I walked into the vacant room, superficial decorum, skeptical person on an “inviting”couch.
When told to choose up or down, my supposed flaw is that I choose where I am, neither up nor down. Why must I choose? I am inclined to drive towards the center
On a grid, I have no options, up or down, left or right, can I not go diagonal? I want to walk at an angle, at a 45 degree angle. My whole life, a series of options have been presented to me- either right or left, up or down. Every morning my micro chip assures me, blinds me, assures me of the importance of following the structured grid. Why can’t I? when all of the lines are in a row, the harness is on, I approach a jump. The microchip stops me in the air. Who is holding the remote? Who is in charge of the harness? I spent too much of time “socializing” with my neighbors, as my parents were told. The teacher decided I was going to be given a minute, one minute, sixty seconds to gather my belongings from my locker, enforcing the structure of a timer, a consistant clicking, an obnoxious beat of repetitive noise, excluding me from my friends, controlling me from the inside out.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise that I felt ostracized by this ritual-
They recommended I see a specialist to. Why, to psychoanalyze the actions of a child?
I refused to walk inside, I didn’t understand why I had to talk to a woman I didn’t know claiming to be an expert on me, a girl she had never met.
She asks me series of questions. What is this object? What does it look like? Repeat after me. What was the last word I said? What does this mean? Why do you think that is the answer? Do you consider yourself to have many friends? Do you get along with other people? Is there a voice inside of you? Do you have suicidal thoughts? Do you feel lonely?
At the age of 6, I answered what I thought to be true, I did not yet build a shield around myself yet. The responses to the questions asked became as impersonal as a number. I had walked in as a wide eyed child consumed with wonder, question, enthusiasm about everything and walked out as black and white as a number. My character, personality and ambitions were then on carried out by a diagnosis, a sheet of paper accompanied by a prescription. Every morning, the pills were ground up in a small bowl, then mixed with Grapefruit juice. I hated grapefruit juice for the very reason that the remote, the small microchip, as I saw it, was disguised as fruitful liquid but just made me into a series of zeros and ones.
I liked to touch things. Textures. I was awed at the sight of colors, at the feeling of silk, at the site of a prism. My curiosity was not suspended as I didn’t care what somebody thought. Why should I? I loved life, I found accomplishment in playing the piano, drawing and dancing. I loved the sensation of grease on my lips from a hamburger. I loved the feeling of my feet in the sand while a wave’s forceful crip lures me into the ocean. I loved closing my eyes on the pavilion of camp, listening to ragtime on the aged piano. I lived to swim until my whole body became prunelike, and my lips so purple that I would have to be dragged out of the water. I was convinced that flying was achievable and that all I had to do was run very fast while wearing my fairy wings and jump off the stool in my kitchen. Once that was proven unsuccessful, I would blow up as many balloons as my lungs could manage and tie them to my arms, hoping that would allow me to fly.
These passions carried out to my life, on the bus to school. That was my “problem”. There is something wrong with that, or so I was told. At that, I visited yet another doctor.
What are a few more pills? Why not pump more chemicals through my veins. Teachers found that to answer their problem. I was creative, I was innovative, I was excited and energetic. The day went by faster if my dose was increased.
It started with a stranger in a vacant room.
I sunk into the over-sized couch, where she proceeded to ask obvious questions, and I have been there ever since.
