Rest in Peace With God, Mom and Dad.

I am a gifted Audhder. It means that I am in a world of my own. It was hard for me to understand people. I couldn’t understand why they did such stupid things. I saw my own stupidity too. They just didn’t make sense to me in theirs. I loved them and wanted the best for them but I just didn’t understand them. I didn’t know how to get them to understand me so I had to study them and learn their ways. It was a life well spent.

I have met so many amazing people who are all unique in their own way. My mom was my hero for that. I called her Superwoman. She was also far more competent in her body than me. I have had ME/CFS since birth practically. It has been my greatest challenge and life lesson along with my Audhd.

I compare myself to the fictional Adrian Monk. We are much alike. I am absolutely petrified of everything. My mom had to walk me through life and let me know that it was terrifying but survivable. My sisters were more than willing to help me and do things for me but mom wouldn’t allow it. I had to learn.

My Uncle Rick, my mom’s brother was in a horrific accident as a teen. He had a TBI, traumatic brain injury. It makes him unique and beloved by me. He can infuriate me but I love him. My mom’s family went through the horrors of the loss of his old life. They had to help him learn to live on his own far differently than they assumed before the accident.

He was also institutionalized where he was severely abused. I learned young the horrors of this. We all knew early that I was a sickly child. It was my mother’s and grandparents’ fear. I am also obviously female which makes the realities even worse. I had to learn how to survive not just this disease but far other realities as well.

My disease is neurological and effects every body system. The horrors of it are indescribable at times yet we do. We also manage to survive. We call it The Living Death for good reason. We also have a morbid sense of humor. It seems like it effects many Audhders so that might help explain it as well. We are unique. We tend to think outside the box and sometimes be outside the box.

My disease also afflicts females and those born as such more than others. As a woman who was born this way, we have a long history of misogyny in our species. Men who were born that way tend to not communicate so well. Women overcompensate and communicate in a million different ways trying desperately to be understood. But. Nope.

The consensus was that women so afflicted as me must be hysterical or crazy. We were institutionalized as such by our menfolk and sometimes womenfolk for it. This was the case of multiple sclerosis or MS. They proved their case long before us. They were an inspiration.

I was fortunate not to be institutionalized. The horror stories of women and some men are burned into my memory. The fact that they are or were younger than me is proof of how recently we proved our case.

We were dragged through hallways of hospitals and institutions. The medical professionals telling us that we could walk when we could barely talk.

We were ripped from our parents by police who charged them with child abuse for giving in to our hysteria. Those brave parents were helping us live and learn to live the horrors of The Living Death.

My mom always walked a fine line. Even though I wasn’t diagnosed until I was 33 years old, the problems were obvious to everyone. There was always a great fear between us of me being ripped apart from her. I learned to communicate very well, quickly and in many different ways early on for it.

Being born in Detroit and my Grandma moving to Portal, Georgia when I was young was helpful. Being around my elders, especially my grandparents who were born in 1900 and 1920 was also a blessing. They taught me much. I could tell you stories, honey child. And I do too.

I learned how shuck and jive with the best of them, in my own way. I wouldn’t lie but I learned how to figure out what they needed to hear. My daddy being a sniper in Vietnam was a huge help. I asked him to explain himself to me about almost everything. He was basically the complete opposite of me in absolutely every way and not just in gender either. It was infuriating at times but we both loved each other for it.

When Daddy was dying, he didn’t really understand what was happening. Hospice told me to administer liquid morphine if he was uncomfortable and chart it for them. It was only one night. When I went to administer it, the stubborn old goat clenched his jaws at the sight of the syringe. I told him that it was medicine to help with the pain. Then I told him that it was me, Darcy before repeating that it was for pain. His jaws were open. I took it as a sign of trust even at the bitter end. I was honored.

I find myself to be much more like him than I ever thought when we first met. We both bonded over the agreement that mom was crazy but we loved her, from the start of our relationship. She was the one thing that we both agreed on. Once we learned how to communicate, we were able to understand each other better. He was my hero too. Not just for his Purple Heart either. It helped make him who he was to me though, a daddy to the bitter end.

I always wondered why she made me call him dad from almost the beginning but sometimes she knew better than either of us. She was our shining light in some tough seas at times. Then she shrieked like a girl at times and we both rolled our eyes in unison. Like the time I asked them what reefer meant.

