FAH Syndrome (Fucking Asshole Syndrome) usually begins around age 15 in most boys. It happens when one part of the brain shuts down and the other part becomes active due to an overload of testosterone. All rational thinking, commonsense, cause and effect processing, language processing, short term and long term memory shuts down, and major behavioral changes occur. Mix all that with peer pressure, and you’ve got yourself a FAH.
In the beginning, a mother may call the doctor with the chief complaint of, “I feel like I am talking to the wall.” That’s all it takes to set up a complete physical exam. But, here’s an FYI for all you mothers out there: if all the test results come back negative and the only thing the doctor says is “Welcome to the teenage years, good luck, and just pray,” know for sure that you’re dealing with FAH Syndrome and there isn’t a doctor out there who can tell you how to get through it. With FAH Syndrome, all you get is a horse shoe and a set of rosary beads.
On the day of my son’s diagnosis, I was pissed off at the FAH doctor; I knew damn well I needed more than Seabiscuit’s shoes and blessed rosary beads from the Pope. I needed counsel from the mother of all mothers; Mother Nature. So, I called my girlfriend for help in contacting her. We lit some candles, poured some wine, and got out the Ouija board for an intervention. As soon as our hands touched the Ouija, the message came quickly. Ouija said, “BE STRONG AND KICK HIS ASS.” My girlfriend and I looked at each other, took a sip of our wine, and without even saying a word, knew that Mother Nature had come through; loud and clear. My girlfriend looked at me and said, “Oh yeah, and you better damn well listen, cause it’s not nice to fool with Mother Nature.”
With that being said, I opened up the archives and took out a “basic training” movie: Mommy Dearest, put a picture of Joan Crawford in my purse for strength, and hung another next to the Sacred Heart of Jesus; which now represented “tough love.”
FAH Syndrome is one hell of a ride. You do things you don’t want do; say things you don’t want say; and go places you don’t want go. You’ll never have more wine, vodka, and laughs with the girls than during the FAH stages. During my experience, the girls loved when I’d give them a reenactment of how I would kick ass on vodka. It was always a show stopper. See, Mother Nature knows that only women help women so she provided me with unlimited girl’s nights to keep my strength, stamina, and laughter. Yup—Sonny made me a DVD (Double Vodka Diva).
When times were bad, I resorted to trying to sell him on eBay to the lowest bidder. No one ever put in a bid; only responses of “Good Luck,” and “Just Pray.” Yup—the horse shoe and the rosary beads, once again. Fuck me!
Yes, FAH Syndrome may make you feel like dying at times, but what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I am now in what you may call a “remission period” of FAH Syndrome. There’s absolutely nothing going on. No movement. No drama, just what I call, “static animation.”
For now, this is where I regain my strength; though, I do suffer from some of the side effects from FAH Syndrome. Here are a few:
- Every time he talks about himself I look away in a catatonic state. The only way to regain my consciousness is when he hands me a glass of wine and says, “Can you hear me now?”
- My first and last words are “Whatever!” or “I don’t give a damn!”
- I can no longer pick him up from places where he is waiting outside because I have a sudden urge to drive like a bat out of hell straight towards him. Leaving him screaming, “Do you realize that you almost hit me?!” while I calmly say, “Chill out. Almost doesn’t count.”
- Sometimes at night after 2 am, I will just get out of bed, walk in his bedroom holding a cardboard stick (which is always at my bedside) and hit him three times, then go right back to bed. It’s my friendly reminder that this is just a drill. If this were an emergency, good luck, and just pray; cause’ you may not make it out alive.
For now, I help my fellow sisters who are just beginning the FAH Syndrome adventure. I can tell if she’s experiencing FAH Syndrome when she starts the conversation with, “Can you tell me what the fuck is going on with my son?! Who the fuck does he think he is and why the fuck is he acting like this?” That’s all I need for a diagnosis. Three fucks and he’s out—He’s got FAH Syndrome.
No “good luck or just pray” advice from me; just a picture of Jesus Christ, Joan Crawford, and the magic stick. Then, the words of wisdom: “Be strong and kick his ass.”
Mother Nature must be proud of me because by me listening to her message and passing it on, the world has one less FAH to deal with. Shame on anyone who thinks that being a mother doesn’t have a global effect!!!