[Redacted]: a Memoir
20 years of my life — [redacted]
The circumstances of my birth are [redacted].
The first few months of my life were normal, except for that bizarre [redacted] event that happened when I was 111 days old. One of my therapists said this was a turning point, but there was no agreement from the other four I saw, so I didn’t dig deeper.
Things took a different turn when I started talking, however.
My first word was [redacted]. It’s an obvious understatement to say my parents were surprised. My grandma, on the other hand, expected it. As she confessed to me later in life, she repeated this word to my innocent ears as often as she could during my first year. She has never been able to resist a good joke, and this was one of her best.
To my parents’ horror, this was the only word I uttered for a few weeks. They saw a doctor who told them I was [redacted].
It didn’t reassure them.
They asked for a second opinion.
The other doctor told them it was nothing to worry about. I was indeed [redacted], but I soon shared many more words with them. Some [redacted], of course, but “mom” and “dad” would also play a part.
My parents felt better, but they were still quite worried about me being [redacted]. At that time, at least. In hindsight, it’s funny. Later, they realized it was nothing compared to how [redacted] I became as a teenager, but that will wait for a few more paragraphs.
Pre-school was a shock for all parties involved. Myself excepted.
There were too many times when I got [redacted] to count. But from what my therapists said, it’s not so uncommon. That was a relief for my parents when I shared the news with them. Me? I never really cared. The [redacted] that happened in pre-school never compared to the [redacted] thoughts my brain produced daily.
I did keep a good friend from my pre-school years.
It’s a soft toy in the shape of a pig.
I still have it.
I added a few ornaments over the years, but didn’t alter my feelings. My favorite ornament is — no surprise here — [redacted].
At pre-school, my teacher and her class assistant were very concerned. As my father told me later, they thought I was seriously [redacted]. Enough to raise more than their eyebrows at the idea that I could join first grade the next year.
But when my father explained that it was the first grade for me or one more year with his [redacted] son for them, they quickly found good reasons to let me move forward in my school curriculum.
Looking back at the first few years of school, up to fourth grade, I realize how [redacted] everything was. Teachers, peers, and even the school bus driver were all [redacted] to the bones.
That’s what I kept telling them.
I had good intentions.
We all know how kids this age can be righteous with a sense of [redacted] justice. That was me. They might disagree. Some would go as far as saying I was [redacted], except for my sports coach. He was a big fan. He saw tremendous potential in my [redacted]ness.
Fifth grade was a turning point. All my therapists agree, and so do I.
Teenager.
I became a teenager.
Or should I say, a [redacted] teenager?
Yep. It was that [redacted].
I think my parents had the hardest time of their lives. And it lasted for six years. I can’t believe they made it out of that timeframe alive and sane. I can only guess they kept telling themselves I would leave the house at one point. They saw the light at the end of this awfully [redacted] tunnel; it helped them move forward.
That’s my guess. We don’t talk much about that period. We would rather laugh about how [redacted] they thought I was when I was one year old.
Even I am a tad afraid when I look back at the pictures and my [redacted] journals of that time. These days, I have a better understanding of the development dynamics in teenagers’ bodies and minds, but, damn, some of what I did was sick.
More than sick.
It was [redacted].
This comment was [redacted] by the editor.
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