Mom was all in a twitter about where I learned that word. I knew that it was going to be a bad word somehow. She sent me to the fucking VFW hall. Did you think that they told me bedtime stories, mom? Seriously.

I rolled my eyes; looked at daddy and sighed. I had to shuck and jive my way through it really hard to get daddy to tell me what it meant. The stuff in a big ziplock bag on the top of our microwave back home.

I find it ironic that I both have to take it to miraculously treat my ME/CFS and PTSD. As well as it is horrific tasting and I absolutely loath being intoxicated. I was more than fine with giving up booze to be a Muslim. God has a sense of humor. That’s for sure. I talk a good game but I am such a light weight. Mom had to teach me how to fix that.

Daddy would take her out drinking thinking that he’d get lucky. She’d drink him under the table. He couldn’t figure it out at first. He didn’t like to dance. She loved it. She would dance up a storm and the liquor would move through her quickly. She was lucky to get him out of the car without seriously having to wake him up.

I learned a lot from them both about life and how to survive some shit. I miss them both so much. Islam says that we get to choose our parents, not anything else but that. I am forever grateful and blessed for having them as my parents. I wouldn’t be who I am today without them both in their own way. We certainly didn’t understand each other but we loved each other deeply.

When daddy was dying, we didn’t have to say what we both understood. I complied with his orders without hesitation nor question for the first time in my life. I had certainly dressed him down plenty and given him orders though. I am tougher than a Marine after all. He was my daddy but it still counts. A Purple Heart Marine too.

Boys were so impressed with daddy. You’re dad is a gulp, Marine. In Vietnam. Umm. And was awarded the Purple Heart for getting shot in the leg. You say this so cavalierly but I guess that’s because he’s your dad. Umm. Yeah.

Daddy did his best shuck and jive routine about having us home at a decent hour and such. He was most assuredly not in charge of almost anything. He was simply trying to get the boy accustomed to being told exactly what to do because we told him exactly what to do. He didn’t always listen though.

One day I was sitting in the living room with my husband as we saw daddy walk by and throw an arm load of metal at the curb. We tried to figure out what daddy was doing. When we figured it out, we just sat down. He had dismantled our built in grill with his bare hands and was putting it at the curb for garbage day. No big deal. My husband wanted to die that we were so calm about it.

Don’t all dads get pissed at themselves and dismantle grills with their bare hands? He was putting the garbage at the curb like any other good man would do. What’s wrong with you?

Daddy would sometimes say that it’s just Darcy when people would ask for an explanation about me. It was our common explanation for each other. My third husband sat in awe of us both at times.

He’s the man in the beloved photo of me at The Reflecting Pool in 2008. It was the year we finally got legally married. We had been Islamically married. It was okay. The FBI agent who had interviewed me before then understood completely and really didn’t care.

I also decided to work towards my bachelor’s degree as quickly as possible in order to join the FBI. A few agents had convinced me that it was a good idea and not as scary as it seems. I am a bit unique though.

It was also the year I became disabled before going home to Metter, Georgia to live with my folks. The acquired twang still comes out from time to time.

Okay. Frequently but y’all my nerves are plum shot to hell. It comes out frequently in frustration which sounds fricking adorable but that just make-in it worse now ain’t it? I know-un. It’s annoying as fuck. And yes, ma’am, I do cuss in the South and kiss my momma with that mouth. Thank you kindly.

Actually living in the South and not just visiting is a whole different thing entirely. The South just ain’t what us dang Yankees think it is now is it? I mean I went to the grocery store and the cashier asked me who I was. I was a bit taken aback just coming from DC but I snapped back to Southern and rural reality quickly and told her that I was Darcy. I certainly knew better than to say that my last name was Mohamed. That’s just common sense anywhere and quite frankly for anyone.

She asked me where I lived and I told her here now but that I was born in Detroit and moved from DC recently as a way to explain the dang Yankee in me. She then kept asking me questions as I kept answering, Yes, ma’am in utter disbelief. I wondered if some crazy spy came down there with me or something. It was creepy at first. I will admit that but small towns are small towns everywhere.

The woman asked if I lived in a specific house that was once owned by a specific woman who I certainly did not know. She then asked me if my parents were Miss Beverly and Mr Ronald. The Yankees from Michigan who retired over here. I must be Miss Lena’s granddaughter. She spoke so highly of me. It is amazing how grown up I am.

