Beat It Into Me

When I was young, I was like many other kids

I would get distracted, ask questions, forget the rules, get distracted, talk too loud, you know?

But my dad beat it into me.

No, he didn't beat it out of me. And let me be clear, he never struck me with his hands, but his words. His obscure punishments of embarrassment and physical exhaustion.

He beat it into me.

I still got distracted, I still had questions, I still couldn't remember everything or pay attention.

But my dad punished me into obedience. For his comfort, and to stop annoying everyone else.

The trouble is though, I still get distracted. I still can't keep my eyes in one place and I forget what I'm doing in the middle of doing it and then I'll remember again and then forget again all in a matter of instants.

But I can sit still.

I can't make it through a page, or a paragraph, or sometimes even a sentence without thinking about why ice floats on water or how far is it to Wisconsin or where I parked my car or why smells smell the way they do or why I haven't remembered to eat today. I should be reading an article for school, instead, I've accidentally hyperfocused on studying the ecological importance of bees.

But I don't run in public.

My dad's plan to cure me worked for him, not for me. It worked for them, not for me. My disease is still in here. But because my symptoms were annoying, I had to do thousands of pushups and run hundreds of miles. I had to apologize for being a child, I couldn't play with my friends.

Sometimes I forget that not all minds are like this. People can watch a whole movie, or listen to a song. Whenever I can't sleep which is always and my wife and dog lie perfectly sound beside me, I remember that their brains are normal.

Now I'm old enough to make an appointment, but I can't afford it. I can't afford the doctor, I can't afford the treatment, I can't afford to miss the work. After all this time, I'm scared to meet myself, functioning cognitively the way I'm supposed to. Who would that even be?

He's a good man, but he beat it into me. He thought he was helping. He thought he was curing me. He thought I'd grow out of it and be normal. He did what he thought was best.

Well, son, I can't wait to meet you. And I can't wait to raise you. I pray to God you have your mother's brain. But if you don't, I will help you. I won't stifle or contain you. I will help you.