MORE AUTOBIO: MORE CHILDHOOD! (Patreon)

Hi, Dear Patrons!

Most of my work time has been on my autobiography. More:

It isn't “right” that anyone should be depressed. A child hasn't built up a knowledge or vocabulary to define his own feelings. It's haunting. Nagging. As I watched peers laughing and jostling each other business as usual. I had a deep, empty, exhausted feeling. Very dank.

The magic steam dissipated in 2nd grade. I noticed myself that that was when life was no longer magic. I no longer cared about keeping my room neat. I got very sloppy. My mother wondered what had happened, and so did I. I didn't know why I lost my neatness. It just seemed to give out.

I lost interest in my studies. I could barely read a text I remember one work of textbook fiction described a middle aged man in his undershirt looking down at the proceedings. He was pictured in an impressionistic grey wash illustration. We laughed. At the time, describing an old man in his undershirt was pushing the envelope. Next to being naked. I seemed to see the book through blurred eyes. I could only skim over the texts. I probably saw myself in this desolate man. Reading seemed gray and meaningless. I only skimmed the text, rushed a report, and got a bad grade. Even my drawings got quick and choppy.  I thought fast and drew faster. Dots and dashes.

What the hell had happened? For the first time I had a teacher I didn't like, and that didn't like me. In my sights, she was an ancient harridan. I started hating school. It was no longer an open avenue. It was something I had to do, and since I wasn't being paid for it, I resented it more.

My father's drinking habit was getting more obvious. I didn't know what to make of his whiskey smell, his crimson eyes staring into infinity, his rolling motions. And always the cigarettes. He was never without his Pall Malls. I just kind of said, “Well, he's a father.”

Mom was wearier, and seemed distinctly less loving. There came a hardness; I knew I could no longer rely on my parents for assistance.

I wasn't conscious of my own problems. I was told I'd “act up”; “act out”; had “outbursts”. I'd yell. I don't remember who at. I'd get impatient, and the yelling came out. I didn't even know I was yelling. It seemed like a normal tone of voice to me. In fact, I thought I was whispering.  It was then I was starting to get psychiatric medicines.