I finally got to ask her what her name was after an hour long conversation about me. She acted like she was nothing and I was some movie star or legend or something. I was thinking that this woman should work for the FBI if she doesn’t already because she knows everything. It is spooky for a spell. That’s for sure and for certain.

I would play spot the spy in DC as a lark. In rural areas, everyone is a frickin spy. I learned so much about people that it was eerie how honest they all were. No spy skills are needed when everyone talks freely about themselves.

Daddy was a sniper. He taught me how to spot things and how to camouflage myself. It was disgusting but he told me the reason behind everything, including smearing dirt on my glasses. Gross. I understood because it was logical. When it was illogical, I told him so. We didn’t hide our opinions at all. Emotions were far harder. We tried to keep a stiff upper lip and be strong for mom. That’s what we told ourselves and each other if we started to crack.

His nickname was Sarge in Nam. His last name being Kibilko, it sounded like the old tv show about a Marine, Sargent Bilko. He always told me to never trust a CO or an NCO. He also told me why. I understood why he turned down every promotion he was offered above Lance Corporal. He was always my CO though.

He was my Commandant and I was his Sec Nav but we don’t need to mention that. It’s a given in any strong military household or any household really. A good woman truly wears the pants when married to a good man. A great partnership doesn’t care who’s wearing the pants as long as the job gets done. My parents were a great partnership. I just technically outranked them both because they raised me right by being so wrong in so many ways.

We all led with peace, love and respect before dad and I went to war again. It was okay because we still loved and respected each other. Most importantly though, nobody was hurt and nobody lied. Those were the ground rules that mom insisted upon and mainly won. We sometimes did get hurt but we survived and we didn’t lie.

There were certain things that mom insisted that we don’t tell dad for his own safety. He completely agreed whenever I tried to go over her head. She was obviously our Commander in Chief so we were screwed.

When I told mom that I married an African man, she showed both of us who was our Commander in Chief. Daddy was a racist. It just was what it was. There was no convincing him. I understood that he was just fronting but I wasn’t sure how he’d react. I planned my exit and which relatives to push in the way or get them to quickly distract dad.

Mom had asked to simply see the photo. I trusted her not to tell daddy without my permission. I was mistaken, Madam President. She stood up; ignored my questions and went right over to daddy with it firmly in hand, prominently held with a smile of confidence. I couldn’t believe my ears as she talked so plainly and honestly about it.

This is Darcy’s husband. He’s from Africa. He’s an Arab Muslim. Isn’t it nice?

I was flabbergasted but even more shocked by daddy and I. He scanned the room for me; locked eyes with me; and said the worst possible thing before laughing to say that it was okay. His words? Yeah. They were and I quote, “Sand nigger, eh?” We tried desperately to get him to stop saying racist words, especially that one but it never worked.

When I started wearing hijab in front of him regularly, daddy didn’t even flinch. Mom had told him that I had converted. I was going to be wearing hijab and such. He asked questions about certain things and tested my limits plenty but he always did. I wasn’t his Sec Nav for nothing.

I rolled with the punches before privately complaining to mom, Madam President. I let off steam and then laughed at myself for being upset. We were all on the same team and loved each other. It was just his way of saying that he loved me.

It’s why I proudly call myself a nigger. He taught me reality. He taught me how other people would treat me and react to me. He did so in the best way possible. He niggered me with love in his heart.

He had always trained me for the realities of life. I took it to heart and learned how to control myself in the face of my worst fears. I was his brave little soldier and damn proud of it. We didn’t mention the blood, sweat and tears of the training. It’s just part of the process. Oorah.

Marines are some crazy sons of bitches. I apologize to their mommas but not them. I think that all service members are crazy but Marines and especially those in Vietnam are a unique breed. It shows when I introduce myself to service members of any kind of service whenever it was.

When I took the trip with my momma to the Wall, I was nauseous from the metro on a cloudy morning. I kept my head down and was talking to momma to calm myself. The boys in uniform were trying to impress some nearby girls about their service and sacrifice as they tend to do. I was grateful for being nauseous because I would’ve thanked them for their service before or while they were trying to impress. I didn’t want to ruin it for them.  I always explain exactly why I am thankful in the briefest way possible that says everything. I don’t want them to think that I’m a glad hander or something. God forbid. I tell them that I wanted to thank them because my daddy was in Vietnam. No more is ever necessary.

