincts, the Holy Ghost, logic, and sound reasoning. And at some point, you also hear that sometimes you have to simply make a decision and 'go forth'. And if that wasn't confusing enough - when you earnestly feel, as a child, that you've done all those things (in proper proportion), your decisions will be overridden by those same teachers, advisors, instructors, and occasionally parents, because clearly you've gotten it 'wrong'.

Fortunately, for the most part, my parents were very much in the camp of 'learning by experience'. So, we were able to test our own mental theories, make our own mistakes, and try working our way through things.

College was different, because somewhere in the disordered thinking, I had to reconcile my place amongst friends who now operated as family. In part, technically some of them were family, distant cousins who'd never met. But more so, I had to figure out how to let my guard down and trust people I barely knew. It wasn't that they were un-trustworthy. Really it was I didn't trust myself around them.

Sometime during the Spring of my freshman year, it broke me - the stress or strain of it all. So, I did what I'd been programmed to do. I took it to the Lord. I prayed a series of incredibly intense, desperate and weird prayers. Somehow turning this inadequacy over to the Lord, knowing I was in no way worthy of being friends with these people . . . and how much it was going to hurt to let go when they'd been so kind, generous, and welcoming.

And in response, I guess Heavenly Father answered the question it hadn't occurred to me to ever ask - with a feeling. And the only way I can think to put it in words is this: There was nothing I had done, nothing I was currently doing, and nothing I could ever do in the future that would change His love for me. To say it was revelatory would be an understatement. I'd never wondered about that, because religious people always made a point of communicating that however good we were, whatever good intentions we had, we were never good enough. And once we thought we were, we were probably guilty of pride - the worst of it all.

So, as a result of being cared for by my college buddies, I've never again wondered about God's love for me (or other people really). It was that overwhelming of a feeling.

It hasn't changed my feeling/being intimidated by humans though. You (I, we) might be good enough for God, but never enough for other people. It is an odd space to inhabit - disordered thinking.

What is wrong with me?

Originally posted to my Facebook on August 12, 2026

One of the more challenging (most challenging?) things about mental illness / disordered thinking . . . is realizing, only after the interaction (sometimes years or decades after) how much you've hurt another person, or made them uncomfortable.

Like the gentle little blond haired girl (see the story in past posts), whose life I made miserable. I was able to justify my part in that interaction for years. But, in truth, my reality matters very little, because she got hurt. And yes, she became the 'bigger person' and maybe it added to her character - being forced to interact with 'broken' me. That isn't the point (or, that isn't my point for this post - which hopefully becomes clear).

Years ago, my parents left me in charge, 'babysitting' my younger siblings. To this day, I can't remember what I was arguing with my brother about (not Max, or Paul, or James . . . though it wouldn't surprise me if it was around that same time when Max or James were little - just another in my series of unfortunate events of the time). At some point, this went from words to threats, on my part. He said under no circumstances would he hit a girl. Imagine what I did to elicit that from my own brother. Well, in stubborn fashion, I told him to go ahead and hit me, sort of daring him - or egging him on. So, he restrained himself, and just elbowed me in the stomach. It took the wind out of me, with no other lasting effects. However, when the interaction was basically done, I took a cheap shot and shoved him on his way out of the room. He has a scar to this day from where he hit the corner of the wall.

And if that was the singular unfortunate instance between my closest younger brother and I (at my instigation), the regrets would be less. To this day, I look back on that and wonder where my head was. The argument and shove were bad. But later that day, when my dad brought my brother home from the hospital with several stitches in his forehead, I felt bad . . . because my parents had to spend money to take my brother to the hospital and get stitches. And I tried to hand my dad all the money I'd saved from babysitting the neighborhood children. Normal people would feel bad about hurting their sibling. So, what is wrong with me (*was . . . what was wrong with me)?

