millymichaelson
02-20-2010, 09:25 PM
Take a trip through the mind of a special child. Then tell me whether the trip sucked or not.
Truth in Hidden Lakes
I am conceived an X with a bum leg. At 12 months while the others are printing salutations with muffled words and waving hands, my vacant face faxes copies of blank pages. At 18 months the outsiders vocabulary has expanded, single words flow freely. My relationships with these same families of letters is tricky, I find them quite simple to comprehend but difficult to transmit. At 24 months the outsiders sloppily throw together words and pretend they’re speaking. My sentences remain oppressed, chained and shackled in the attic.
Now enrolled in Elementary, I find school work a breeze, but the society of school is incredibly demanding. My counselors and teachers are constantly poking and prodding at me. I guess their goal is to help. It’s not like I’ve never spoken, I breathed life into my first words at a fairly young age when I called to my mother. She is the only person my words will free themselves and escape for.
Books are my favorite outlet. When the outsiders at school try to impress their superiority on me, tightly scripted words heal the wounds. Reading a book is a magical experience for me, I’m not sure the others can relate. Every word is a blood cell, every book a heartbeat. Books are a living being, open their covers and give them life, they’ll reward you with wondrous activity. They are my closest companions. The words themselves aren’t the problem, understanding their sounds and meanings come easily. Every time I read a book new words forcefully jump off the page and crash through my eyeballs like a thief through shattered glass, imprinting themselves on the processor sleeping beneath my skull. Outsiders become annoyed with me when they try to interact, I can’t even look at them. Eye contact’s a bridge for words to cross, if I sustain it for even a short period of time they’ll expect conversation from me, I don’t want to disappoint them. It’s not deliberate, it’s not as if I don’t try, my person is screaming in my head, but my words are evasive and shy, as they cower I am shunned.
At nine years age I awaken and rise from bed, my mood already muddy, I know the trials of the day that are ahead. I go about my all so important morning routine, the same PB&J sandwich, the same numbers on the clock, the same Sponge Bob. This is how it must be: I fear the wrath of deviance. “Lets get you dressed and assessed!” My mothers words, generally soft as pillows, today are formed with sharp edges. I generally find her flailing attempts at simple rhyme cute and hilarious, but today I know better. I get into the car without a fight; the naivety in me still thinks there’s a way out.
We arrive at the office and swing the door open that reads Dr. Rett. I’m ordered to sit while mom checks in, a request difficult to obey. I tell myself it’s okay, if she could see how mixed up the magazines are she would understand. They must be arranged in neat stacks and grouped by title. The toys scattered on the floor must be grouped by color and arranged from smallest to largest. Don’t the others know they’re happier this way, don’t they listen? “Corey.” The nurse calls my name, panic spreads like disease. My head is a freeway full of words, but my tongue is full of dead ends. I thrust myself onto the ground; I’ll never let that hallway swallow me. I can’t speak but I can wail. “Corey, stop it, these people want to help you!” Mom’s words pack an extra punch this time, they bruise the space behind my ribcage. Nothing she says can convince me. Anchored to the floor I’m left to contemplate the origin of such fear. They are here to test me for broken parts, what if I fail? My eyes open to see the white-caped outsider gliding toward me, her voice is a whisper. I’m determined not to listen to her words, but they are the gentlest I have ever heard. “There’s no pain back there, only healing.” The message itself is almost irrelevant, but the softness of the spirit envelops me, I am ready to face my fears. On the way back I realize this hallway isn’t as scary as I thought. I am a ship in port, check my weight and pressures. As they drain my arm they drain some words with the blood. I can see one through the vile, the word is truth. Is it lost forever? These people aren’t friends, but they care all the same. Caring isn’t the same as healing, though but I still find my mood improving.
