My Story's More Fucked Up Than Yours...

If you're here you're wondering what I'm talking about. The title is pretty literal, and it's probably true. In fact, I have never once met a single person who has had a more fucked up childhood than mine. This isn't something I relish, but I think I might start a book. The biggest problem is that most stories are linear: you start at the beginning and go through until the end. Basic introduction, rising action, climax, falling action, resolution type thing. That just won't work with me. Why? For starters most of my memories are flashes and not extremely coherent. I have entire years that I do not remember anything, like the third grade. So until I can get all the court documents (which I am currently trying to do) to try and make sense of these flashes I have, my story is going to be a bunch of memories strung together rather than your average chapter by chapter thing. So here goes my first entry.

IntroI found a deposition today. I decided to read it, and I came across something that triggered a flashback. When I was a little kid, my dad (who is a doctor) prescribed medicine for me and made me take it at night. There were three pills, but I only remember one distinctly and the second vaguely.

The Drugs
I took them. I always took them. I didn't want to, but I had no choice. I didn't even know what they were. A perfectly spherical pill, liquid on the inside, small, with a slightly yellow tint. I was healthy. All my medicine was chewable or liquid. What is the significance of a pill? Why do I need it? What is it called? What does it do? They gave them to me at night. They must not allow me to function; otherwise, why not give them to me in the morning? I tried to stay up to see, but I was not allowed. It was my bedtime, and I was watched until I fell asleep. I was not allowed to shut my door or even be alone. I did not like seeing my father on the side of my bed gazing at me. I felt uneasy, as if something was odd or out of place, but I could never put my finger on it. I would play opossum, as I had done so many times before, but my intentions must have been predicted because my father continued to sit endlessly while I concentrated on the depth and timing of my breaths, slowing my heart rate, opening my eyes so slightly to seem deep in sleep. My efforts failed; every night I continued to fall asleep before he left. I could never test my theory.

I don't remember what the other pills looked like. I only remember a couple of flashes of taking them, complaining. I had never swallowed pills before, and I was afraid. Would I choke? Would they fit? What would happen if I could not do it? What would they do to me if I failed, if I wasted their pills? They never would tell me what they were called or what they did. The only response was, "Take them; they're good for you." Any further inquiries resulted in a stern, "Do what I say!" followed by a harsh glance that showed the underlying threat. Isn't this what happens to people in psychiatric wards? Was I psychotic? I didn't think so, but then, would I be aware if I was? Was it possible to be psychotic so young? I was only eight after all. What if I was? Maybe they were trying to protect me from myself, but since when had either one of them bothered to protect me? That couldn't be it. They went out of their way to cause distress. I was a sadist's favorite toy, an experiment of sorts...

I never knew what those pills were for. Some court depositions claim that one was an anti-depressant; some claim one was for bladder control. But what was the third? If only I could remember what it even looked like! I could pore over medical picture books for hours trying to find it. Though armed with a photographic memory, I am still unable to remember...why is the only pill that I see so clearly the spherical, clear one? And why can I never find it in pictures? Why give an eight year old child an anti-depressant like Tofranil rather than seeking professional help? To cover up suburban secrets, because a great mask is more important than innocent children being victimized by cruel hands?

Sucking My Thumb
I used to suck my thumb a lot. I didn't have a whole lot of comfort in the world, so I took advantage of anything I could get. One day my father and first step-mother (who truly isn't even worth burning in Hell) decided that I shouldn't do it anymore and expected me to quit instantly. Obviously I didn't--what child ever does? Of course the normal activity still went on in the household, and that only made things more stressful for me. They tried all sorts of things...the usual stuff. I had to write 600 sentences saying, "I will not suck my thumb because it will cause my teeth to be misaligned when I am older." The sentences were always long; poor penmanship meant rewriting them all, and anything that was abbreviated was thrown out; depending on my step-mother's mood, I would rewrite the one sentence or the whole lot. If that didn't work then they would use food. Most of you will assume the lack thereof, which is true, but not always. No, there were some foods which I could not stand to eat, and these were her favorites. The juice in tomatoes made me vomit as did the taste of red cabbage. She loved to place a plate full in front of me and force me to eat everything, while she circled the table like a shark, sadistically studying my every move. And I was young...I remember it happening when I was in preschool and first grade; I don't know exactly when it started or when it ended. Puking was not an option. In fact, it was more of a sentence, an excuse for her to release all her aggression on me. I knew she liked doing it; I was her favorite target. I could not give her that gift. Not gagging, however, was also not an option; I fought it, but I couldn't help it. My body would not accept the things it was forced to. There are some extreme examples I will share in another entry; for now, just be aware that the presence and absense of food were both used for control purposes.

When the sentences, starvation, or forced feeding didn't work, the question was what would be next. Roslyn had a favorite paddle that she broke on my sister and me every week. She enjoyed taping it up and breaking it again, like some sort of challenge. But she was also a big fan of belt buckles. She was cowardly, though. She'd sneak up on you from behind. With this particular issue, the thumb-sucking, they had also bought some nail polish with a bad taste that they painted all over my thumb. I would just suck it off and then continue. Nothing that they did made me stop, and even though I suffered severely for my efforts, the enjoyment of seeing their frustration made every second worth it.

Finally, they took me to a dentist. They didn't tell me why or what would happen. And honestly, I don't remember anything about the procedure. Completely blank. But I remember what happened afterward, so it's fairly obvious what transpired. I felt something in the roof of my mouth. I wondered what it could be. I raised my tongue and felt something sharp...many of them, actually. Were they spikes? I studied it with my tongue trying to figure out how long they were, how many there were. I tried to look in a mirror, but in order for the reflection of the object to show in the mirror, my eyes were tilted upwards so that I could not look, although I strained as much as possible. There were two metal round bands that were secured to my top molars, one on each side. That made sense to me, but then what else was keeping it secure? If the bands were all there was, then the spikes would be dangling. Well, I couldn't figure this out at the time; it wasn't until after the device was removed that I realized there were pegs that were basically stabbed into the roof of my mouth. I can only assume that the end must have been slightly larger than the base of the peg; otherwise what would keep them from falling out? Immediately I started sucking my thumb. I knew what would happen, but I wanted to know how painful it would be. I wanted to experience what they had done to me. It was pretty painful; my thumb bled. That was all the exploring I did at the time.

At dinner, I realized another small torture: swallowing. But I also realized a reprieve: my tongue. Why hadn't I thought of that before? Obviously it hurt my tongue to be slightly impaled every time I swallowed. But this thing was not removable. I would have to bear the pain, either as a side-effect or a 'friendly reminder' of its purpose. I realized very quickly my tongue was the solution. It was inherently tougher than my thumb. But not only that, every time I swallowed and every time I spoke certain sounds, my tongue was constantly being pierced. This contradicted their plan, because it made my tongue tougher than it was before. Eventually, sucking my thumb under my tongue worked just fine. I won.

I suppose.

I do not know how long I had it in my mouth. I still have the two small holes in the roof of my mouth; although the one on the left has mostly grown back, the one on the right never has. It's the only proof of this memory I have other than the scars on my tongue. The spikes pierced my tongue so regularly that it has been scarred ever since I can remember. I did eventually quit sucking my thumb, but I did it on my terms.

You're right. I guess you win on this one. My childhood really wasn't fucked up at all. What else do you remember?