I got home from school, as any other day, and turned
on the TV.
       “Skeeter, we should start a band,” said one of the
greatest cartoon characters of all time.
       “That’s a great idea, Doug.”
       This was the episode where they start a band and
everyone of their friends and acquaintances wants to
be in it.  They didn’t want to refuse any one person,
and so, they ended up having way too many people for
the band to sound good.  So, the band members were
eventually kicked out and Doug and Skeeter, the two
founders, had stopped being friends.
       “Look Skeeter, we can’t let one little thing like
this ruin our friendship,” Doug said as they
reconciled.
       “Your right, we-”
       “Well, why don’t you leave then!?” my mom
interrupted.
       “Fine, I’m leaving, this house is too cluttered
anyway,” said my dad, punctuating it with a slam of
the door.
       “Trying to watch my show!” I called out in a politely
aggravated sort of way.
       I liked Doug, Recess, and all those shows that came
on right after school.  All those shows that had a
good moral or message at the end that you could relate
to.  The message in that episode of Doug was that even
though people and problems can come between friends,
friendship never truly dies.
       “So Mom, where’d Dad go?” I asked when my show ended.
       She took a deep breath and said, with an
unrecognizably weak voice, “I don’t know.”
       I went back to watching TV.  The shows got worse at
each passing hour, the room seemed darker than I’d
ever noticed, and the hallway was much emptier than I
had once believed it to be.
       My oldest sister, the sixteen year old Nora, got back
home and talked to my mom for a while.  My middle
sister of twelve years, Emily, walked in a little
after and went to her room.  Now is my time to control
the remote, for I no that if I’m challenged, age and
height will outweigh determination.  That whole night
I had the remote, and I realized that I didn’t want it
as bad as I thought I did.
       The next day, I walked in to my second grade
classroom and took an uncharacteristic seat in the
back.  For some reason, everyone seemed a little
meaner or less kind that day.  I couldn’t put my
finger on it but something was definitely wrong.
       It had been a couple of days since I had seen my dad,
and I didn’t understand why.  One day he stopped by
and picked up me and Emily, Nora refused to join us,
and we had dinner at a nice restaurant.  We talked for
a while, mainly of how we missed each other and a
little catching up.  It’s surprising what can be
missed over the course of a few days.
       When we were done eating he took us back to Mom’s
house, and kissed us goodbye.
       “Where are you going?” I said softly as my dad
started his car.
       “Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” he said with a smile.
       For the moment I was feeling better, and went inside
and turned on the TV.  I watched for a couple hours,
half because I liked the shows, and half because I was
waiting for my dad to come home.
       “Max, it’s bed time, come on,” said my eldest sister.
       “But I want to be down here when Dad comes.”
       She looked at me startled, “well, Dad’s not coming
back tonight, he doesn’t live here anymore.”
       “Oh,” I replied as if I understood, “okay.”
       I went to bed trying not to think of the day that had
passed.  There was just one thing I was sure of: sleep
is hard.
       The next day, I went to school.  Everything my
teacher said bounced off me, as though there was a
shield in front of me.  Recess and lunch came and went
without the usual relief of tension and pressure.
Finally, school let out, and I went to the bench near
the exit to sit by myself and think.
       The breeze came by, a cold frigid breeze, unlike the
normal Berkeley weather.  I thought things were going
to be okay.  I thought they’d work it out.  They
fought before and nothing came of it, why now, what’s
different.  I could have done something, I could have
told them to stop fighting, I could have done
something bad enough for them to have to focus on me.
School benches are much less comfortable than they
look.
       “Where are you going Max?”
       “Home.”
       “All right then, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
       “Yeah.”
       The walk home, one of my few times of reflection.  A
chance to evaluate where I was, what I was, and why I
was how I was.  My conclusions were always cynical.  I
was at my life’s crossroads, a reserved and
disheartened child, sad because my parents weren’t
together anymore.
       I should have seen it coming.  They were yelling all
the time.  Couldn’t they just put up with each other?
Whatever, I’ll just forget about it, I don’t care
anymore, it’s over.
       A few weeks went by and my friend was having a
birthday party, for obvious reasons, and he invited
me.  As were all parties at that age, we stayed up all
night playing the N64, giving up your controller if
and when you died.
       “Go around the side, we’ll trap him,” one of my
friends said to another about me.
       “Hey, you guys are cheating,” I said as they
double-teamed me, “quit it.
       “That’s bullshit,” I exclaimed as I threw the
controller to the ground.
       It was an outburst that would set a trend.  At my
house my controllers were perpetually in need of
replacing.  Stuffed animals would put up a valiant
effort, but would be defeated by my wrath.  You might
have thought my dog got some of them by how they
turned out.  One day, I got mad enough to indent my
wall with my foot.  I guess I thought my foot would
win that battle.
       Later that day, my mom came to my room.  Her tone was
gentle and her expression warm.
       “How do you feel?”
