Broken Words — (Non-fiction) (WIP)
To the unfortunate surprise of my parents, it was obvious to them that there was a handful of things “wrong” with me as a kid. I was a monster that quickly adapted and learned how to get through any child-proof lock, gate, or door that got in my way, and quickly was learning how to speak at an early age. The only issue, however, was that I couldn’t actually communicate anything. Something didn’t click right in my brain and the full sentences I formed around the age of two were said to be like I was “speaking another language,” according to my mother.
I was quickly diagnosed with ADHD and said to have a speech impediment at the age of three. I also can’t really remember this, but this was my damage as long as I can remember. My mother told me that I couldn’t even sit still in the chair as the doctors observed me to see early signs of ADHD, and obviously a child should be able to do that much, so something must be wrong with her.
Instead of preschool, I was placed in “Early Childhood Development” and I hated nearly every aspect of it, though I didn’t have the distinct language to express hatred, or discomfort at that age. Essentially, it was preschool for kids that weren’t neurologically “normal” or just had some sort of “thing.” They slapped me down into hour long speech therapy sessions, that admittedly helped me learn how to read quite fast, but made me feel humiliated all the same. I was also placed in a daycare after school as well that the short bus would drive 40 minutes out of the way to drop me off at, all while seeing a specialist for my ADHD as well. I realize now as an adult that these things were probably necessary for children like me. At the same time, I question the execution. I am now skeptical of the eyes that watched me carefully, as if I were actually damaged, actually ruined, actually just a broken child with a broken brain.
My mom was the kind of person that, to me, felt ashamed of my neurological differences. The kind that hid the fact that I rode the short bus, that I was heavily medicated on any sort of ADHD medication that came my way in order to get me to just “behave” just to make the questions stop. She would deny that anything could possibly be wrong with her child because if that were the case, then something is wrong with her, with how she raised me, how she treated me. This theme followed in my 20s when I had the gall to tell her I might have anxiety and she asked, “Did I do something wrong? Is it because of me?” Any signs of damage on what you produce is indicative of the damage on yourself.
The medicine I took for my ADHD didn’t help. My mother explained that medicine can be dangerous if you take any that isn’t for you, but if the doctor says to take it you take it no questions asked, and you will get better. What I didn’t realize was that there were lasting effects of medicine and its concepts would have on me as an adult. I was broken, and this sliver of medicine will make me not broken. I’ll be fixed. Not “cured,” as my mother would always correct me with the hint of a solemn tone.
When it came time for me to start going to school, my personal combination of problems allowed and forced me to take the short bus to school, depending on how you look at it. The short bus, like many things in this time period, was a mixed bag for me. I remember enjoying being picked up at my house rather than at a bus stop. At the same time, if you misbehaved in any way, which is going to happen for 3–4 year olds (especially ones that may not understand the concept of rules completely,) you were strapped down with a special seat-belt. You were restrained to little movement, if any, forced only to look ahead of you, which was the back of the driver’s head and eyes glaring through the mirror. It terrified me, and I was so nervous trying to remain obedient.
A kid on the bus with me was sliding around in the slush one winter on the floor underneath the seats while the kids giggled and peaked under the seat to see him sliding. I remember his bright childhood grin as he peaked out from under my seat before the bus driver pulled over, picked him up and dragged him by his arm to the restrained seatbelt. She strapped him in as he cried and protested, and continued to take us to school, ignoring him and the now silent bus. That boy had to sit in that seatbelt for a month as per the bus driver’s discretion. The rest of the bus is equipped with seatbelts in each seat (different from the longer busses where you just kind of have to hope kids don’t fall out and hurt themselves) but this seat, sitting right behind the bus driver had about the same amount of belts and straps as a straitjacket. I only ever got strapped down by this about once in my life for walking up to the front of the bus while it was moving to talk to another kid. The ride lasts maybe 20–30 minutes, but it’s enough to make you feel absolutely terrible and miserable.
I didn’t get along with most of the kids in the Early Childhood Development class, for honestly reasonable things, compared to later in my life when bullying was harder and more cruel. Primarily, I was teased for my name, being “weird” and different. These things happen. But most of my frustration came from the children who pulled and yanked on my hair, pushed me around because they could, and because their disabilities were “worse” than mine, I had to take it. I didn’t have the ability to explain myself properly, I couldn’t communicate how I was feeling, and when I even tried, I was told by my teacher to not be a “tattle tale” and to only tell on someone if I’m being hurt. Coincidentally, the physical torment stopped around then, and so I took her words to heart, because you can’t possibly hurt someone with words. Sticks and stones, the whole deal, but words are just words, as are the ones I’m writing at this moment, the ones I formed after years and years of a metaphorical time out, of being silenced and alone. I became the biggest form of a tattle tale and became a writer.
At the same time, it’s probably good of me to say that I did have good memories. I remember making forts with large cardboard bricks with some of the nicer kids, playing with the giant kitchen playsets. We made homemade applesauce and watched movies one day, making the room smell of apples for weeks. One of the teachers found a book for me in the library titled Sabrina, about a little girl like me who was also teased for her strange but unique name, and later finds friends who love and appreciate her “princess name.” Though I argued as a kid that there isn’t a Disney princess with the name Sabrina, I’m positive that if I had the name Jasmine, Ariel, or Belle in the 90s I would have also been bullied for that as well. All things considered, it would have been great if the teacher stopped the kids from mocking me instead. The moral of the story is make friends somehow and that wasn’t exactly in the stars for me for a very long time.
It was a nice gesture, regardless.
I stopped riding the short bus around in 1st grade I believe, when they realized I wasn’t developmentally challenged, and I graduated from my speech therapy classes the next year. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to actually talk to anyone because I now had no friends from “normal” preschool, and also was taken out of the class, two hours every day, for three years. I had no friends, no way to make friends. Any kids from my neighborhood I knew were in separate grades or secretly hated me or moved away.
So at first I couldn’t speak correctly, now I had no idea how to actually talk to anyone. Now, as an adult, words are kind of the only thing I have, but this was learned behavior, not a gift. I observe with careful eyes, steady on the behavior, movements, emotions and emulate and expand, experimenting. Every conversation is a new way to learn how to use the words that I put power and strength into each word from my lips. As a child, however, more than anything, I just wanted friends, someone, anyone, to talk to. Someone to listen to me without getting frustrated or giving me that look of impatience.
I may not be able to tell you how I spoke out loud, but I remember what it felt to be broken.
The adults don’t care what you have to say, they just figure you always will be broken and you’re just another poor unfortunate child to them. Maybe, in some ways, they were right. We all have things that make us a little broken, but that’s not really a bad thing. A damaged item has a story, and continues to have one as it moves forward, finding peace and beauty in the cracks and tears. This experience I have now makes me unique, makes me want to try harder for myself, to prove that I was worth listening to, that I am, that I will be. Sometimes being broken is just the first step to being put back together.
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