Testimonies
Voluntary Narcolepsy…
I suffered from voluntary narcolepsy for about a month of my fifth year of life. I am not sure how I decided this was the answer to my eternal quest for attention, affection, and concern. I do remember pretending to suddenly fall asleep in all sorts of places and times. I could hear my housemother (a scary woman who would put Joan Crawford to shame) discussing this perplexing situation and me. I cannot say that I heard the affection or concern I craved, but I was being talked about; it would have to do.
The year of the “big sleep” was a hard one for me. I had the infamous housemother of all housemothers that year. She was ingenious in her ability to keep us hardcore five-year-old miscreants on the straight and narrow path.
Housemother was the term used for the people who were responsible for our daily lives in the institution where I was raised. This term replaced the word matron when I was in junior high. The administration decided that matron and guard sounded too much like a prison; hence the words housemother and watchman. (The watchmen patrolled the grounds to keep us safe; and in reality to catch us in the act of “making trouble”). This woman would have been displeased to be called housemother, a wishy-washy word. She was long gone before the change occurred. She is forever in the memory banks of the now adults who survived her as the epitome of the word “matron”.
This woman symbolizes the pain of this institution. I acknowledge that this place saved me from a chaotic, alcohol and violence filled home. I am extremely grateful. Still, there was pain, and she was there to mete it out.
Even so, I wanted her to love me desperately. I would have done anything, betrayed anyone, broken any rule, if she had asked me to.
She did ask me to do much to attempt to earn her love. She asked me to allow her to shame me, shame the others, abuse and degrade. I accepted it as my due. I did not ever win her over. Her love for me never came into being. Then, it just made me try harder. Now it makes me angry.
This woman assigned us (these five and six year old delinquents) our own tile in the hallway. This was our “square”. We spent many hours sitting on that square in a very public shaming ritual. Often, she would wake us up in the middle of the night for something she just decided we had done wrong and make us sit on that square. I usually cried because I wanted to go back to bed. Crying increased the time on the square.
She had favorites (I was never one). We called them PC’s. This stood for privileged character. Even at that early age we knew some of us were just “the lucky ones”. We derided them, scorned them, and tried to be them. All my housemothers had them, but none quite like “the woman”. She periodically lined the rest of us up to spank us. She always excluded the “PC’s” from this special experience. This did not hurt me as much as when she let the PC’s watch a show on television while we had to sit with our backs to it. And by far the most hurtful was the lack of affection in her voice or actions towards us, the “non-pc’s”.
Thus, I came up with a brilliant plan to win a place on the pc list, or at least some individual affection. I did know that when something was “wrong” with someone they seemed to get more attention and concern. So, I became a narcoleptic. I would fall asleep outside, sitting at the dinner table, watching TV, or even doing my chores. I guess I was an adequate actress because I was sent to the health center (a small hospital on campus) for an evaluation.
I do not know what happened or what I told the nurses. I do know I got sent back to my hall in the end. As I crossed the campus (the health center was directly across a big field from my hall) I could see the woman waiting for me. When I got close enough, I could see her anger in the way she was holding her body (remember, I studied her closely to learn what could earn her love). When I got up to her, she started yelling at me for being a faker. I do not recall the words, but the anger has not been forgotten. I did hard time on my tile and I was denied any warmth for quite awhile after this.
Obviously, narcolepsy was not the answer. I never did find the answer to how to get the woman to love me, think about me, and want me. I never did stop trying to gain this end.
The same year as my short-lived voluntary narcolepsy, I was involved in an incident that would become the hallmark episode of my year with “the woman”.
She often had us play outside for extended periods of time. I suspect she was relaxing or napping or some such “self care” ritual. All I know is that, whether it was hot and humid (as an Illinois summer can be) or snowy and frigid (as an Illinois winter can be), we spent much time outside. It is healthy for children to play outdoors. She just took it to an extreme. This meant we could not come inside for any reason. This included “potty breaks”. We could beg to come inside but we would do it calculatedly. Would we get into more trouble for having an accident or disturbing her peace?
One summer day, one of the girls desperately had to go to the bathroom. She was rather ingenious and decided that she would just do her business somewhere outside, thus potentially avoiding the wrath of the woman. She went to the building closest to our residence. This building had stairs on the outside leading down to the basement. She picked the bottom of these stairs as the perfect place to discreetly go to the bathroom.
Unfortunately, we five and six year olds found out and thought it was very exciting. Someone ran to loudly proclaim, “Kathy is going potty down those stairs.” There was an enthusiastic group of us that ran to watch. Nothing so novel and interesting had happened in our lives up to that point. Kathy was doing something different! We watched in amazement and awe as she squatted and defecated.
“The woman” heard from inside the loud yells of excitement. We were discovered. She marched Kathy and all Kathy’s admirers into the house. She lined us up in the bathroom while she yelled. She then gave Kathy a piece of newspaper that she was to use to go get the feces. When Kathy came back, the woman called us up one at a time to pick a piece of the feces off the main lump, and wash our hands with it. We then were instructed to rinse our hands off in the toilets. There were four toilets in a row and so we knelt down four at a time and swished our hands in them. After this she allowed us to wash our hands in the sink. We sat without talking as the last part of our punishment.
This was the woman who was supposed to love me and care about me. In a year of life in which curiosity, energy, and wonder should reign supreme, I was punished for them. In a time of life in which love and affection should rule the day, I was denied access to them.
Even this shaming, mean spirited woman could not break me completely. She did damage. Damage that still surfaces in my hyper-vigilance when in any interaction. I constantly struggle with a very critical evaluation of my “performance” in situations and feel the need to apologize often. I have difficulty giving myself a break, and to be honest, others often don’t get one from me.
Thus, yes, she did damage. Yet, I am alive. I survived her. I do not know all the reasons I went through those two years with her, but they do make a story, don’t they? God gave me stories for two reasons. The first is so I can clearly see his hand on me. During that hard time, I had others who were suffering living with me. We were able to often comfort each other or at least laugh together. God gave me those friends. God put teachers and nurses and other adults in my life that appeared to like me and enjoy my company. God gave me books to escape into. He gave me a sense of humor that has kept me laughing even when crying. He gave me a heart for music so that songs entered and stayed and came out my mouth when needed for comfort.
I did not feel God during those years. I prayed every night as part of a structured routine. We had a Bible story read to us at bedtime and we had Sunday school. God was not a part of my life then, except as another rule. I remember praying sometimes to God to help me but there was no belief, only desperate self-talk.
Today, I know He was there. I know that He wanted all of us to survive and that He cried when He saw our pain. Years after my experience with “the woman”, God gave me a gift. “The woman” came to the orphanage to visit. I was a senior in high school. I did not recognize her; she had to introduce herself. This woman, the monster of my memories, was small and frail and I towered over her. It was clear she had no power to hurt me anymore.
That leads me to the reason I believe these things happened to me and why hard things happen to anybody. They soften us, make us vulnerable. They help us to see others in pain and can be used as the rope that saves someone sinking in the miry pit. And one last thing; as they soften us; they paradoxically also make us stronger. We need to know we can survive in order to face the next event that challenges. Life is hard, strength is necessary.
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An excellent article that deals artfully with a very painful experience. Kids today more than ever, I think, need to know that God loves them and will help them through whatever harsh circumstances they have to endure...like he has with Ellen.
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