by V.J. Goll
The rotten smell hit me. It was decaying. The whole house was decaying. I didn’t know why I dreamed of this place with the stripped floor boards. I walked precariously through it. It was the house. The red farm house that sat upon the hill, with a small spring fed pond, and enough acreage to be paradise. I was at the house walking through the main floor. Water dripped from the ceiling frightening me. It wasn’t a minor drip either. It was like a huge glob that just fell. It was nasty water. It was brown water. I looked above me to feel a jerk of anxiety. The ceiling above me was bent. It were holding something. It felt like water was pooling there. It was waiting to fall down upon me.
Focus, I said to myself, focus. I had heard about this in psychological literature. This must be the state of the inner child. My subconscious was trying to tell me something. It was dark and cold here. The water started to pour everywhere. It started to pour on me, the walls, and through the house, the decaying smell got stronger. I closed my eyes feeling myself become wet. I opened them again, and I was there again. I was a teenager holding a bowl to catch the water to try to preserve the floors. The difference between this and then was the water wasn't clear rain water. It was murky and dirty water, almost as if it was pond water. It had a stagnant smell to it. In that chaos, I saw something in the shadows. It was like something, a destructive force came to life in the house. It was a tall shadow and felt like a real existence. We both looked at each other and instinctively hated each other. I knew the shadow was the keeper of these dreams for some odd reason. He was a keeper of chaos. Yet, I hated this keeper. I didn't like him. He was telling me something.
It was a premonition. I know I was seeing something in the future in that moment. I was seeing the string that so finely sewn together this fabric of a story. The water that touched my hands felt so real. They still had chills from it. I ran them under the warm tap water from the bathroom to remove the feeling. I looked at myself in the mirror in the community bath. I had dark circles under my eyes. I didn't rest well. I knew that. The weirdest part of looking at me was I could see within myself. I could see the anxiety and worry. I could feel that I was tired. I was trying to change my life from the damaged house. It was real.
"Lord," I said to him, vocal cords was not yet awoken, "please give me strength to endure this. Please help me or at least prepare me for what is to come. Give me wisdom. For I don't know how to do this or why I am in this." The deadline for the testing day was upon me. I knew I had to see Eric's contact in a few hours at 8 am. Yet, my body couldn't rest to sleep. I guess I never owned up to why it was so important to make myself independent. I caused a great burden to my parents that caused my father to leave because of my special needs. He did remarry and have healthy children of his own that weren't disabled. I just was born unlucky being a premature baby that was born blue.
My mom did what she could to build my life. Our house was destroyed in a tropical storm in some year. Insurance and the government was useless. The roof was recently replaced, but the roofer used the wrong nails or screws. It lifted in the storm causing water to crash into the house. That happened when I was a teenager. My mom couldn't ask for help because the schools were threatening her. They didn't want to provide services for me. She couldn't get help because child protective services would be called. I don't know. I answered a few of those phone calls myself when people would call the house to threaten. It was unnerving for a young girl in middle school, not even a teenager.
I guess I never explained how testing felt with me. I jokingly call myself a serial tester. I have been taking it my whole life. I would call myself a lab rat also which technically I am. A lot of my medical bills are covered by research. Yet, though I can joke about it, it doesn’t change the fact that when I take tests or evaluations as they like to call them. I noticed that I started to burn out from the constant neurological evaluations. I was trained to push my body and brain to the absolute limit of my abilities. When I took a test, I did exactly this. When I finished them, I felt drained and more tired than I ever had felt. It took me a bit to realize that the testing itself was taking a toll on me. I did burn out later really hard which caused me to have to slow down with classes.
"Hi Miss Sayes," he said to me, "I will be doing your neuropsychological evaluation today." Dr. Mattu was a young man. He had done his college in high school and graduated with his psychology bachelor degree at the age of eighteen. He went on to graduate school at the doctoral level. He graduated at the age of twenty-two. In comparison to him, I graduated high school late at the age of nineteen. I was about to turn twenty in the spring. He was the ideal of success. I was an ideal for failure. I guess I keep forgetting to add details. We meet at some office that had a long table. He sat on one side of the table, and I sat on another. We both looked at one another. I was there to take a test. He was there to evaluate me.