The Purple Heart Marine who was shot through the leg on his second back to back deployment and carried through the jungle to the nearest help before all being killed in action on a single day is both our sorrow and our greatest pride. He made it home alive when so many others didn’t.

He also defied doctors and walked again. He was my hero for all he lost and all he overcame from his service and sacrifice. I was always trying to make him proud and he was extremely proud of me for all I overcame, especially when it came to my disease.

It’s sad to say but that boy’s service rubbed off on me. It’s in the repetition. Things become habit. I’m still trying to make him and momma proud. I screwed up plenty but they were always proud of me. They were easy. They had to, right? I’m their daughter after all. The reality was that they didn’t. Not everyone would have accepted me for who I am. That says a lot about them and me.

We loved each other no matter what. Just no lies. We could always talk through anything as long as we were honest. Daddy put it to the test plenty as an alcoholic and addict. He worked afternoon and evening shifts. He would head straight to the bar and get plastered any old day of the week. He would then call and tell us in the middle of the night.

On the car ride home of Hell in which I stewed in my sleepy anger on a school night in the freezing cold as he explained how responsible he was being by telling the truth. He didn’t drink and drive. He was so responsible just like we wanted. Don’t worry. We serve too. Ain’t karma a bitch, Son? Or Sir?

We dressed him down the next day when he was hungover. No point in being forthcoming when he’s happy and being honest. He could run and I couldn’t. Then the police would come and tell him to go home with his loving family who he obviously didn’t deserve. Service members are often honest and forthright.

Daddy would tell us that he always thanked a fellow service member, even when they were arresting him. He was arrested both by MPs for going AWOL in Vietnam as a Polish American Marine. Not the brightest thing to do but it was Nam. Enough said as daddy would say. And he was arrested plenty by various police officers in America and perhaps overseas as a Marine. As daddy said, it was Nam. Enough said.

When I told daddy that I was going to school to be a medical examiner and work with the police to solve crime, he simply rolled his eyes before saying that he was disappointed in me. State, Darcy. State. As if Michigan State University was the worst thing in the world. Seriously. There is more to life than Michigan football.

I am sorry but MSU has an excellent curriculum with faculty who are experts in the various aspects of forensic science. The Michigan State Police Crime Lab is right there. Duh. That’s one of the greatest things about it.

That is when my dad yet again rolled his eyes. We were both being honest. I have watched more sports than I care to admit to because I loved my daddy and my daddy loved sports. I mean. I understand playing the sport of curling. It can even be mesmerizing to watch. I’m sure that he was high on pot most of the time but not always.

I asked him repeatedly why he was watching something so boring. He would say that there wasn’t anything else good on. I said that he could be outside playing. I know. I was born mothering people. It’s just me. He’d say that he didn’t want to, like a child. It was honest. I allowed it. As if I could stop him if I tried, right?

I couldn’t say anything anyhow. I somehow managed to be an equally stubborn jackass. I just have more patience and perseverance than most. It makes me a bit more deadly or stupid. The choice is up to the individual but the obvious answer is both. When my daddy repeatedly said, damn, Darc my entire life, the answer is clear. I am tougher than a Purple Heart Marine. I am sticking with my guns unless proven otherwise in a verbal manner. The physical would obviously not be fair considering our disabilities. I am sure there are plenty of them out there with tougher stories than mine. I have heard plenty but sometimes it’s fun to be a bit wrong.

This is what non neurodivergent people tell me. I personally like the irony in it and immediately tell on myself. I just told y’all that I’m neurodivergent, didn’t I? It was implied. I don’t want to hear any technicalities. I also know that I sound like Lilith Crane from Fraiser. We are neurodivergent and intelligent women. It fits. Ha. Ha. As she said.

I am certainly proud of myself and those who are honest with me, like my parents were and I am. We could always work things out together when we were honest with each other and talked things through. We didn’t have to agree on everything and we frequently didn’t. At least we were honest while genuinely listening and caring about each other. That’s all that ever matters, big or small. It fits every situation.

I actually think that a drug addict and current user with a mental illness actually told me that too. That’s why I always say that

Every life matters, especially yours.

God bless Nebraska and especially Her people.