It isn't my intent to dredge up every bad thing I did in my life just to illustrate the disordered thinking posts (or entertain you). At some point (if you see features of mental illness in yourself), you really want to do better, and not have so many of these type of interactions. It would be so easy if I had a brain tumor, or some other actual physical thing (other than the white-matter 'scar tissue' that appears in my MRI, likely the result of a car accident I caused in front of the high school my senior year). Then, I could point to it - not as an excuse, but at least as a reason for my lifelong awkward and bad behavior - something external to my actual deficient personality.

As an adult, I've gotten to the point where I've begun to self-censor. I'm convinced some of my long-time friends started that (self-censoring) as children . . . or never even had the insensitivity in their nature that would require it. I would sincerely be content not to have more of these type of 'learning experiences' in the future. While they make for great stories, they are rather devastating to any desire I have to interact with humans on a personal level.

I can sometimes even see it coming, unfortunately. And unless I act completely disinterested, with my emotional fortress surrounding me to protect those on the outside, somewhere my DNA (or lack of self control) acts like an emotional venus-fly trap. People get close, and unless some intervention occurs, they regret ever meeting me, or consider it a 'close call' when they escape, relatively unscathed.

I've even taken to telling some people, when we meet, that I have a mental illness - just so they can keep their distance. Some of them laugh to shrug it off; others laugh uncomfortably because they're not quite sure if I'm joking or being dismissive.

At this point, I'm not really sure either.

Because I can't honestly tell, if

(1) I just have an over-active sense of anxiety/panic about human interaction

(2) I've exposed myself to the concentrated 'sunlight' of the societal/religious magnifying glass for too long (resulting in burns)

(3) I've raised the expectations for myself (and human interaction) to some absolutely ridiculous standard

or

(4) I really am just that bad (inept, inexperienced, complicated, mixed-up) when it comes to people.

If you lack self-awareness and/or self-insight, how do you really know whether you have mental illness (disordered thinking), or whether you've just been gaslight into thinking you do . . . in which case, you are still vulnerable . . . and will likely to end up hurting people (emotionally . . . albeit, unintentionally).

Tuesday, August 11, 2026 would have been Max's 45th birthday . . . had he lived

Originally posted to my Facebook on  Tuesday,  August 11, 2026 (what would have been Max's 45th birthday).

Every teenage boy should have a good group of friends.

The ones pictured (and others) were incredibly generous to my parents (Jay & Marlene Keller Omerza), coming by on what would have been Max's 17th birthday.

Max would be 45, were he alive (on earth) today. I know the birth years and dates of all my siblings, but sometimes I forget none of them are in their 20s, or even their 30s anymore.

I really have no words.

But I'm grateful to every person who orbited our lives in 1997, and since, particularly the ones who knew Max (his peers, the adults, the parents of his peers we only met later).

Max's friends shared stories with my folks, after his passing. Funny stories about teaching Max to drive a stick shift before he had his permit (and was legal).

One of Max's friends (in these picts) came to Tucson with his school band while my little family was living there (maybe it was Thatcher or Payson . . . man I'm getting old). I remember being so impressed at the time how kind he was, thoughtful, and mature for his age.

In our last family picture with Max (not included here), Max is quite a bit taller than me, which isn't surprising. To me though, every new experience with Max was a bit of a surprise. I only lived at home with him for brief periods, after he turned eight, so I never really even knew him as a teenager. And the more time that passes, I'm even more grateful for the pictures . . . every single one that gives me a glimpse of the little (big) brother I hardly knew.

In some ways I feel incredibly connected to him, but maybe that is just a figment of my own fertile imagination. We are siblings at least; we share DNA, and family history. In many ways, he intellectually left me in the dust a long time ago, like 14/15-ish. He started learning Japanese that last year on earth.

I'm counting on the fact that he's been busy since.

Sometimes we break things

Originally posted to my Facebook on  Monday, August 10, 2026 

I've no idea what my brother Max was feeling those days (or weeks) before he took his own life. If it is anything like I've been feeling the past two weeks, I sure hope it is all out of my system by tomorrow (for his birthday). I could use a little hope and light right about now. It becomes less cathartic as I go (writing these mental health posts)(if it ever was). I think it's referred to as 'sitting with your feelings' - and that is a bad place sometimes (for me).

