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Collapsing in a heap, I started bashing my fists on the floor.
And when that wasn’t enough, my head.
That’s when Mrs. Golden lunged forward, grabbed me, and I punched her in the face.
I wassix.
Autism,someone speculated.
But no, at that point I talked just fine, even if I had delays earlier on. Could articulate my needs when Iwasn’tfreaking out. Showed no learning disabilities, aside from difficulty paying attention or staying motivated. Easily maintained eye contact…most of the time. I met whatever other markers they tested for back then.Just enough.
I passed or whatever…just enough. And that was all my parents cared about, and it was never brought up again.
So then I started seeing a child psychiatrist.
Got pumped with meds. Slapped with other diagnoses.
ADHD.
Conduct disorder.
Bipolar.
Suddenly I was either a human ping-pong ball, unable to sit still, so jittery it was like someone shot me up with liquid lightning…
Or a zombie, completely checked out, unable to do so much as lift a crayon, much less kick over a desk or bang my head off a wall.
He’ll grow out of it,they’d say.He just needs more supports. Different meds.
And my parents…well, they tried everything. I’ll give them that.
Everything but what I actually needed:
Them.
The first time I was shipped off to boarding school and they wiped their hands of me, I was seven. Not even a whole year after trying therapy and meds.
If it didn’t work immediately, then it didn’t work at all. It didn’t matter what professionals told my parents, that they just needed to give it time. As soon as I slipped up, they’d grab my hand, drag me out of whatever situation I got myself into, and take me for another opinion.
There werea lotof opinions over the years.
A lot of med trials.
And a lot of boarding schools.
And not just your stereotypical, run of the mill fancy prep schools hidden in a castle in the woods…but the kind less talked about. The kind for the rich but troubled, hidden right in plain sight.
Troubled.
I got that label a lot too.
The thing is, I neverfelttroubled.Not when I was getting into fights, or throwing stuff across the room in a fit of rage, or clawing at my scalp and ripping at my hair like I could somehow escape myself.
I just felt lonely.
Scared.
Confused.
