Scrabble

Scrabble

I'm not an unintelligent person. Nor am I an ignorant person. But if
you asked any member of my family what they thought of me, on a good
day, they'd say that I have "special needs" or that I'm "not your
ordinary human being". On a bad day? Well, behind closed doors, they'd
admit to thinking that I'm a "freak of nature", and they'd make
off-hand comments like "he's not right in the head". These are things
my mother and father are saying about their only son. How dare they?
How dare they belittle me in front of friends and family, as if I don't
understand them, as if I'm a house-pet, as if my limitations are
sitting, begging, rolling and playing dead at the commands of my owners.
I'm not a hostile person, and I don't try to be, but I'd freely admit
that I feel like my parents are raising me poorly. Sure, they feed me,
and give me shelter and the possessions that I require, but other than
that... nothing. My relationship with them seems to be only
materialistic. No love, no family bonding, just a hostility, as they
can't accept me for what I am, for who I am.

It wasn't always like this. They tried to raise me normal, pretend
that my problems didn't exist. They tried forcing normality down my
throat and raise me like the son they so desperately wanted. I would
have gladly done what they asked of me, I would have gladly carried on
the family name, following in my father's footsteps, if only they had
accepted me for me, not for who they wanted me to be. It was only after
they accepted the fact that I was the way I was, and I wouldn't be
changing any time soon that they started giving me the possessions that
I craved, to pacify me, to make me somewhat less of a burden they had
to bear.
And they did soothe me, and for a moment I thought that these parents
of mine were capable of emotion, that they did care about me, but I was
lost in a dream world. They only cared about maintaining a certain
level of civility in the household. They mostly keep to themselves now,
and let me carry on "in my own little world", which I've come to accept
just fine.

I've found that I can escape my emotions through a determined focus
on my daily rituals. As I've got no job, nothing to do all day, a
standard schedule keeps me feeling like I could almost lead a normal
life. At 7:00 every morning my bedside alarm goes off, and I wake up. 5
minutes later, my secondary alarm goes off and I slip my red non-slip
shower shoes on. Red for Monday, Wednesday and Friday, blue for
Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday and yellow for Sunday. I go into "my"
bathroom (in "my" corner of the house) to get showered and dressed. At
7:15 my bathroom alarm goes off and it's time for breakfast. Friday,
marmalade on toast day. A loaf of bread would be sitting on my kitchen
counter, waiting to be sliced. It was freshly baked for each 'toast'
day, Tuesday and Friday. The loaf would cover my breakfast, lunch and
afternoon tea meals. A pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, and a
jar of home-made marmalade would be placed beside the bread. I would
pour myself a glass of the juice and take my daily medication pills
with the first mouthful. I would continue on these schedules all day,
every day.

Each Sunday, my parents would go to church in the morning. I used to
go with them, but I didn't want to be there, and they didn't want to be
embarrassed. My Aunt Josephine would come to the house and keep me
company. She was good company, she really cared for me and I always
enjoyed her visits. It had become the Sunday ritual that we would play
scrabble on the back veranda in the antique rocking chairs. It was fun
because my parents had made it clear to me that those chairs were "out
of bounds". Aunt Josephine knew about this, and I think that's why she
was so fond of the idea, too. At first she said it would be good for my
psyche, but now it's just become another routine in my life. Dear Aunt
Josephine, always trying to get me to come out of my cocoon and see
more of the world. On the days that were too cold and wet to be
outside, she'd bring over the photo album, and show me the places she'd
been on her world trip. She would have been about my age when she
visited all those wondrous places.

Aunt Josephine was the one who made the loaves of bread for me, and
the marmalade, she was the one that looked after me and cared for me.
She was always coming to the house to check up on me, even when it
wasn't Sunday. But the Sundays were the best. My parents would come
home from church and they'd pretend to be interested, and they'd always
ask "who won today's Scrabble?", to which Aunt Josephine would reply
"Who do you think?" I always won, but my parents never believed it.
They had convinced themselves that Aunt Josephine was just saying
things to make me feel "special". But then she'd go back home and I'd
go back to my routines again, and I'd feel a loneliness and longing for
company that I knew only my Aunt could bring. It wasn't until my mother
came into my bedroom while I was reading, that my life started to
change for the better. At first I was annoyed and defensive, but when I
heard the words "phone" and "Aunt Josephine", I felt pacified. It
turned out that Aunt Josephine just wanted to spend more time with me.