I carefully controlled my facial expressions. I was exhausted. I knew I was doing this test on three hours of sleep, but it was important for me to focus. We did the background interview. I explained the TBI which caused him to look at me a bit longer. I ignored it. He had unsettling eyes. It was sad eyes. I didn’t want to look into them. He understood. I was used to being misunderstood.
First came the sheet of paper with the math competency test. I did most of it well, but I knew I had no education in the advance mathematics. Then, there came the number memory test. It started to drone on. I was used to being tested. Each time, Dr. Mattu watched me with curiosity. I know the tests started with a "W." They are well known and well researched tests.
He paused the testing. "You have a thirty minute break to take a lunch," he said to me, "you can also take 15 minute breaks if you feel you need to do so." I looked at him. It only had been four hours. I knew there was more to do.
I bit my lip looking into his eyes. He had soft brown eyes that complemented his skin tone. Something felt different about him. I didn't know what it was. Yet, I was analyzing his response as he analyzed my response.
"Okay," I said to him, "I will be back in thirty." Sometimes, when things are bad, it is better to keep them bad. It is better to suffer completely than to have something different to disrupt the flow. How proper that Dr. Mattu was bothered me. I started to feel some resentment. I felt resentment towards what I had to put up with people knowingly doing what they knew was wrong, but I couldn't say anything. They were in a position of power. I was not. They were the ones giving the test. I was not.
I wasn't in control of my life. This made me sick a little. I felt a weight pulling me down emotionally. I wasn't in control of anything. People were always going to find something wrong with me. I was always going to be picked a part. I couldn't win. I knew that.
I wasn't in the right either. I was a sinner. I had my faults also. I ate some kind of bland lunch that I brought. It wasn't much, but it was still food. I took a drink of caffeine and steadied myself.
Dr. Mattu in his formality. He clicked off the tape recorder as he looked up from me from the paper. He cleared his throat. I was tired. I knew it signified that the testing was over. "Allison," he said to me, "we can set aside the formalities. You can call me Ravi if you want."
"Ravi," I said slowly trying to feel the change in the situation, "I will try to remember your name." I wanted to add Dr. Mattu at the end of my statement, but I held back. I knew my tongue wanted to give back a little frustration. To me, it would have been funny. Probably not as funny as it is to the other person.
"So, considering how well you did on the assessment," said Ravi, "why are you needing this? You are perfectly fine."
I sighed. I explained to him about the state using improper testing to decide my future. Ravi looked at me. I knew he was analyzing what I said. I worded carefully how I explained the TBI.
"That is incorrect counsel," said Ravi to me, "I know many people do not consider psychological or educational assessments as medical. Diagnosing someone with a disability without using proper testing is wrong. Science mandates a rigor of evaluations to prove
a conclusion from a hypothesis. Diagnosis should be made from established normal."
I was silent.
"You have a significant history that someday may make a huge impact on the future," Ravi said to me in earnest, "you are very significant. Being the first person to recover from significant brain injury and all the sudden, the questions are presented on your future. In the normal track, you should have been institutionalized. You defied the odds. People kept trying to rail you on a different track, and now, you are defying. How is society going to place you? What is your future going to be like? It is a curious thing."
I was annoyed at him at now. I hated being treated like a scientific guinea pig.
"I rather be insignificant," I said to him. There was strong bitterness in my voice. I saw sadness drop like a stone in the water in his eyes.
"Those are sad words to say," he said to me, "I hope that you are significant to someone. I mean if you want to talk to me. My door is open. You are a very unique individual that has a unique past."
"I don't want to be another research project," I said to him. I knew there was hostility in my voice. He picked up on it.
"I don't want you to be without a resource to have help," he said to me plainly.
I looked at him. I had learned how these things were scored over the year. I felt the tension as I swallowed my anger. If I took the test angry, it could invalidate my scores. Yet, I was angry. I was angry that I had to do battery of psychological tests that other people didn't have to. I was angry at it all. I was angry at myself also.
