Becoming Whole, Origins

When it first happened, I didn’t even notice. The slip into the alternate universe of someone else’s mind was smooth and fluid, like floating in a tube down the river.

I had been trapped in remedial math and reading classes from pre-K to middle school with an IEP on file and an ADHD diagnosis. I often heard my parents argue over medicating me, my dad being for, and my mom, against. I was 10 when my dad went against her wishes and took me to a doctor who prescribed Adderall. It was a little blue pill that my dad would give me in the morning in secret before he drove me to school.

The difference was night and day. I could think. I suddenly felt like one whole, present person, existing right here instead of everywhere at once. My grades skyrocketed and my teachers actually smiled at me! I was able to read real books and do multiplication. I was actually pretty smart, but home life was strange. My dad would hide my report cards and teacher notes, trying to hide his transgression of giving me the opportunity to learn like a normal child.

When my mom found out, she unleashed hell. I hid in my room and cried while she screamed herself hoarse, saying how I might as well be a meth addict and that the drugs made me “not her child anymore”. My dad left and my little blue pills were flushed. That was Friday.

I went back to school on Monday and the child my mom claimed the pills had destroyed for the past 6 months was back. My knees shook the desk as I tried so hard to focus on my test. The multiplication problems that had been easy with the meds became nonsense. I tried to remember how I felt. There was a phrase I had been told “fake it ‘til you make it.” I could feel the teacher’s concerned eyes on my scalp as my head was bent over the page. Everything felt loud, at least twice as loud as they should have been. The scratching of pencils, clicking pens, and even the breathing of 26 students was cacophonous. Ms. Henson is staring at me. Ms. Henson is staring at me. Ms. Henson is staring at me.

Then everything was quiet, or at least at what I thought was the volume it was supposed to be, but maybe it was too quiet? I was looking at the top of a student’s head with concern. I hope they’re okay. They seem off today. They laid their forehead on the desk. I thought back to the tests I handed out, remembering the problems. It shouldn’t have been difficult. They had really started to excel. Maybe they were having trouble at home. I should ask them about it after class.

My head lifted off the desk, my eyes were wide and memories that weren’t mine had appeared in my mind. What mattered most was the image of the test. The answers had been written in blue ink and the words “Answer Sheet” written on the name line. My mind was filled with new things, but my senses were quiet, nearly silent. The smells of dirty kids and markers and graphite had dulled too, and my mouth that had tasted of menthol felt like nothing. I dug my nails into my palms, trying to feel the bite, squeezing tighter. I felt stretched, like my entire being was a grilled cheese, my other half was being torn away and my mind was an epic cheese pull. A heart raced, and I only could think that it was mine. What is happening?

It came together. I came together. My test had been filled out in a jerky script that only somewhat resembled my own, and drops of either sweat or tears dotted the page. I stood up with the paper, my legs uncertain and unstable beneath me. I walked slowly up to my- Ms. Henson’s desk and placed the sheet in the “Done” folder.

“May I use the restroom?” My voice sounded strangely loud in my own ears.

“Of course. Take the pass.”

Grabbing the oversized pencil that said “Henson 6th Grade Math,” I left the room. The further I got away the more normal I felt. I dropped the pencil in the nearest trash and I ran.