I feel like I'm an inside guy, I feel like I'm a three-tech or nose tackle.
I have spent the greater part of my life in a hotel room with seven or eight kids, looking after everyone, sorting out fights, wiping noses, handing out towels, not having a clean towel left for me.
I do like burgers, I do eat chicken - and I'm not proud of it, but I pick my nose. We all do.
I swear my car won't run unless I'm picking my nose: At least, I'm that superstitious about it, so I don't want to take any chances.
The Nose is a beautiful route. The best thing is that, in one day, you get to climb so much. You climb and climb and climb the whole day.
I used to hate my behind, like every other black girl. I hated my behind. I hated my hair. I hated my nose because no one said it was beautiful.
Far too often, children with developmental disorders are diagnosed solely on the basis of their observable behavior, slotted into broad diagnostic pigeonholes and provided generalized treatments that may not always meet their specific needs.
Mom was a school teacher, and she had to be at work at 7:30 every morning. So Dad was in charge of us three kids around the breakfast table. He always made it creative: he did the bananas with the smiley face and the eyes with peanut butter on top, made us drink grapefruit every morning even though we had to do it holding our noses.
Apparently, my father was funny. I didn't really know him, but people have theories that the gag-smith gene trickles down through the blood amongst other terrible traits like a big nose and a temper.
When I was diagnosed, I believed my illness would be my great, lifelong weakness. Bipolar disorder was to be my impenetrable prison, and I would be locked up with it in a castle Princess Toadstool style. Thinking there was no way out, I let it consume me.