You know when you get yourself into a situation.

Yes, that is intentionally the full sentence.

Sometimes we break things.

And we can't fix them.

There aren't any apologies that soothe, no salve that heals, no repair that binds what is broken . . .

if there are even any shards left to pick up and glue back together.

Sometimes

it is just that bad.

Or at least,

for all we know,

it is.

So, we hold out hope for a Savior of the World to fix what we royally screwed up (once recognition hits - our place in it).

That is the through line for Max's logic, at the time, I think.

I didn't know it at the time.

I can completely relate (ok, let's say, I just imagine that I can).

I am not the best sister

(Jason could vouch for the truth of this statement - he has better sisters - another story, another day) . . .

or the best friend.

When Kambi and I were in 6th grade, we had different regular classroom teachers. For several years though, we'd been in the ELP (Extended Learning Program) for 'gifted' (or unusual) kids. I left my classroom during English (I guess they call it ELA now) and went to the Library where there was a glass room. It was the southwest corner of the school library, where the room was partitioned with solid walls at the bottom and glass windows from about the 4ft mark to the ceiling. I'm guessing there were about 15 of us, maybe more. I remember some of their names.

I persuaded Kambi that after our math lesson in ELP (which if I remember correctly, at the time consisted of some pre-Algebra), our regular classroom teachers wouldn't miss us, and we could go home early for lunch. Provided, we showed up back on time when everyone was returning from recess. Both of our moms had signed passes with the office allowing us to walk home for lunch. The library staff wasn't any wiser, when we waved and said we were headed back . . . and simply left campus. The story of the ELP teacher, Mrs. Potter, would need an entire post (or three), but to keep the timeline less muddy, she would tell us to finish our equations, turn us over to the library staff, and take her lunch break. So, we just took our lunch break too . . . after finishing our homework.

I know lying to the library staff when you are in 6th grade seems fairly harmless. Kambi hardly knew the nightmare I'd drawn her into. Over the next 6 months, we spent a minimum of an hour together daily, discussing what was hard and silly about life. We also attended church class together on Sunday, and probably something during the week as well. She became the friend who understood me, at least I think she really tried. She didn't realize she'd have to stand between me and the web of my own making.

Let it be said, people on the Autism Spectrum don't make the best group partners, especially if there aren't clear directions and understood expectations about roles . . . along with an intermediary when stuff inevitably falls apart. The social studies curriculum for 6th grade in Mesa Public Schools at the time called for learning about foreign cultures of the world. Kambi and our other partner had relatives that lived in Mexico for a period of time (serving missions for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints). Small groups of students would set up booths, give presentations, and the other kids would tour them - along with the parents on a specific day.

I don't know what my specific problem was, but I didn't like ELP. I didn't like the teacher. I struggled to get along with my peers (except Kambi). And Mrs. Potter wrote in my report card evaluation that if I wasn't able to conform and follow the rules, it might be time for them to exit me from the program.

It occurs to me now, that was the same year Max was born, 1981.

To make an intensely unhappy story short, I was a bad group participant. I argued. I hurt people's feelings. Our third group partner was an incredibly gentle girl, and I made her life living hell - quite literally. She was miserable. She cried. And it didn't stop there - she started having physical symptoms of stress . . . and it didn't last just that year. It went on and on (like, post HS graduation - the symptoms, not my active torture).

Poor Kambi, she was stuck in the middle; but fortunately the church had seen more growth, and the three of us were soon in different wards (church congregation boundaries). So at least Sundays weren't quite so uncomfortable.

There are things I can't fix for Kambi. The scarred relationship I caused between her and that other little girl (and her entire family). Whatever she should have learned in class, while she was off playing hooky with me. The road of deceit I led her down, which possibly made cutting class in HS much too easy. I'm still in touch with Kambi. She accepts my apologies with a laugh and a smile. (She knows where my demons hide)

The other little girl . . .

imagine a vessel that breaks into so many pieces that all you have left is sand.