This is life. I reminded myself. I didn't choose brain injury. It choose me. I didn't choose my body. I was made this way. A fundamental flaw, the medical staff should have been more mindful. Yet, who was to blame?
Was this my normal limit? I don't know.
I sighed watching my breath rise into the now chilling air. Winter was creeping. I didn't understand the feeling that I was having towards examinations now. I have done them my whole life. I done them since the day that I was born. My earliest memory was a therapist sitting in front of me giving me some blocks to match the shape into.
Yet, I knew that I had to show them that I was working hard. I knew that it somehow saved my future. Every day, I woke up to a rush of adrenaline. I had a hard time sitting still and would work very hard. It seemed that I would never run of energy, but truth is that I was scared. When they sent me to be evaluated for ADHD, they never saw the fear and anxiety. They never looked at a child that grasp the reality of the adult world of inequality. It was their own arrogance. They thought I didn’t know. They thought I was half of a person.
I realized at that moment that the evaluator from the state knew about my scores because the counselor told her. The tests were set to be biased from the beginning.
I thought about what Ravi said, but with the pressure of everything around me, I was caught up in examinations and schoolwork. The pressing matters with the school and the state went to the back of my mind. It mattered that I got ahead. The week of thanksgiving break came. It was a short break. I waited on the sidewalk for my mom to arrive by the Pasture. The cold had frozen a sheet of morning dew on the ground and despite it being past midday, the frosting remained. I regretted not having gloves for my hands as I stood there freezing with a duffle bag by my side. It was an old bag that I got from playing sports. I duct taped some parts of it, but I could tell it was sagging under the weight of everything into it. She still haven't arrived yet despite it being thirty minutes past the agreed time. I called her.
"Mom," I said trying to hide the break in my voice from the cold, "where are you?"
"I am close," she said to me.
"What street are you by?" I asked her.
"You know I am close," she said to me. There was a bite in her voice. She was annoyed.
"I believe you," I said to her, "call me when you get to Cross Street." I said to her.
"Sounds good," she said to me, "I am going to have to let you go due to traffic being busy. I will call you soon, okay?"
"Okay, mom," I said to her, "I love you."
"I love you, too," she said to me. She ended the call.
No, I didn't believe her. Letting out a sigh of frustration, I started walking towards the student commons that was close. The trees hung dead in this place. It was weird how I could see the details on the branches in high definition. I stared at the roughness of the bark comprehending it. I do not know why I looked at the trees, but then, I saw the cross with the scarred beak sitting upon the branches near me. He saw me, and I saw him. We both stared at each other. I felt like the crow was trying to tell me something. We both were cold and out of place in this world. I kept walking to clear my mind. She came a few hours later with a car notably filled with shopping bags. I knew she went on an excursion, but I didn't say anything. I climbed into the car.
"How was school?" she asked me.
"It is good," I told her. I told her about how the COATS program was going and how much Eric was helping me. I told her about being able to now help Eric with editing letters. Her lips pursed when I mentioned this.
"Good," she said to me, "then, you can help me on the house when you get home since you are so good at helping others." I looked at her wide eyed with shock. I thought she would tell me that I was doing a good job. I felt disappointment over what she said. I felt hurt. I didn’t know how to rebuild a house. My exhaustion dug itself further. Whose future was I trying to build? I wondered. Did I even have a future?
Grandfather lived out by a place by the river. I was sitting out by the dock looking at the forlorn boats frozen into their place. Their metal hulls protecting them from the cold. The ground was iced. It was covered with a thin layer. It was tolerable. I felt the heat of my body thawing the ice on the ground. My breath rose in the morning as I watched the sun creep up from the clouds. It was only able to shutter through the curtains of the clouds intensely at moments, but it was mostly muffled. This probably explained why it was so cold. I don't know.
The grass had a slickness to it as if someone took clear grease and smeared it on it. I could see the muddy shoe prints on the ground. Just with a simple step, we change things. Our feet imprint only to fade into nature, only to be remolded.
I am obscure. I don’t exist. I am just a footprint. I am just a sheet of paper. I am just a label.
"You seem to have a lot of troubled thoughts, little one," said Grandfather to me. He was a farmer type of man. He wore blue jeans and a plaid shirt with a thick jacket as he sat next to me. He had weathered hands that seemed warm as he put them on my shoulders. I felt it ease some weight that I had with me.
