Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/768150
Printer Friendly Page Tell A Friend
No ratings.
Rated: ASR · Essay · Drama · #768150
a story of my elementary school days.
It was a cold day in Houston. My hands, feet and most of all my nose were chilled. I hopped into the car with my mom and we headed towards Jacinto City Elementary. I had Ms. Blount that year. I lugged my overwhelming backpack into the classroom only to find a note on my desk. "Go see Ms. Turner." it read. This note sent chills up my spine. The horror of this tragic note wreaked havoc on my sanity. I walked across the classroom, through aisles and aisles and desks and desks and a mountain of Jr. Guzman's weird purple markers. Once I arrived at my teacher's desk, a booming voice from overhead(the p.a. system) said "Mercedes Garrette, go see Ms. Turner, Mercedes, to Ms. Turner." These very words pierced my heart and tormented my soul. There was nothing worse than having to visit Ms. Turner, the mentor counselor. As I walked down the hallway, adorned in a hooded parka, gloves and a superfluity of additional winter frills, I grumbled and mumbled. I arrived and the first face that I saw was my mother's face. "NOOO!!!!" I protested, and began to run. Soon the stride of my underdeveloped body changed from short, quick steps to gallops, then leaps, and finally I was flying. I woke up in a white room, with a tiled ceiliing, glass windowpanes and the odor of floor varnish and cod liver oil. There were doctors in the room and I was strapped to a white bed. As I opened my eyes and looked around, I discovered I was in a hospital... not St. Luke's or the Methodist or even Texas Children's. I was in Intracare, and this strange man towering over me with a look of spite was Dr. Lagrone, (who'd just recently earned a doctorate in Psychiatry and Neurology). I wanted to cry. I yearned to crawl into a plastic bubble and stay there for a couple of weeks. All the while he stared at me, I wondered what was happening, what was going on, and if perhaps, by a miracle, this had all been a dream.
Again, I awoke in a room, no, a tube, even more accurately, an MRI. My arms were strapped down, an I was terrified. Why were they doing this to me? Why couldn't I just go back to school and take the TAAS(R) test?

The next day I took more medicine than necessary the entire Psychiatric ward at the Texas State Prison. I took Concerta, Celexa, Risperdal, Ritalin, Buspirone, Morphine, and of course, Acetaminophen. Capsules, tablets, pills, elixirs, it all seemed unreal to me. Why?
Why were they ruining my life? Why had all of the stuff that had happened to my in all of my 8 years of life even occured. The diagnoses, the characterizations, the classifications. At risk, Gifted and Talented, Dyslexia... It was all a dream...
© Copyright 2003 Julia Eaton (afjrotctx944 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Log in to Leave Feedback
Not a Member?
Signup right now, for free!
All accounts include:
*Bullet* FREE Email @Writing.Com!
*Bullet* FREE Portfolio Services!
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/768150