Ever since the appointment, the sun’s been speeding through the day, it’s cycled through a few times and this feeling of contentment has never left. My mom has noticed the difference as well. “Hey son, looking good in the hood” she says, this time it’s hilarious. I think I owe this newfound warmth to the white-caped outsider, whatever she did to me, I’m glad it was done. I wonder if she knows the wonders she has worked. An idea strikes, I quickly run to find my comfort zone, on a leather bed she lounges, exhausted. “Phone” the word shoots out of my mouth before I even realize it, am I even the one pulling the trigger? “I want, Let’s call, I want to call the doctor” it’s more of a struggle this time, conviction makes life difficult. Mom doesn’t get it at first, “what’s wrong,” she says, a return of words is unnecessary, they would only convolute this moment already saturated with feeling. She unsheathes her cell and punches the doctor’s numbers, panic swells my throat. Mom gets a hold of the doctor and hands me the phone, I think I’ve made a mistake. Words speed around my brain at such speeds they begin to blur, I can’t speak if my vision fails me. At such rapid speeds my thoughts collide and explode apart. It seems like hours have passed, I never knew such intense concentration was possible, have I always possessed such power? Even with this dramatic surge, my voice remains trapped. “Go on, Corey,” my mom urges, her words brimming with hope. I’m neck-deep in this now, I have to overcome. As my words flee, I send a shuttle of determination in pursuit. My words stumble and get caught in black robes, are they trapped? As patience dwindles and awkwardness builds, I cut my soul and bleed these words.
“thank you very much for helping me, I feel so-I feel so happy now!”
“You’re very welcome, Corey, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
The doctor immediately searches her memories for the last time someone went out of their way to hand out such a genuine thank you. She can’t think of one, at this moment, she is filled with the most unique feeling she has felt in years, a smile doesn’t do it justice. Dial tone eclipses silent emotion and I shift my attention to mom. She is speechless, the only emotion she is aware of in this world is pride. Her eyes well and smiling raindrops prepare to fall from her eyes, she can’t help it, she is overcome. Looking at her in this moment, I think I’ve found truth. It hides in lakes behind people’s eyes.
Quicker than a flash of white fire, I’m now fifteen years old, my hands stained with the blood of sand. This cafeteria a busy suburb, this seat a lonely island. I do get some interaction, mostly in the form of lazy insults. Their intentions are mean-spirited enough, it’s their technique that’s lacking. It usually doesn’t bother me, in order for them to be popular someone has to be an outcast. I’m sitting in my seat for lunch, I notice a pride of jocks approaching, their mission all too clear. They walk up and dump my tray in my lap, littering my clean airspace with sloppy joe and under heated corn. They shout at me in passing, assumedly with recycled, inflamed curse words. Their words never reach me, how could they through hate’s thick fog. They hate what they have never known. They don’t see me. How can they target me with their eyes shut so tight? They must hate me for my silence. They value the words over the spirit. As I sit, beads of shame dripping, a siren’s son graces my ear, “are you OK” her voice overflowing with sincerity. She helps me clean up the mess, her grace overwhelms. “I’m sorry about them, you’re probably more mature than they ever will be,” her words ring a bell in my brain, they’re almost as beautiful as her shadow. She moves on and we go about our day, her face a portrait hanging over my pain.
This night I lay down for bed, but sleep circumvents need, I can’t get the nice girl out of my head. My thoughts, usually benevolent, now seem corrupted, her face and figure a photograph in my brain. I’ve never experienced these thoughts before. This must be why they call it “falling” in love. Storm clouds absorb azure kingdoms, I’ve never been aware of this kind of darkness. I can’t wait for my chance to thank her.
Back in the lunchroom, the sun has peaked for the day. I see the nice girl walking towards me, this smile stains my face. I wonder if she’ll sit with me, our eyes meet with purpose. She walks to my table.
“Hey, what are you doing over there with the retard?” the voice of a jock belts for the collective. They walk up and my lunch once again finds itself in my lap. I maintain eye contact with the nice girl, and she with me. Through her eyes I can see her brain spinning, she’s weighing her options. Will the scales swing toward me? She lowers her head and walks away, cowering in the crowd, I wasn’t worth it. I can’t explain this feeling, does it exist for a reason? My body’s dry, but I need my emotions to escape with my tears.
My worth has been slashed in half, a feeling known as woe. I race home to my room, my bed as my casket. That kind of love I felt is meaning. If no one can ever love me, do I have a purpose at all? I fall into bed, my emotions involuntarily released, do they even belong to me? Mom enters the room, damage control her aim. “What’s wrong, Corey, was someone mean at school?” My words are unavailable, they’ve been slaughtered by my emotions. She wants to know what’s wrong, but cries aren’t communication, she waits patiently, bedside for hours, waiting for my words wounds to heal. I’m at war, I summon courage to aid me in this battle. Disoriented, my chest swells and I spew these words, “my chest has a fever,” the words are basically meaningless, but mom responded with intuition that supersedes that of most mortals, “The feeling will cool with time, it cleans your heart and clears it of it’s grime.” She loved the spirit over the words.
