In the Beginning
He never imagined that life would put me on a collision course with reality. Why didn't they bother to ask him? It seems that's why there ever was a problem, to begin with. Nobody listened. Everyone ignored all the warning signs. Nobody asked questions. Year after year, when the obvious became just that, it was too late. His spiral into madness had begun. His fragility wasn't sudden, nor under the circumstances unexpected. What was unexpected was the abject horror he felt, driving his insanity to epoch proportions.
He was very young, about three when his mother passed and she became a better angel with the Lord. She had been ill for some time so it was not a complete shock to those around her but her loss was profoundly felt. As painful and tragic as her death, life had to go forward. Everyone was able to cope and move on with their lives. Everyone except one person, a three-year-old. But it was soon to tell. Was it? How can the death of an infant's mother be so consequential for someone so young? It wasn't a question any of the adults would bother to ask. They didn't want to know because it was a painful reminder of their loss. Unaware, of how the child was feeling inside; life continued as the adults seemed fit for parent and child but yet he was missing his mom and he couldn't understand why everyone was ignoring his feelings. His limited vocabulary couldn't express his thoughts in a way an adult could understand. He just kept asking "Can I call mommy? I miss her." He had been told "mommy is not coming home," when she passed. This was a question he often asked. He didn't know why his mommy wasn't coming home. They didn't bother to tell them that part. He just her to call. That should have been a peek into the boy's thinking, a constant desire for wanting to reach out to his mom, obsessively wanting to reach his mom. Even as a child he seemed to be dealing with trauma over losing his momma. Where were the adults?
The poor boy had been through so much already, having only just turned five, and had been dealt such a poor hand from the beginning. It's no wonder this story has the tragedies that would befall s boy as he was growing into manhood and would come to shape his life forever. Perhaps, the adults found him too young to understand "loss." A bit naive on their part as they will look back in hindsight. But, even after knowing they continued to feign ignorance when it came to this poor child at least until they heard a scream of primal fear.
"Comfort him, " they would say. "We need to calm him down and just let him know it was just a bad dream." They all agreed but how did they know? To him, it was more than JUST a bad dream it was night terrors. The poor boy was paralyzed with fear. He dreamt a comb turned into a monster and bit his head off. Another time he dreamt he was de-boned, boneless, just a pile of a blubber. These didn't include the ones he chose not to share.
He can remember vividly a decorated coconut, almost like the Mr. Potato Head character. The big glued-on eyes, the matted wig for hair, and a cigar stuck where his mouth ought to be brought to life what otherwise would just be another coconut. But, to him, it was abject terror. The eyes stared down at him. Were they looking at him? He thought they were and that's all that matters. The mouth. The lips. Did he just see the lips move?? His mind and eyes were always playing tricks on him. He had a very active imagination, or so they said. He didn't understand big words at the time. He didn't want to sleep. He always needed the light on along with every picture either having to be turned over or taken off the walls for his "imagination" would turn these otherwise turn ordinary home decor into visions of terror. If only they had listened. All they had to do was pay attention.