Memoir of a "sick" Child

A few snap shots of what it's like to be a six year old in therapy

I was born on January ninth, 1997, the same year my father left the air force. I live in a small town in Michigan. My best friend’s name is Cassidy. My favorite colors are black and purple. I could tell you surface level things like that all day. But what good would that do? You still wouldn’t know me. Not the real me anyway. What I’m about to do is simple. I’m going to explain myself. I’ll warn you, to some, or most, I’m not very interesting. In fact if you have a weak stomach you’ll find the first half of this depressing. It gets better, I promise. Not to say I had a bad childhood. Just that the events you need to know about, aren’t what you would call happy. I guess... you’ll see. It all has a point, if you only take the time to think about the world a little differently.

The Office

The design of the chairs frustrated me. They matched the tan-vomit color of the grown-up’s chairs, with their itchy canvas like fabric and the supports were the same fake looking brown wood. It was the basic upside down “P” shape of the side I hated. Five pieces of wood, each perhaps a foot long all rounded off and glued together neatly with a square making up the seat itself, and the last piece of wood slapped on the top to form the back of the chair. I can’t really explain why that image bothers me. Maybe it’s the horrible smell of Dr. Harper's waiting room that clung to the rough fabric. More likely it was just the fact that the back of the chair had the audacity to ruin what would have otherwise been a perfect square.

“Hello there.” I stopped gazing at the side of my older brother Nick’s chair to look up at Dr. Harper.

“Hi Allen!” I’m not sure how old I was, maybe six. At any rate to me Dr. Allen Harper was a huge string bean of a man, with equally oversized glasses and a thinning hairline. Of course none of that mattered to me, Allen was my friend, end of story.

“Anything new Mrs. Lane?” Allen asked as I began to toddle down the familiar hall to where I knew his office resided tucked away into a corner.

“Not that I can think of...” My mother sighed.

“Alright then.” I never cared what they said during this exchange. Sure if mom did have a new concern, I was being too quiet, I’d lashed out, I’d spent the night crying... maybe I’d listen for the thrill of the gossip. None the less every week or two I lead Allen down the hall to his office telling him all about school and my brother and sister, things that mattered to a six year old.

I had another chair in Allen’s office. This one was better. The frame was black metal and the seat was made from a smooth black plastic material that sometimes tugged at my skin if I wore shorts, but anything was better than the vomit canvas.

I don’t remember much of what Allen and I would talk about. Mostly it was just fun. We invented several new games, one of which I even made a game board for and found small plastic animals to use as game pieces. He helped me get over my fear of thunderstorms and explained what was meant by the glass being half empty or half full. But I can’t recall it really being therapy. Not like I know it now at least.

I’d talk to Allen for a while, then he’d say it was time to go and I’d guide him back to where my mother was sitting. Sometimes Nick would be waiting for me, sometimes not. He had his own “counselor” he was there to see. I never asked him about it though. Never thought to. Soon I’d say good bye to Allen and we’d go home... and life went on.

Twice a year Nick and I went back to sit in the vomit chairs, but not to see Allen. Dr. Marrcono was a robust Hispanic man with hair that remind me of Weird Al. I didn't like him as much as Allen. He was nice, a rather jolly man, but I didn't see him enough to call him a friend. Also, Dr. Marrcono was the kind of doctor I had to go see with my mother in tow. That alone was a turn off.

I’d be taken to an office down the hall from Allen’s and be put in another black chair next to my mother. I’d tell Dr. Marrcono how school was and about all the things I could think off that had happened in the last six months. Then mom would tell him all the things that were wrong. Panic attacks were the main complaint if I remember correctly. Mom would tell stories of how I couldn't calm down, my illogical thinking, my inability to feel like I had friends, general signs of adolescent anxiety/depression.

But to me I was a happy child. I fought with my brother from time to time. He was ten if I was six, so I thought of it as normal latter on. It was true I didn't have many good friends and I could get upset over things and not be able to calm down. But it was all normal to me. I was supposed to hate certain things that caused me more pain than good, and like things that caused me more good than pain. Looking back I suppose I know now what the problem was. But at the moment, sitting in the black chair gazing at my shoe while mom ranted to Dr. Marrano, I just wondered why I wasn't normal.

Dr. Marrcono was in charge of my pills. Sometimes he’d change them, sometimes not. He performed the same service for Nick, and Nick seemed to do better than me in the whole “being normal” department. Then Dr. Marrcono left and was replaced by Dr. Buet who was mine and Nick’s doctor, and later my younger sister Jenny’s, until he retired when I was seventeen and a woman, whose name I can neither pronounce nor remember, took his place.

There was one other kind of doctor Nick and I saw early on. She had a different office in a different building, and I never learned my way around. But here the chairs where better. Simple, not comfortable, but not the color of vomit with itchy fabric.

“Can we play on the swing today?” Nick and I always asked as the black haired woman who was the “play” doctor came to get us.

“Maybe.” She’d say taking us back to the “play room” where the main furniture consisted of a hammock like swing hanging from the ceiling and a small tent tucked away in a corner. It was then that Nick and I would be separated. I don’t know what Nick went to play with most of the time. I didn't care much.

Depending on the day either the black haired doctor or her blond assistant took me to different parts of the play area. Today was an assistant day for me and, as was usual on her days, she took me to a computer.