Truth in Hidden Lakes
I am conceived an X with a bum leg. At 12 months while the others are printing salutations with muffled words and waving hands, my vacant face faxes copies of blank pages. At 18 months the outsiders vocabulary has expanded, single words flow freely. My relationships with these same families of letters is tricky, I find them quite simple to comprehend but difficult to transmit. At 24 months the outsiders sloppily throw together words and pretend they’re speaking. My sentences remain oppressed, chained and shackled in the attic.
Now enrolled in Elementary, I find school work a breeze, but the society of school is incredibly demanding. My counselors and teachers are constantly poking and prodding at me. I guess their goal is to help. It’s not like I’ve never spoken, I breathed life into my first words at a fairly young age when I called to my mother. She is the only person my words will free themselves and escape for.
Books are my favorite outlet. When the outsiders at school try to impress their superiority on me, tightly scripted words heal the wounds. Reading a book is a magical experience for me, I’m not sure the others can relate. Every word is a blood cell, every book a heartbeat. Books are a living being, open their covers and give them life, they’ll reward you with wondrous activity. They are my closest companions. The words themselves aren’t the problem, understanding their sounds and meanings come easily. Every time I read a book new words forcefully jump off the page and crash through my eyeballs like a thief through shattered glass, imprinting themselves on the processor sleeping beneath my skull. Outsiders become annoyed with me when they try to interact, I can’t even look at them. Eye contact’s a bridge for words to cross, if I sustain it for even a short period of time they’ll expect conversation from me, I don’t want to disappoint them. It’s not deliberate, it’s not as if I don’t try, my person is screaming in my head, but my words are evasive and shy, as they cower I am shunned.
At nine years age I awaken and rise from bed, my mood already muddy, I know the trials of the day that are ahead. I go about my all so important morning routine, the same PB&J sandwich, the same numbers on the clock, the same Sponge Bob. This is how it must be: I fear the wrath of deviance. “Lets get you dressed and assessed!” My mothers words, generally soft as pillows, today are formed with sharp edges. I generally find her flailing attempts at simple rhyme cute and hilarious, but today I know better. I get into the car without a fight; the naivety in me still thinks there’s a way out.
We arrive at the office and swing the door open that reads Dr. Rett. I’m ordered to sit while mom checks in, a request difficult to obey. I tell myself it’s okay, if she could see how mixed up the magazines are she would understand. They must be arranged in neat stacks and grouped by title. The toys scattered on the floor must be grouped by color and arranged from smallest to largest. Don’t the others know they’re happier this way, don’t they listen? “Corey.” The nurse calls my name, panic spreads like disease. My head is a freeway full of words, but my tongue is full of dead ends. I thrust myself onto the ground; I’ll never let that hallway swallow me. I can’t speak but I can wail. “Corey, stop it, these people want to help you!” Mom’s words pack an extra punch this time, they bruise the space behind my ribcage. Nothing she says can convince me. Anchored to the floor I’m left to contemplate the origin of such fear. They are here to test me for broken parts, what if I fail? My eyes open to see the white-caped outsider gliding toward me, her voice is a whisper. I’m determined not to listen to her words, but they are the gentlest I have ever heard. “There’s no pain back there, only healing.” The message itself is almost irrelevant, but the softness of the spirit envelops me, I am ready to face my fears. On the way back I realize this hallway isn’t as scary as I thought. I am a ship in port, check my weight and pressures. As they drain my arm they drain some words with the blood. I can see one through the vile, the word is truth. Is it lost forever? These people aren’t friends, but they care all the same. Caring isn’t the same as healing, though but I still find my mood improving.
