If you're here you're wondering what I'm talking about. The title is pretty literal, and it's probably true. In fact, I have never once met a single person who has had a more fucked up childhood than mine. This isn't something I relish, but I think I might start a book. The biggest problem is that most stories are linear: you start at the beginning and go through until the end. Basic introduction, rising action, climax, falling action, resolution type thing. That just won't work with me. Why? For starters most of my memories are flashes and not extremely coherent. I have entire years that I do not remember anything, like the third grade. So until I can get all the court documents (which I am currently trying to do) to try and make sense of these flashes I have, my story is going to be a bunch of memories strung together rather than your average chapter by chapter thing. So here goes my first entry.

IntroI found a deposition today. I decided to read it, and I came across something that triggered a flashback. When I was a little kid, my dad (who is a doctor) prescribed medicine for me and made me take it at night. There were three pills, but I only remember one distinctly and the second vaguely.

The Drugs
I took them. I always took them. I didn't want to, but I had no choice. I didn't even know what they were. A perfectly spherical pill, liquid on the inside, small, with a slightly yellow tint. I was healthy. All my medicine was chewable or liquid. What is the significance of a pill? Why do I need it? What is it called? What does it do? They gave them to me at night. They must not allow me to function; otherwise, why not give them to me in the morning? I tried to stay up to see, but I was not allowed. It was my bedtime, and I was watched until I fell asleep. I was not allowed to shut my door or even be alone. I did not like seeing my father on the side of my bed gazing at me. I felt uneasy, as if something was odd or out of place, but I could never put my finger on it. I would play opossum, as I had done so many times before, but my intentions must have been predicted because my father continued to sit endlessly while I concentrated on the depth and timing of my breaths, slowing my heart rate, opening my eyes so slightly to seem deep in sleep. My efforts failed; every night I continued to fall asleep before he left. I could never test my theory.

I don't remember what the other pills looked like. I only remember a couple of flashes of taking them, complaining. I had never swallowed pills before, and I was afraid. Would I choke? Would they fit? What would happen if I could not do it? What would they do to me if I failed, if I wasted their pills? They never would tell me what they were called or what they did. The only response was, "Take them; they're good for you." Any further inquiries resulted in a stern, "Do what I say!" followed by a harsh glance that showed the underlying threat. Isn't this what happens to people in psychiatric wards? Was I psychotic? I didn't think so, but then, would I be aware if I was? Was it possible to be psychotic so young? I was only eight after all. What if I was? Maybe they were trying to protect me from myself, but since when had either one of them bothered to protect me? That couldn't be it. They went out of their way to cause distress. I was a sadist's favorite toy, an experiment of sorts...

I never knew what those pills were for. Some court depositions claim that one was an anti-depressant; some claim one was for bladder control. But what was the third? If only I could remember what it even looked like! I could pore over medical picture books for hours trying to find it. Though armed with a photographic memory, I am still unable to remember...why is the only pill that I see so clearly the spherical, clear one? And why can I never find it in pictures? Why give an eight year old child an anti-depressant like Tofranil rather than seeking professional help? To cover up suburban secrets, because a great mask is more important than innocent children being victimized by cruel hands?