Thank you to the one and only Morley with the Magic Hair for this excellent challenge.
Miles I Have Walked
Glancing at my profile avatar it occurs to me how cool it is. It is not a picture of me, rather a couple of pretty letters arranged in a way that catches the eye. It was not necessary to look at my uploaded pics to remember that my face appears nowhere in them either.
Surely there is a reason, and though I am not altogether certain what it is, it must be at least part of why I hate having my picture taken, and why I loathe selfies. But that's ok because I know what I look like, and should I forget, I know where to find a mirror or two to jog my memory. The thing is, mine is not the face I have a difficult time remembering. This 54yo me is familiar to me. I can even recall most of what my life was like since I was 16.
But virtually nothing prior to that.
Several family members have suggested that it is because of some abuse-ish type stuff that happened over the course of my first 15 years, which I can neither agree with nor dispute because for me those years consist of only a couple dozen ugly images. Listing them would probably take less time than reading this post will.
But enough about me, instead I'll tell you a story about this kid I used to know. We'll call him John (not his real name.)
John was always afraid. Afraid of his whole family, his teachers, his friends, pretty much any person he ever knew or met. He was petrified of his father, and scared to death of getting in trouble for anything, because anytime he did, he was yelled at, threatened and repeatedly hit by the man, and made to feel ugly and worthless. So to stay out of trouble he slept under his bed, and he kept his prized possessions hidden in a cramped space under the stairs that were only accessible by a child small enough to climb through a wall opening in the back of his closet.
In a tiny room. In the basement.
In the town where John lived all the houses had basements, and all basements had doors or little windows through which you could crawl to get under the main part of the house where all the wiring and plumbing ran. It was dark and dirty and insect-y and scary but it was an actual thing, and a very useful thing should you need to make any changes or repairs or additions. It was the only window in his room, and it was probably where all the bugs came into the house, but all John knew for sure was that sometimes his father made him crawl through that little window and stay in there. Alone.
He lived in that basement room for many years, taking comfort in the loud noises that came from the mechanical stuff (like the air conditioning and hot water heater) in the big closet on the other side of the bedroom door. He was deeply depressed but it wasn't as if he was abandoned or imprisoned: his family lived upstairs, most of his chores were upstairs, dinner was upstairs. And he went to school everyday, alternating between all 3 of the outfits his parents gave him. According to his teachers John possessed higher than average intelligence (whatever that is for a preteen) and a talent for music and writing. Fortunately, in addition to chores and family and dinner there was also a piano upstairs, which he was now allowed to play, and he wrote his first song when he was 12. So instead of hiding under the stairs he disappeared into a creative headspace.
Around that same time John got very sick for a couple days and almost died! And strangely, he was still very depressed even after he recovered. So he was whisked off to various doctors to try to figure out what his problem was, and why he was always so sad. Something an ostrich embryo could have diagnosed. It was then that John confessed to a psychologist that he had found and taken a handful of pills in an attempt to hurt himself, and that's what made him sick. Then he revealed that he had tried to hang himself when he was 9 years old. All the best minds got together and decided that obviously there was only one solution - medicate the kid, then send him back home.
So they did, and nothing changed. John's father was still there, the basement was still there, the little window was still there, the dark, dirty, insect-y, scary space under the house was still there, the feelings of being ugly and worthless were still there, and now John was right back there too. Finally, when he was 16 he figured out a surefire way to get away from it all - this time he took all the pills he could find in the whole house, even the baby aspirins, even the stuff for his beloved dog who had been sick. It took about 90 minutes to take them all but he finished, and got in bed.
The details of what happened after that are unimportant, other than John was not sent home this time, or ever again.
John and I are approximately the same age now, and over the years I have gotten to know him better and better. He is no longer unduly afraid of anything or anyone. And it turns out that we have a lot in common: he is a decent guy, funny, of only average intelligence by this time, but equal parts logical and emotional. He is a musician and writer like myself. We both have many friends, went to college for the same thing, each of us has only been in love once (so far) and we even contribute to the same charities.
Most importantly, John hasn't tried to hurt himself again since we were teenagers.
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I'll let him know that I told his story. I'm sure he will be thankful to you for reading it.
