by Jules Bleach
In the third grade we had to do a practical Life Exercise program, which just involved us bunch of rapscallions doing group exercises like drawing pictures and sharing the story behind them, medicine ball games, etc. One exercise we did involved the teacher telling us to act out certain actions eg – ‘Imagine you’ve just lost all your money on the dogs and your wife has left you’ except a more infantile version. As usual, I was well behind. The gap in the synapse points between my brain has always felt like a huge abyss, a giant cavernous gap through which the electrical impulses which form my thoughts are even terrified to jump. Most of the time, the thoughts don’t make it and just fall into nowhere. Somewhere in the basement of my brain are a bunch of old random thoughts collecting dust.
To me, Logic was never logical. I’ve always thought in such a different manner, somewhere in between left-field and legally retarded, that it’s got me into much trouble over the years. If there were a God, Id be blessing him for allowing me to have such supportive people, friends and family, in my life who put up with me. People who, probably think I actually am retarded. I sometimes wonder in my lowest moments that perhaps I really am, and everyone is just too nice to tell me, like the way guardians condescend and pander to their disabled/elderly patients, and as a result I have just never been allowed to realise it. Then again, I have been called a retard on numerous occasions. Perhaps they were hinting at something…
When I was Thirteen, my parents took me to this scary brain clinic in Elizabeth Street. They were worried there was something wrong with the innards of my head wotsit. It never once occured to them that a teenage boy who doesn’t want to do his homework, listens to metal, and secretly is already developing a drinking problem, and spends most of their time drawing, doodling and drooling over girls, is actually pretty fucking normal.
There was no signs or windows, or even a logical entrance to this place, and it reminded me of the 33rd and 1/3rd platform thing from Harry Potter. Perhaps this was some kind of test. But then again, if you were smart enough to work out the entrance to this NeoNazi-esque minimalist you probably didn’t need to be there in the first place. Once we made our way up there, I was forced to sat in this cramped little waiting room, which was probably devised to drive you crazy, a bit ironic don’t you think?! The whole time I was crapping my pants, feeling like Winston Smith about to enter Room 101. They wrangled me in there, strapped all these wires to my head after applying some strange blue goo all over my ears and neck. They made me sit there, then asked me all these odd questions like “If Poodles pontificate suicide in the rain, are the more likely to wrangle pigeons in the summer?” It was downright bonkers, it was. Afterwards, I was called into the ol meeting room with Dr Boffin-head and my parents & after a whole bunch of hog-wash labelling. I was informed that I had a rare case of ADHD and as a result must take Ritalin three times a day.
Cut to me, back at school, attempting to appease my parents and keep everyone happy (as was my mission for most of my life, as I cant stand conflict, (until recently when I just gave up and became an assole, but thats a story for another time). I started taking the pills, and just felt like a fucking zombie. Its as if all the creativity and original thought had just been drained out of me. If this is what being normal felt like, then fuck it. Fuck it all. If anything it took me even longer now to develop some kind of rational thought. The synapses were probably firing faster, but the time it took for them thoughts to travel down the old noggin and through the voice hole in my face felt like a fucking eternity. As a result I was ridiculed by my mates. That is, until, thanks to the one decent thought them pills gave me, I decided to become an amaeteur drug dealer and started selling my Ritalin to my mates at about $5-$10 per pill. Little did my parents know. I just pretended to act like a ‘normal’ person which I guess I’ve been doing all my life, and used the profits, not very wisely mind you, not for savings, but for odd things like Mars Bars, coke cans, action figures, headphones. The thrill I felt for having ownership of these things whithout actually earning them was amazing. And hence, ends the story of my Broken Head Box. I turned from a bumbling absurdist nonsensical idiot into a self appraised drug pusher.
