Ain't no thing like me, except me

My dad had a steep learning curve. He hated to see me like this.

“What’s wrong, son?” my dad asked me with concern in his voice while I had my head buried between my legs in the car as a massive panic attack coursed through my body. When I didn’t respond, he asked me again, this time more alarmed by my silence and with panic in his tone, “What’s wrong?”

“QUIT. FUCKING. ASKING. ME. THAT. You are only making things worse!” I screamed back at him.

Boy, that had to have made him feel like shit. Like I didn’t want his help. Like I was pushing him away. I still remember that exact moment like it was yesterday.

I always feel like a piece of shit for yelling at people that are trying to help.

Riding down Highway 98 in Fairhope in the passenger seat of his white Ford Expedition. The windows were down with the humid Alabama air rushing in, only making it harder to catch my breath as the moisture made the air feel heavier. Pops hand resting on my back to let me know he was there.

We eventually arrived at the E.R. at Thomas Hospital. Pops parked in the parking lot (say that five times fast) and didn’t say anything. He didn’t rush out of the car to carry me inside, or go into the waiting room to tell them his son was freaking out. He just sat there.

I’m really choked up thinking about it right now.

I know how bad he wanted to get me into the hospital to make sure I was OK. I know how hard it was for him to sit there and do nothing. But he did. He just sat there with me in the car.

After a few moments, I looked up at him with bloodshot eyes and tears coming down my face and asked, “Can we go home, please?”

“Sure, son,” he said with a smile.

He put the car in drive and headed toward home. “Is it OK if I stop and go into the gas station real quick?” he asked. “Sure,” I replied, totally exhausted from the adrenaline that had just burnt through my body.

My amygdala didn’t go into fight or flight because a tiger was chasing me, or some shit. I was literally sitting on the porch drinking a beer when my brain decided to go haywire.

Anxiety is so tight.

Dad pulled into the station right by Gulf City Cleaners, a dry cleaning spot, and got out of the car. A few minutes later, he came out with a bag full of snacks and two big fountain Cokes. There were Reese's, PayDays, Almond Joys, Zapp’s chips. All sorts of shit.

No snack left unturned!

“Let’s watch a movie when we get home. Or we can hit the hay. Either way, we have snacks,” he said with the biggest smile on his face.

Onward we went.

When we got home, I gave him a big hug and said, “Thank you and I’m sorry.” He didn’t let me go but squeezed me tighter. “I am always here for you, son. Just tell me what you need.”

That was it. He acted like the incident never happened. And that was exactly what I needed. I didn’t need to talk about the past 45 minutes immediately after it happened. I needed someone to listen and treat me like I was “normal.”

I grabbed the Reese's and PayDay from the bag, laid down on the couch, and turned on the TV. “You took the PayDay?!” he said. “You little fucker.” We both laughed.

“How about we watch that movie with all the cool music,” Pops suggested. “The one with that little raccoon.”

He was talking about Guardians of the Galaxy (GoG). Neither of us had planned on watching it when it was released. But we both arrived there with a little help from the Universe.

But this wasn't the first time Rocket had come up between us.

“Dad! You and Mom HAVE to watch Guardians of the Galaxy,” I told him during one of my afternoon walks with Coltrane. My dad was a lot like me. He'd give anything a chance, especially if one of his kids recommended it. I sensed hesitancy in his voice, though.

“Isn’t that some superhero cartoon?” he asked. “I don’t know if I want to watch that shit. Seems chooky.”

“But it’s got great music! The songs we used to listen to while driving down the road in the Trooper,” I countered before singing the lines, “IF YOU LIKE PINA COLADAS… GETTING CAUGHT IN THE RAIN.”

It turns out that my oldest sister, LaLa, and her family had already given Pops the soundtrack from the movie.

“That music is fucking GREAT! LaLa gave me that CD, and I have been cruising in the car with the windows down. Your mother and I will watch it.”

“The little raccoon. Rocket. He is my favorite character. He’s like me!” I blurted into the conversation.

“A raccoon?” my Pops asked. “He must be a cool raccoon, dude! Gotta go! Love you!” And he hung up.

There is a scene in the movie where Rocket, a cyber-genetically engineered raccoon, takes his shirt off. His body has scars, implants, and patches of missing fur.

Star-Lord sees the marks and gives Rocket a look.

The guy is standing next to a talking raccoon, but the scars and shit are what get him?

But Rocket knows how people look at him. And at one point in the movie, he lets everyone know how he feels about it.

He's drunk and arguing with Drax, who calls him vermin. Rocket loses it.

He thinks I'm some stupid thing! Well, I didn't ask to get made! I didn't ask to be torn apart and put back together, over and over and turned into some...some little monster! - Rocket

That scene hit me like a ton of bricks.

I didn't ask for this shit either.

In 2005, I was diagnosed with a mental health disorder. I was 18 years old. It was tough to wrap my head around the diagnosis. I spent a lot of time trying to rationalize why this happened and what I did to cause it.

Maybe some of you reading this can relate.

I tried to hide my disorder, but it always managed to poke its head out. Whether I went into a full-blown panic attack that resulted in me asking the closest human if they could drive me to the emergency room, or a rush of intrusive thoughts that left me paralyzed and needing a ride home, I always had to explain why.

That sucked.

People often reacted with that look that Star-Lord gave Rocket when he saw his cobbled body. That look when someone doesn't quite know what to make of you.

“So, does that mean you are like, crazy?” a person once responded with a disgusted look on their face.

I got a lot of different reactions and expressions. None felt great. They sent my brain into hyperdrive and questions just filled it up.

“Am I broken? Am I crazy?” I mean fuck, you can really make yourself believe you are “some little monster” if you let your brain ride the roller coaster long enough.

My family has been there for me every step of the way since my diagnosis. I am very grateful that the Universe gave me these people. They are a large reason I am here to write about this. Them and Coltrane.

I’ve learned from watching my siblings with their children, being helpless as a parent has to be one of the worst things ever. And that’s exactly how my dad felt. It broke his heart when he was powerless to help.

But he tried. So hard. I love him so much for that. I am so fucking lucky.

Like I said, my family members had a steep learning curve.

Over time, through communicating what worked and what didn’t work, my family became so good at navigating those episodes that they should all have awards.

When I was learning to deal with my mental health shit, I’d ask my dad what was wrong with me.

He always had the same response.

“Not a fucking thing! You are Greenberry Taylor da turd (no spelling error). There is no one else like you,” My mom said the exact same thing, minus the profanity.

I don't know if Pops saw everything in Rocket that I did. But he knew how much that little raccoon meant to me. And that was enough for Rocket to mean something to him, too.

“Ain’t no thing like me, except me! That raccoon is too cool!” my Pops texted me.

Yup. Ain’t no thing like Greenberry Taylor da turd, except me.