“We’re going to play Rocket today.” She explained.

“Ok.” I never put up a fuss. I just climbed into the chair I was given and kicked my legs as the assistant started up the computer. “Rocket” was a video game. The full name was “Rocket's first day of school” but I just called it “Rocket.” The idea was simple. Rocket was a little girl with red hair and freckles for whom I made decisions. Short cartoony clips of day to day happenings were played as I went through Rocket's life, and every minute or so I had to make a choice.

Today we started in the lunch room. The video played. Rocket got her lunch meeting up with the tall blond “popular” girl who said there was an open seat at her table if I wanted it... then she left. The choice was a simple one. Where should Rocket sit? There were three options: A) sit with the popular kids, B) sit with some girls I’d met in art class, C) sit with the loner boy I’d run into on the way into school, or D) sit alone.

It was here that I often wondered what the assistant wanted me to do. Should I tell Rocket to do what I normally did and sit alone? The next video would be boring if I did that. The popular kids table was tempting, just to see what would happen. But only to see what would happen. I would never do anything of the sort if I were Rocket. The art class girls were nice, but I couldn't remember their names.

I knew what I would do. But what should Rocket do? I knew Rocket was nothing like me. She was bad at school, liked sports, and had quick and slightly mean comebacks to any insults. But we were both unsure of the world.

Rocket should go sit with the loner boy. He was nice, I remembered his name, and I knew he at least liked the same sports at Rocket. But what should I click on? What did the assistant want to see? Who was making this choice anyway, me or Rocket?

I sat there for a minute debating. Then told Rocket to do what I knew she really wanted to do and go sit with the boy. The video played and I witnessed a witty conversation between Rocket and the boy as she teased him about some mustard on his chin and he teased her for being a neat freak. A conversation I would never have.

We didn't play Rocket long. Soon the doctor came to get me and the assistant left to go play with Nick.

“We’re going to look at making reading easier for you today.” The doctor smiled as I climbed out of my chair.

“Ok.” She led me to a desk and placed a sheet of paper with a story typed on it in front of me.

“Can you read this for me?”

“Ok.” I read the story aloud, stumbling over the words, giving up on the big ones, and mixing up the small ones. My head swimmed with tiny black and white markings. How did big kids do this? At one point a line of text flew of the page and floated just above its original line. The lines slanted as I turned my head knowing that if I adjusted my angel then the text normal floated back down to the paper after a few blinks.

“That's enough.” The doctor stopped me. Then she took about a semi transparent sheet of plastic. She laid the plastic over the paper and the page turned from black and white to black and red. “Does that make it easier?”

“No.” I said without even trying to read. Just looking at the page made me dizzy.

“How about this one.” She pulled out a second sheet of plastic that turned the paper green.

“A little bit.” I knew I would have preferred a more minty green, but I didn't say that. However I was surprised that for the moment at least the words stayed where they were.

“What about this?” The doctor laid a third sheet down and the page turned a clam light purple.

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“It helps.” Just as the green had made the text stop moving so did the purple. The main difference was that the purple color didn't make me want to throw up.

“Alright, so I’m going to get you purple glasses and you can take them to class with you. Would you like that?”

“Maybe.” I sighed looking down at the paper. The more I looked at the colored paper, the more I knew this wasn't going to work. No point in saying that though.

“What’s wrong?” The doctor asked as I kept staring at the paper.

“There’s a glare.” I put my pointer finger on a white spot on the purple page where the lamp’s light was reflected, making that text impossible to read.

“The glasses will fix that.”

So the next time I went into my first grade class I was given purple tinted glasses to carry with me. They didn’t work. Now that I’m older I can say that yes, the color of the page does matter when trying to read with dyslexia, but purple is not my first choice.

After the doctor wrote down on a sheet of paper what I assumed were my reactions to the different colors, she took me to the tent. Or rather, she said we were going to the tent and I ran to it. The tent was my favorite. Inside was a huge mass of pillows and bean bags with a small computer. I waited patiently bouncing on a bean bag as the doctor fired up the computer and ask me to hold out my hand. I did so obediently. Three small blue clips were then slipped over the three middle fingers of my right hand. I was told that they were some kind of heart rate monitor, but to six year old me it was magic.

The next video game itself was magic. I had a castle, a castle full of magical objects that I could control with my mind. My two main games consisted of four marble balls in the garden. Three were used to juggle. The more energy I put in the higher they would fly. I thought about running, being mad, yelling, and the balls shot up. I was so good at it that most of the time the balls flew off the screen as they went around and around in an increasingly bigger circle. The remaining ball would simply float. I could make it float higher by calming down. Once I tried falling asleep to see how high the ball would go. It was off screen when I woke up. Regardless of what was involved, I was extremely good at every game in the castle. But my favorite part was just the world I was in.

Wind chimes echoed through the garden where seas of countless flowers flooded the shores of marble paths. The masonry was beautiful. Sparkling white mist hung about the near by forest. Friendly white wolves guided me when I wandered into the woods and everywhere there was some kind of hidden treasure, whether that be a sorceress's  cabin or a new game I could play. It was wonderful, and I hated having to leave.

Author's Note

just tell me what you think/if I should write more.