The New York Times has a section called FAMILY. I have no idea what the fuck it means. For me, family is a tribal idea used to grind you into the dirt. Simple. Intimidation. This is the place in the publication that predominately reaches out to the Mommies. Journalists have to write for somebody.

Where it all breaks down, is the focus. When the anchors that you are focusing on, are the mothers of New Jersey, it gets weird fast. Zero in. This is the old New York Times. Women know their place. Telescope becomes another verb. “Family” means women. Money means dad.

It’s 1953. Only the Mommies care about children and can understand depression. Right. There was no depression in 1953. 1953 was the Year of the Hyena. The Big Girls are men. Hyenas are both genders. They do not care for children. They have yet to emerge from the cave. The question always, always, always remains Where Are The Parents. The parents are trying to survive. That is what it means to be a hyena. Most parents sincerely believe in the idea of the family. Holding it all together takes a magician. Add. One. More. Thing.

Disability. Disabled kids. It’s a spectrum. I am on that spectrum. I am high functioning. But it’s still a spectrum. There is a bottom line. It’s called death.

Disabled kids will tell you all about depression. If they can speak at all. What do you want. I want you to go fuck yourself. They might call it different things. The self. Whatever they call it, it disables them. It disables them, even while they watch from some extraordinary distance.