I can't tell the story from her point of view, only mine, which is incredibly blind. I am a bad person - in this story (and others).

I do know one thing, God knows his children.

With the help of her parents (and Heavenly Father), she became an even more determined and pure soul. She is one of those people, if you met her, she sort of glows from the inside. Her parents were both that way.

So, when it became apparent that my being 'okay' with Max's death was very not 'ok' with my siblings, I really tried to do better.

I stopped talking about stuff that wasn't necessary. I prayed about what I could do better. I asked for forgiveness from Heavenly Father for hurting my family's feelings by being insensitive.

And

perhaps stupidly,

I sincerely asked

if Max had a message for the rest of them, that maybe

because they were hurting so bad,

they just couldn't hear it.

Maybe they ('heaven') could send it to me.

I don't know what I was thinking.

As if that would make anything better.

Maybe I thought if it came from him, it would be more comforting than all the stuff that so 'freely' comforted me (which I then blabbed about).

It certainly wasn't earth shattering.

But it came.

Max wanted our family to know he was ok.

He wanted our baby sister to know he was sorry he wasn't the big brother she deserved.

That part of the message seemed very insistent.

He wanted her to know that she should have had a big brother to protect her, and be her friend, and watch out for her.

This wasn't a message I 'saw' - like the other dreams (in pictures) - it was more like words and ideas, except for one.

He knew he was supposed to be there when she got to high school, to put his arm over her shoulder, be the 'big brother', tell her about 'life', and defend her from 'boys' . . . And now, he wasn't there to do any of that, and wouldn't be in the future.

(image: walking up/down the east ramp at MVHS with Max's arm over our sister's shoulder, like they are best buds, laughing and confiding in each other).

He was very clear, there was a big difference between what he should have been for her, and what was.

It seemed . . . uneventful . . . maybe less than what I was expecting?

Maybe I thought my closest siblings (Nikki & Jason) should have received something a little more personal, considering how deeply they were grieving. Or perhaps, for Stefani, Paul, or my parents - something family-centric, or soul soothing - a balm of Gilead, perhaps. Even James, the closest in age, maybe a wink or a nod, a laugh to indicate . . . anything.

But that was it.

And nothing after that.

The scroll rolled up and the heavens closed (or the other way around), and there hasn't been anything since (. . . related to Max).

Mandi was 11 the year Max died.

The same age I was when he was born.

At Max's funeral, I don't remember if it was our dad or Pres. Smith (our one-house-over neighbor) that said,

Christ (or someone) most likely took Max aside (in the spirit world) and pointed to his life, and said (in essence):

'This is where you departed the path (at death), and this is where you need to go (the destination). You can't go back and get on the path, and it is going to be harder without a body, but not impossible . . . '

I probably mangled that a bit. It's probably in the book

Mourning with those that Mourn: Latter-day Saints Share Experiences and Perspectives on Grieving

chapter eight, Max will always be my brother

I've personally wondered (sometimes in a bit of agony), why we have to be on the verge of being completely broken . . .

or in my case, nearly out of my living mind . . .

before

answers (like this- dreams, something concrete, a real message) come.

Why do we have to beg, and even then . . .

Is it really us (like we're instructed at church)?

That perhaps we are too busy, things are too loud, we're too hurt, or distracted. We aren't humble enough, or prepared to hear the answer that we need - such that we couldn't receive it,

if it did come. ? ! ?

If I didn't think it might make me a little beyond reach (forever), I might call b---s--- on that (philosophically).

I know Heavenly Father knows and loves His children.

I don't believe Heavenly Father (or Jesus Christ) are 'testing' us to prove anything to them. They already know we are amazing beyond comprehension - worthy of making a world for us to come and nearly destroy each other . . . we are so good.

But, if we have something to prove to ourselves, here on earth, I guess I have a way to go

to believe (and see)

what they see.

Keep on, keepin' on

little brother.

I'll see you on the other side,

whenever that day comes.