Ever since the appointment, the sun’s been speeding through the day, it’s cycled through a few times and this feeling of contentment has never left. My mom has noticed the difference as well. “Hey son, looking good in the hood” she says, this time it’s hilarious. I think I owe this newfound warmth to the white-caped outsider, whatever she did to me, I’m glad it was done. I wonder if she knows the wonders she has worked. An idea strikes, I quickly run to find my comfort zone, on a leather bed she lounges, exhausted. “Phone” the word shoots out of my mouth before I even realize it, am I even the one pulling the trigger? “I want, Let’s call, I want to call the doctor” it’s more of a struggle this time, conviction makes life difficult. Mom doesn’t get it at first, “what’s wrong,” she says, a return of words is unnecessary, they would only convolute this moment already saturated with feeling. She unsheathes her cell and punches the doctor’s numbers, panic swells my throat. Mom gets a hold of the doctor and hands me the phone, I think I’ve made a mistake. Words speed around my brain at such speeds they begin to blur, I can’t speak if my vision fails me. At such rapid speeds my thoughts collide and explode apart. It seems like hours have passed, I never knew such intense concentration was possible, have I always possessed such power? Even with this dramatic surge, my voice remains trapped. “Go on, Corey,” my mom urges, her words brimming with hope. I’m neck-deep in this now, I have to overcome. As my words flee, I send a shuttle of determination in pursuit. My words stumble and get caught in black robes, are they trapped? As patience dwindles and awkwardness builds, I cut my soul and bleed these words.
“thank you very much for helping me, I feel so-I feel so happy now!”
“You’re very welcome, Corey, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
The doctor immediately searches her memories for the last time someone went out of their way to hand out such a genuine thank you. She can’t think of one, at this moment, she is filled with the most unique feeling she has felt in years, a smile doesn’t do it justice. Dial tone eclipses silent emotion and I shift my attention to mom. She is speechless, the only emotion she is aware of in this world is pride. Her eyes well and smiling raindrops prepare to fall from her eyes, she can’t help it, she is overcome. Looking at her in this moment, I think I’ve found truth. It hides in lakes behind people’s eyes.
Quicker than a flash of white fire, I’m now fifteen years old, my hands stained with the blood of sand. This cafeteria a busy suburb, this seat a lonely island. I do get some interaction, mostly in the form of lazy insults. Their intentions are mean-spirited enough, it’s their technique that’s lacking. It usually doesn’t bother me, in order for them to be popular someone has to be an outcast. I’m sitting in my seat for lunch, I notice a pride of jocks approaching, their mission all too clear. They walk up and dump my tray in my lap, littering my clean airspace with sloppy joe and under heated corn. They shout at me in passing, assumedly with recycled, inflamed curse words. Their words never reach me, how could they through hate’s thick fog. They hate what they have never known. They don’t see me. How can they target me with their eyes shut so tight? They must hate me for my silence. They value the words over the spirit. As I sit, beads of shame dripping, a siren’s son graces my ear, “are you OK” her voice overflowing with sincerity. She helps me clean up the mess, her grace overwhelms. “I’m sorry about them, you’re probably more mature than they ever will be,” her words ring a bell in my brain, they’re almost as beautiful as her shadow. She moves on and we go about our day, her face a portrait hanging over my pain.
This night I lay down for bed, but sleep circumvents need, I can’t get the nice girl out of my head. My thoughts, usually benevolent, now seem corrupted, her face and figure a photograph in my brain. I’ve never experienced these thoughts before. This must be why they call it “falling” in love. Storm clouds absorb azure kingdoms, I’ve never been aware of this kind of darkness. I can’t wait for my chance to thank her.
Back in the lunchroom, the sun has peaked for the day. I see the nice girl walking towards me, this smile stains my face. I wonder if she’ll sit with me, our eyes meet with purpose. She walks to my table.
“Hey, what are you doing over there with the retard?” the voice of a jock belts for the collective. They walk up and my lunch once again finds itself in my lap. I maintain eye contact with the nice girl, and she with me. Through her eyes I can see her brain spinning, she’s weighing her options. Will the scales swing toward me? She lowers her head and walks away, cowering in the crowd, I wasn’t worth it. I can’t explain this feeling, does it exist for a reason? My body’s dry, but I need my emotions to escape with my tears.
My worth has been slashed in half, a feeling known as woe. I race home to my room, my bed as my casket. That kind of love I felt is meaning. If no one can ever love me, do I have a purpose at all? I fall into bed, my emotions involuntarily released, do they even belong to me? Mom enters the room, damage control her aim. “What’s wrong, Corey, was someone mean at school?” My words are unavailable, they’ve been slaughtered by my emotions. She wants to know what’s wrong, but cries aren’t communication, she waits patiently, bedside for hours, waiting for my words wounds to heal. I’m at war, I summon courage to aid me in this battle. Disoriented, my chest swells and I spew these words, “my chest has a fever,” the words are basically meaningless, but mom responded with intuition that supersedes that of most mortals, “The feeling will cool with time, it cleans your heart and clears it of it’s grime.” She loved the spirit over the words.