That’s not normal
An eight year old left to their own devices at home. Pushed out by siblings, escaping into a world of rapidly progressing technology. During the day, placed in a small classroom, unsure of themselves, coming home after school every day to parents that drink. More common than it should be, right?
I was seven when I started to feel it. Alone, at school, that twinge in my chest. Not pain, not delirium. Fear. Anxiety. I never really did my homework. I had little motive, was not really rewarded for it or encouraged to do it at home. As a result, I was often left out of a lot of activity, and berated. Even so, I never did it. I never did chores. There was never a reason. However, I was still afraid. Fear to even raise my hand to use the bathroom – I wet myself in school. “Something is wrong with you”. Family therapy started. I can’t remember why exactly. A lot of my real “family” life growing up is a blur, spotted memories of stern voices and arguments. Lack of patience. Parents trying to provide for their three children, myself being the youngest. You see, like many, I wasn’t meant for this world. My mother loves to share the story, “when I told your father I was pregnant, he said that was impossible”. She laughs.
I was driven far away to strange large buildings when I was young. I waited in waiting rooms for a long time to speak with a lady. She asked me to do some tests. Make a pattern with wooden shapes. Seemingly random activity – I was also being timed. There was talk about learning. There was talk about attention. We went to talk to this lady often. I think I told her I didn’t want to do the work. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Which was true, but I don’t think I was ever asked why. They brought up memory. They brought up anti social behavior. I don’t really remember when it started. She said there’s something wrong with me. Therapy and tests continued. My anxiety increased.
I was a sleep walker. I had night terrors. I was paralyzed with fear. I saw darkness engulf me in my dreams, I was awake but unable to move. I was taken to a new lady. She held up strange black and white images. The Rorschach test. What did I see? A face of evil, a demon. I was afraid to answer truthfully – maybe too smart. “A dragon” I replied. She held up a picture, a painting of a girl walking on the beach in the dark. She told me to tell a story, what was the first thing that came to mind. I imagined the girl walking alone, being in danger, getting hurt. Getting killed. Getting murdered. I didn’t tell the lady this. I lied.
By 9 years old, I was diagnosed with “attention deficit disorder” or ADD. There was a pill to help make it better, it was green and white. It was called “Prozac”. I took it every day. I was told, I needed to take it – because I “shouldn’t think this way” (that homework didn’t matter), I “shouldn’t act this way” (cold, distant, antisocial). I don’t really remember much about it… I was just numb all the time. Less motive. More distant. My parent’s said it wasn’t working. I “struggled” through eighth grade. I was seeing a psychologist every month. They switched the medication. Concerta. Strattera. No, these weren’t working. Now, at 11 years old. I was depressed, too. Zoloft. Welbutrin.
I can’t feel anything anymore
I started seeing a social worker 1 on 1. We went for long walks. He tried to get me motivated about school. I saw him for many years. My seventh grade teacher followed me home one day. She knew something was wrong. I went home and took all of my pills at one time. I wanted to die. I slit my wrist. It was nothing terribly serious. I wasn’t hospitalized. The cut wasn’t that deep. A cry for help. I was hurting and couldn’t speak – I was afraid to. I was driven far into the city and placed under watch. I was out of school for a week, in a ward. It was freezing. They took all my clothes, and checked me for any “strings”. Nothing sharp. We only got thin sheets to sleep with. The windows had metal cages over them. The beds were flat, and hard. The rooms were all a solid white. I met a girl there who I related to some. She said I “didn’t belong in here”. She told me that her mother was always moving her stuff, driving her crazy. My mom moved my clothes and things around too. I never had to do laundry, she was always organizing my things. At the open free time, a boy walked up to the window, and I thought he was looking down at the street outside. He screamed and banged on the window, trying to punch the glass. He started cursing… at himself. His reflection. Yes, there was a padded room. There was another girl was there who had her stomach pumped. The girl I related to said she drank “perm deactivator” Or activator. I didn’t really know. She wanted to die.
One day, we were locked in a room. A light was flashing above the door. Code yellow. Code white. They wouldn’t let us out. Another kid laughed they’d let the building burn down with us inside of it, we’d never be let out. I guess someone on the higher floor was being violent. The whole thing felt like a joke. It was a vacation, we were just being babysat. I was numb. I was bored, they tried to bring school work in for me to do. I read Lord of the Flies (again). When I was finally let out, I had to do outpatient treatment. I traveled so far to come back in and do group therapy sessions. The psychologist I was seeing said his son loved to talk about the medication he was on. That he was happy. That I should be happy to be on the medications. To talk about it. I didn’t know anyone else who had these experiences.
Escaping
I was living with a hollowness in my chest, always… sad. Escaping. Always escaping. I played video games, but my sister had grown out of them… or I wasn’t fun to play with. I played all sorts of games… alone. The computer, and the n64. I also watched TV.
I came home to an empty house every day. I always watched Cartoon Network, the ENTIRE block until my parents came home. There’s an episode of Batman Beyond that always stayed with me. That hurt me, and still hurts me to this day. It resonates stronger than ever with the state of things now. I started to read more about chemicals, my brain. The internet let me find out about it. What the medication was doing. I wondered about these concepts; fascinated with the human mind. This was a gateway to science fiction. The concept was further expanded with the release of The Matrix, and Serial Experiments: Lain.
Below are excerpts from Batman Beyond: Season 2, Episode 21 – “Hooked Up”.
Addiction
The lengths to which we go
The friends we hurt along the way
Warning
The danger now, was that I was more secluded than ever. Or at least, you would think. The internet put names on my screen, and we spoke back and forth to one another. I started to lose my identity, and become what I wanted to be online, anonymously, with no trace of who I was in real life. I wonder if it’s worse for kids now a days. Even though I am childless, and have no vested interest in future generations – I strongly relate to those with depression and I want to talk with them. I’d like to think I can help sort feelings. To let them know it’s okay to be sad, and how to properly act on it. This experience was just opening the door. When I was 18, I got to make the decision; I don’t want to take meds anymore. I stopped cold turkey. The descent was rapid, and I was comfortably digging a hole I’d be trapped in for years. What followed was years of damage to my mental, my body, self medication, and denial.
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