Childhood Depression

*The following short story is a work of fiction. The characters, organisations, brands, and events portrayed are fictional. Any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental. This material does not reflect the author's opinions. It may depict highly unsuitable topics and language for sensitive demographics and should not be read by minors.

There is a Universe inside any human mind, I hear my uncle say. I am curious to know what he means, but my curiousness disappears after I notice my grandmother’s miniature collection on a display cabinet. My mind reproduces a thought, a very unusual one.

“Do not touch it. Do not touch it. Satan will be your father if you touch it.”

My child-like hands sweat in a dilemma. What if I touch it? I thought to myself. Why does my mind tell me something bad is going to happen if I do? Should I relent or challenge it?

We are leaving. I get in the car before the ghosts haunt me. I close the door so quickly. I wonder what would happen to me if they caught me someday. I am not brave enough to wait outside and see. I wonder why they follow me. What about my brother? What about my mother?

I am at Disney Florida Hotel. Suffering over my inability to write a story to make a new video. But no one cares. A flashing thought emerges, it suggests that perhaps I am losing my creativity. I am too old to be creative. I am maturing and so are my hobbies. I resign to not write story.

I decide not to ride on the Aerosmith roller coaster. Too scary. But Hadi convinces my brother. I know this is going to change my life. At this moment I am writing history. I am a baby.

On the weekend. My father horns to the fat guard supposedly foreseeing intruders. I shock at my father’s confidence. Will I someday have that much confidence?

“He fell asleep eating donuts.” My father giggles. Me and my brother giggle. I am shocked at how accurate The Simpsons are.

I am watching TV. I feel dread. I am just watching television, why do I feel insecure? Did something wrong happen and I am just not aware yet? That is my first thought. My mother gets out of her bedroom and while talking on the phone, I hear her say.

“How bad… I wish she gets better.”

“What happened? Who needs to get better?” I say.

“Your cousin came down with the flu.” She hides the phone.

I feel proud of myself. Somehow I evolved a sixth sense. I am sensing things before they actually happen.

One night my mother is out. I feel an urge. She is in danger, my sixth sense warns me. Call her, it tells me. I am in kitchen, I open notebook with numbers to call her from the house’s telephone, we talk, I hang up. I am back to playing with my Lego-self and my Lego-girlfriend, I am about to bang her. Another urge strikes. Call her again, she is in danger again, my mind says. I call her, she answers irritated, I hang up. Back to my Lego fiction. Another urge. I call her, she is mad now, I hang up. Back to my Legos. Urge. Call her. She does not pick up.

A week passed. And she still does not understand I am saving her. Her phone number is the first number I achieve to memorize. But if I call her, she gets very angry.

My father calls to the house. I prefer not to answer him. What if my mother calls and I am in the middle of a boring conversation with my father? I am only interested in spending time with him if there is a Double Whooper involved.

Family reunion again. Fun time with cousins. Minecraft. Story-writing. Delicious food.

“Satan will be your father if you touch it.”

I dare to touch it. Stop tormenting me about Satan, I say to myself. Nothing happens. I prove Satan does not exist.

“God is my father, and I am His child.” My mother says so we repeat after her.

Catechism classes, as boring as playing with marbles. First communion is crap. I have proved Satan does not exist and therefore neither does God. My fat teacher tells me to learn the Creed. I do not do it. I am a lost case.

On a Saturday night. I still want to call my mom. But I am sanctioned. If I do, no playing Wii then. But my fear is stronger. I call her. She picks up, at the cinema, bothered by me.

A psychologist receives me. I cry about my father only so we play Connect 4 as promised. As we play she asks me questions about my temper. I do not care because I am winning by far.

The bone in my leg breaks. Now I have a cast. It has been signed by my friends and those who are not friends also. A weird feeling makes me mad. I cannot satisfy that itch. Doctor told me not to scratch inside the cast. But it itches so badly.

Friday night. Phone is just there. If I could only reach it and call my mother. Nothing would make me more happy. But she then will be unhappy. I must not do it. But the itch. The itch is growing out of control.

Catechism also creates an itch. Catholicism is bull crap. One of the newborns of my cat died yesterday, after I told God I would do everything if he saved him, he did not. God does not listen to me. He took away my father. And he is taking away my mother. I am left with my brother. I hope he never leaves me.

Listening to Miss Parkinson. My leg itches. I roll to the window where I left my special itching pills. But it turns out one of my schoolmates threw them out the window. I wonder if it was intentional.

My mother buys me more special pills at Seven-Eleven. These miracle pills taste like orange and their label says: tic tac. I crave one. I am limited to six per day. If I took more something bad would happen.

“God is my father and I am His son.” I see a mental image. A picture I used to see in my house but not anymore. It is me and my father. I am in his arms and smiling. But he suddenly seems blurry until he disappears completely and then God takes his place. My father now has blue eyes, beard, and a floral crown. I am sad. But it is what it is.

I am showering. Sitting on a plastic chair. With a plastic bag on my cast. My moronic brother is also sitting in a chair. At first, I am mad because he wants to be like me. But then I feel OK because I am not the only one showering like a disabled.

I take a nap. Wake up in the middle of the night. My mother is missing. I have been asleep an entire day. I slept like 24 hours. She must be in danger. I call her. But there is no answer. I call my father, but he must be asleep. My brother is asleep. My leg itches. I ask God if he really exists, then why did he break my leg?

“You must believe in me,” God says.

“But why did you let Figaro die? He was too young.”

“I act in mysterious ways. I cannot tell you why.”

“Where is my mother?”

“You will not be my son if you touch the phone.”

“But I have to know where she is.”

“Do not touch the phone,” God warns.

“You are not real anyway,” I say.

I am sure this conversation is a product of my imagination. My creativity has been sloppy. That is how I know this is fantasy. I go to sleep. Hopefully, tomorrow will be no itch, no ghosts, no sixth sense that makes me weird, no religion, and my family will stay close to me forever. But I fear that will not be possible ever again. Do not wake up. Sleep forever.

Special thanks to Axl Red for helping me with this blog’s picture.