She sounded quite upset at first, she mentioned something about her
fish and chip shop, and someone quitting their job. Next moment she was
telling me that she would love it if I would work for her, maybe one or
two nights a week. The quiet ones. I was apprehensive, nervous of the
thought. Although I wasn't really agoraphobic, the prospect of leaving
the home, and leaving the safety of my routines, it was a scary thing.
And I told Aunt Josephine that. She was very comforting about it,
adamant that I come and work for her, she'd give me a lift from the
house to work and she'd never leave my sight. And so it was settled, I
would start my very first job on Tuesday.

I walked in to my parent's lounge room to deliver the news, but they
were watching their shows. I cleared my throat. My mother threw me a
look that said "what do you want, boy?"
"Hey mum? Uh, Aunt Josephine gave me a job at her fish and chip shop. I start on Tuesday."
I got an irritated nod from my mum, which I assumed to mean "yeah okay,
whatever. Now scram, I'm watching my shows." So I went back to my
reading, thinking about Tuesday. My routines became a little less
focused, as I was mostly just waiting for that day to come. But when
the day and time came along, I felt unprepared to make the leap out of
my comfort zone.

But Aunt Josephine was really great about it all. She had the
uniform for me, just a plain shirt with "Josie's" written on it. And on
the car ride to the shop, she gave me a crash course on what my job
was, although for the first half of the shift, I'd just be watching
her, and she'd pass the work on to me when I felt up to it. It was
pretty quiet, there was only four of us there, and after about half an
hour, Aunt Josephine had given me a full run-down of everything in the
shop. So we talked about other things. The other two guys working there
were friendly, and they had some interesting stories to share. It
wasn't long before I donned the hair-net and latex gloves and took on
the work for myself. I was nervous, but with Aunt Josephine's soothing
voice backing me all the way, I handled myself pretty well. We closed
the store a little early and the other two left. Aunt Josephine took me
into the small office in the back, because she wanted to show me
something. I sat down in the chair across from hers. She held in her
hand a photograph. She let out a little sigh, before turning it around
and passing it across to me. It was a picture of her and her
ex-husband, standing outside their little cottage home, and Aunt
Josephine appeared to be pregnant.
"I never knew you had a child" I said.
"Yeah, I gave birth shortly after he left me. I was depressed, I was
left with almost nothing, so I didn't keep him." She spoke with a tone
of regret. "I gave him away to a family who could afford to look after
him."
"So, I've got a cousin?"
"No, the child I had... it was you. And now, well, you're old enough to
make your own decisions, so, if you want, you're welcome to live with
me."
I hadn't anticipated this, not at all. Yes, I would love to live with
my birth mother. I would love to leave the people who raised me without
affection nor sympathy. And I would love to know the feeling of a
mother's love, day after day after day.

It turned out that my foster parents only found out that I had
"special needs" after they had taken me in. But it also turned out that
those special needs stemmed from the depression of my mother, and the
overall lack of comfort and love that I had yearned throughout my first
years. Now that I have my mother in my life again, and the emotional
balance has more or less rectified itself, I can lead a somewhat normal
life. I still have some rituals and habits that I stick to, especially
when I'm away from home, but it's nothing like what it used to be. I
took a trip around the world with some friends from college last year.
I was terribly homesick, but I sent letters and photos almost every
day, and my mother added them to the photo album. She says to me every
now and then that we should take another trip around the world, just
the two of us, but the right time hasn't come yet. Our lives have
completely changed for the better. But there's one thing that's always
stayed the same, each Sunday morning, we still go out onto the porch,
and sit in the rocking chairs (these ones mum bought just for us), and
we play our game of scrabble.