       “Fine,” I replied with a clearly sorrowful glance.
       “There’s a psychiatrist you can see,” she threw out
there, “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want
to.  I just think he could really help you.”
       I looked at her with a yearning for solidarity, which
she could plainly see.  So, she got up and left me to
my thoughts.
       Do I really need help?  Am I that bad?  What have I
done to deserve this?
       I went to sleep with my mind racing.  I knew she’d be
back in the morning to check if I’d made my decision.
I went back and forth in my head, with sleep a baby
step away that I was unwilling to take until the
choice was made.  Eventually, I did go to sleep.
       “Hey Max, wake up, breakfast’s almost ready,” called
my mom from downstairs, “It’s gona get cold.”
       “I’m coming,” I called down, with a false sense of
security.
       I ran down the steps toward the smell of bacon,
pancakes, and compassion, which all have a very
distinct smell.
       She served me my food and went back to get her plate.
 She then joined me in the living room, with a
football game on the television.  She waited until the
commercial came in order to get my full attention.
       “So, have you decided?” she asked, and suddenly I
hadn’t.
       My thoughts became a blur, my eyes looked in all
directions for a diversion.  What should I say, what
should I do, how fast am I?  This was so much easier a
decision last night.
       “Umm, well... yes,” I said so softly that even I
barely heard it.
       “What?  I can barely hear you.”
       “Yes, I’ll go.”
       Not hours, days, weeks, nor a minute passed by
without anticipation.
       “So, when am I going to see him,” I asked, in an
attempt to get the waiting period over with.  The
waiting being one of my least favorite periods.
       “Soon,” she replied, “soon.”
       Then, one day, my mom picked me up and said that
today is the day.  She took me in the car, and the
next thing I knew, we were there.
       I waited outside his office for hours, cleverly
disguised as minutes, for him to call my name.
“Hello, Max?” the last words spoken before my plunge
into the abyss of his room.  With expectations so
cynical I couldn’t help but smile upon my entrance.
Though I was still frightened, I was, for a moment,
relieved.
       The walls were unpainted, but welcoming.  The chairs
were not matching, but comfortable.  His games weren’t
appealing, but abundant.
       “Do you want to play a game,” and of course I did, at
the humble age of eight, I would love to play any and
all games just to say I’ve played them, if not for any
other reason.
       “Eh, sure, I guess,” I replied and got up to look for
a good one.
       Not Checkers, that’s boring; I play that too much
anyway.  Oh, Risk, that’s supposed to be fun, maybe it
needs more players though.  How about...Monopoly,
well, no, not Monopoly.  I wish he had Connect Four; I
kill at Connect Four.
       “What’s Stratego?”  I asked, with a distance only
understood by someone aware of the circumstances.
       “Well, bring it over, I’ll show you.”
       He taught me the game and beat me what seemed like
every single time.  He showed me how to set up the
pieces traditionally, and how to think in layers to
combat a normal strategy.  I remember very little of
the conversations we had, but I do remember that one
day I won.  I made him think I was doing one thing,
when I was doing another, and so he was focused on the
wrong pieces.  Conversely, he made me think we were
playing Stratego when he was really treating me.
Maybe I was focused on the wrong pieces.
       One day, a simple, prison-like, “you’re free to go,”
speech came from the psychiatrist’s mouth, along with
a card if I should ever feel it necessary.  I haven’t.
       I walked out with a bittersweet happiness.  I
wouldn’t have to go to therapy anymore, but I wouldn’t
get to go to therapy anymore.  Good, now I’m not that
only kid going to see a shrink, but now I’m not that
original kid seeking help.  Was I better now?  Only
time would tell.
       I looked for immediate change, and found none to
grasp on to.  There was no remarkable difference, and
I wondered why I was no longer in need of therapy.
The days got a little brighter, but that was probably
from the season changing.  Sleeping was still hard,
and getting out of bed was never easy.
       One day, it hit me;  I’m happy.  It’s weird, not
unfamiliar, just long forgotten.  It doesn’t matter
how the weather is or how some people are, because
they will be as they will be.  I went to bed that
night with a smile on my face
       I woke up that next morning, much lighter than
normal.  Waking up wasn’t rolling out of bed on this
day, but instead, I shot up.  A revived energy had
sprung up inside me.  Nothing seemed to make me that
mad anymore.  Mild annoyances became just that, and
major ones followed suit.  Perspective found its way
into my mind and transformed who I am.  Rage, a once
controlling emotion, had taken a back seat to my
rational thoughts.  Now I see that my life, with all
the problems it has, is still a very good life.  I am
lucky and privileged to be where I am.  And one thing
I will never forget is a saying my mom told me a while
back.  It was that no matter how bad your life gets,
know that there are people worse off then you.  Which
always meant to me that no matter how good or bad life
is, you must remain humble and happy, because life
will always throw hardships at you, it is our job to
deal with and overcome them.