I sighed watching my breath rise again. My shoes could feel the thin ice that formed below me on the dock. I slipped them against the ice gently feeling it crack.
"Why does everyone assume what I feel?" I asked Grandfather, "why do people assume that I am overly privileged because of what I overcame? Why are people assuming what it feels like to be me?" I hated that people thought I had it all together. I didn't. I was frustrated that so much was being expected of me. I was frustrated that I had to do everything that I was doing.
"Because it is convenient," said Grandfather to me, "it is convenient to box things and label things. It is convenient to dismiss people. Where people are going to be uncomfortable is when they have to see the whole person. It probably makes people uncomfortable knowing your history."
"Then, why doesn't mom see that I am trying to help her on the house?" I asked him, "I just don't know what to do. She is always blaming me for what I stole from her."
"In some selfish way," said Grandfather gently to me, "she thought that God would award her for helping you. Her bitterness comes from the fact that she had to carry so much weight on her own, and even now, she is stuck with an imperfect you that needs help. There is no end in sight." He placed his hand on my shoulder it felt warm.
I wanted to cry hearing those words. I didn't want to be broken. I didn't want to be this messed
up. It was upsetting to me. It was upsetting that I caused my mom so much burden. That we had to eat thanksgiving at Grandfather's house.
"It can be hard on anyone being in such tragedy," said Grandfather to me, "remember adults can be children, too. Don't take her words to heart. She does love you."
I looked at him. I was trying to understand what he said.
"I just don't understand," I said to him, "I don't understand why God would let me be so broken and leave me like this being a burden to everyone. I feel like my existence is this huge burden to everyone and society. I don't want to be this." I knew there was pain in my voice. I was struggling to control the emotion. I wanted to cry.
"Perfect is something that is only found in Christ," said Grandfather said to me, "come now, let's go finish preparing dinner." We both got up. I weighed Grandfather's words greatly. I guess I will never speak much of Grandfather’s house. It was an old farm house that was bigger than what my mom and me lived in. He hung old windchimes on his porch that chimed as we both started walking into the door. It was a modest place, but it was a warm place. I helped him chop carrots in relative silence which I knew he was creating jobs for me to keep me and my mother separated. She sat on the couch watching the televisions. There was a football game on that she was engrossed in. It help give us all a peace of mind during these times. Sometimes, life is too loud for us to be loud ourselves. As I laid in bed later, I realized that I was also hurting from something else. I hated it when other people overlooked wrongs by others, and, then, they would hold me by a higher standard. I felt angry, but I swallowed my anger. I didn't want to live my life angry.
I saw myself in third person, but I was lying in the bed. I saw the dark man, with his tall, thin frame standing over the foot of it. He was watching me. I was watching him. Then, in a sickening way, he touched me on the head. It was not in affection. It was a decision that he was deciding. I felt it in air. It wasn't a good thing. He crept to the side as if not to wake me. I saw him touch himself as he came to conclusion on what he would do. I realized what my mind was telling me. I saw a little girl sitting in the chair looking at me. She was in pajamas and didn't want to go to the bed. She must have been about five years old. She hated beds. I looked into her eyes and it reminded me of sadness. She had some blood on her pretty church dress. I understood what I was seeing. I awoke. How dark it was around in me in this winter was terrifying right now. I thought as if he was in the shadows.
"If one can exist so can the other," said the voice within me. I blinked. I didn't understand what it meant. My body was tensed from the evil that touched me. Then, I realized what the voice was telling me.
The evil is here. It is somewhere around here. I just haven't been able to see it. Perhaps, I have not been wanting to see it. I frowned. I knew my mind was speaking to me. I had a high verbal IQ. It was telling me something. I didn't see it yet, but I knew that I will see it soon. I got up to walk to the bathroom to take a shower. I saw Mara sleeping on the couch in my memories. Her stuff was never unpacked on her bed even during this time. It hit me. I was seeing something. It was weird. I never once saw her sleep in a bed. I wondered. I showered still wandering about it.
Seven