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This is not a weight loss blog.

I started doing the Polar Plunge as a kind of reaction to something I saw once.

When I was married, I was the stepfather to an autistic girl, who, as it turned out, had features of schizophrenia (nothing we knew at the time). She could be difficult to be around and was prone to loud, jarring meltdowns both in private and in public that frayed my nerves and often left me feeling embarrassed and overwhelmed.

This was a point of friction between my then wife and me. She was a lot stronger than I was when it came to how other people saw us. At a Taco Bell once, a well-dressed woman with a son of her own, spoke up and said something about my stepdaughter's behavior and my then wife stared her down and told her something to the effect that she ought to shut her mouth and consider herself lucky that she her child was perfect and normal.

The woman recoiled in horror. Suddenly, people were staring at her.

My ex was very brave, but that kind of thing happened all the time. Every trip out was a blood-pressure raising, anxiety-inducing terror, even if nothing went wrong. After a while, I was just conditioned to expect the worst and just got tired of people maybe looking at us. I got tired of the whispered or not so whispered remarks.

At home, I felt guilty for feeling embarrassed, for not being wise enough or patient enough or tough enough to just let it slide, to not care.

It was a point of friction.

Because my stepdaughter was a different kind of kid, she was invited to participate in the Special Olympics. They held it over a the city stadium, which seemed full of parents, children and friends. Everybody was smiling. People were cheering the kids on, hugging them and many of the participants were just beaming.

It was just the most wonderful thing. Nobody was glaring at anybody. Nobody was whispering about what a shitty parent somebody else was or how out of control some kid was.

We were all part of the same agonizing struggle. We were all normal and everything was OK.

So, when I heard about the Polar Plunge for the Special Olympics, it was a fund raiser and an event to raise awareness, I thought what a great thing. It also suited me. While taking my little family to a Cracker Barrel might feel like being sent before a firing squad, jumping into a pool in winter didn't seem so bad, particularly if it helped other people get a break from the stares and whispers.

My ex never really approved. I think she saw it as a little self-serving and self-centered. I don't necessarily disagree, but as many resources that are offered for special needs kids, particularly kids with behavior issues, there didn't seem to be shit offered to the families on how to cope.

Looking back, probably I could have used a therapist.

I participated in the Polar Plunge five or six times over an eight year period. I took a year off here and there for different reasons. I hurt my shoulder one year and stayed out the next year. The year after my divorce, I decided to skip because, I think, I wanted to forget a little.

The years I did the plunge, I looked forward to it and dreaded it. I liked the spectacle and the experience was usually memorable. One year, it snowed and the Special Olympics let off fireworks donated by a coal company during the snow shower.

It was surreal.

In order to do the plunge, you have to raise a modest amount of money: Fifty bucks gets you registered and earns you a t-shirt. Beyond that, there are prizes based on the amount of money you bring in. Most years, there have been towels, sweat shirts, jackets and gift certificates.

One year, I earned a t-shirt and a towel.

My support for participating in the plunge has always been inconsistent. The plunge always happened during West Virginia Public Radio's winter fund drive. Some people resented me taping up a sign up sheet. Once, someone removed it. Another time, no one signed up, but a few people donated quietly. They didn't want their name on the signup.

I stopped posting a sheet a couple of years ago.

At my other job, the newspaper, donations were spotty. Co-workers would sign up, but then vanish when it came time to collect. A few tried to give me money after the fact. Sometimes, I took it because I'd already covered them.

There have been some high points. My second or third year, a group of area bloggers came and plunged with me. A couple of them didn't get in the water, but they contributed to my plunge.

It was a really cool moment.

A few years ago, I started posting the plunge details on Facebook. The Valedictorian of my high school class sent me a check for ten bucks. I got a little money from some relatives and lots of encouragement.

This year, the Facebook post was met with dead silence --the nature of what the medium has become, I think. It's less and less personal all the time and there's always somebody asking for a donation these days.

Also, when I posted my sheet next to the mail boxes at the newspaper, only two people signed up to help. A friend from the third floor of the building wrote me a check and my girlfriend chipped in ten bucks, but at the end of business the day before the plunge, I was still short twenty dollars.

So, I thought about it. I could just make up the shortfall and go ahead with the plunge. My girlfriend offered to fund me, but I shrugged it off.

Part of the event is to raise awareness. Maybe I'd done a pretty shabby job of raising awareness. Maybe nobody had the money to chip in five or ten bucks. Maybe they just thought it was stupid anyway; just another silly stunt from me.

I decided to just let it go. I could maybe come back to it next year, but if I don't, that's OK, too. Circumstances change. People find new tasks to undertake, new causes to support and find things to do that don't always involve earning a t-shirt as some sort of token to prove they care about something.

They move on with their lives. 

This is not a weight loss blog.