Different . . . Not Less. Temple GrandinЧитать онлайн книгу.
thought it was because Becky was jealous of me, because I was the eldest. That did not make any sense. Last year, Becky told me it was because of Julian Bream and the lute. I was very, very much “into” the Renaissance and Baroque periods then, particularly the arts. I also loved the Beatles.
I do not know if my parents suspected that I was different. My mother has only said, “You were all different.” She did note, however, that I seemed “high-strung” and only relaxed when we spent the day in the mountains. I also seemed content when I was little to play by myself and would ignore the others around me. I did not act like I needed much attention and did not seek it; therefore, I did not get a whole lot. My mother had her hands full with my siblings. I had a temper, and my mother has told me how mortified she was when I’d throw myself on the ground and kick and scream.
When I was 17, we were seeing a family counselor for a problem with another sibling. It was this specialist who alerted my parents that I was the one who really needed help. I don’t know what she saw, other than an extremely depressed, withdrawn adolescent. I began seeing a psychologist and, later, a psychiatrist. Neither one helped me, nor did the medications prescribed for me. I talked very little, and I had begun acting out, even though I had always been reasonably well behaved. One afternoon, while home alone, I smashed two-thirds of the windows in the house and then took off for the local cemetery. I don’t know why I did it. My condition was diagnosed as an adjustment disorder.
Anxiety and Bipolar Disorder
I later received diagnoses of bipolar disorder and an anxiety disorder. My mother has asked me, “What could I have done differently?” And I’ve told her, quite honestly, “Nothing,” for I know of nothing that could have changed my life. I was unhappy as a child. I had a suicide plan when I was 9. My mother has told me that I didn’t seem happy at home. I preferred school. My only explanation is that perhaps school was more organized and predictable and less personal. Perhaps there were not as many emotions floating around.
I did not connect with people well. I do not remember ever doing so, actually, except for an isolated occasion when I was 20, when I was doing hashish with a girl named Jenny. I still do not connect. This lack of emotional reciprocity—if that is what it is—has been my greatest discomfort. I was loved as a child. I was my paternal grandfather’s favorite grandchild. Yet, I never felt love.
SCHOOL EXPERIENCES
I was taught to value learning and education. My family was educated, and there was never any question that we would all continue on in school.
I attended morning kindergarten with Stanley. Apparently, I clung to him—that’s what the grade card said at the end of the year. “Ann does not cling to Stanley as much.” I don’t think that was literal. I don’t recall being comfortable in kindergarten, though. I was 5 and in a foreign place. One day, Stanley was sick and I had to go to school alone. Most of the way, I had to walk by myself because my mother had to stay with the other children. I was scared, and I cried. Ann, the girl I was afraid of, told me to rub spit on my eyes and then no one would be able to tell that I had been crying. It didn’t work. The teacher immediately asked me what was wrong.
In 1st and 2nd grades, I was in a two-room school with four grades per room. I don’t remember the number of students in my room, maybe a dozen. I absolutely adored my teacher, Mrs Addison. And she liked me—all my teachers liked me. I felt like a teacher’s pet, and maybe I was. I was quiet, well behaved, and a natural student. I took school very seriously. On the first day of school in the 1st grade, I met Suzanne. She became my best friend until she went to Loma Linda Academy in the 10th grade. I think she and I were teacher’s pets together. Maybe.
My favorite color was blue. “What’s your favorite color?” “Blue.” That’s because Suzanne’s favorite color was blue. In actuality, I really didn’t have a favorite color, but everyone always thought it was blue. Suzanne and I, never, ever, once fought or argued or had the tiniest hint of a disagreement. I think I just went along with whatever she wanted. Or maybe she was just as agreeable as I was. I don’t know. I was appalled at my sisters and their relationships. Suzanne’s little sister Roxy was Barbara’s off-and-on best friend. They alternately loved and hated each other. I never understood it. Becky was the same. They also had a lot more friends than I did. I really only had one. But, I also had no one who disliked me.
I don’t recall ever inviting Suzanne over to my house. I went to hers maybe twice, and I was extremely uncomfortable. In the summertime, sometimes I’d go over to her grandmother’s. We’d play Indians with stick spears in the tall grass. Sometimes we were animals—Suzanne’s idea. Sometimes we played with little green World War II soldiers.
In 3rd grade, the school moved to a brand new location, and we only had two grades to a room. Well, 3rd grade actually had its own room, I think because the class was “large.” After a time, the five smartest students were moved into the 4th/5th grade room, not sure why. It was Stanley, Mark, Albert, Suzanne, and me. We were still in the 3rd grade. But one afternoon before we were moved, I was copying something off of the blackboard before going out to recess. My teacher, Miss Biggs, was standing in the way. I very politely said, “Hey, kid. I can’t see through you.” She made me put my head down on my desk. I didn’t understand. Other people said things like that. Even adults. They said, “You make a better door than a window.” I said the very same thing. My mother told me Miss Biggs was shocked, and she made me go back after school to apologize. I didn’t understand why.
In 6th grade, I came home from school every day and immediately sat at the wall-mounted desk my dad had made me and did homework. All evening, I would do homework. I loved it. I was in Mr Larsen’s room. I liked him. Of course, I liked most of my teachers. All except Miss Biggs. She thought that if parents did their jobs right, children would come to school and be perfect little angels.
I Became a Stranger in a Strange Land in 11th Grade
In 11th grade, I moved to Loma Linda Academy, because Redlands Junior Academy only went to the 10th grade. I was lost. It was much bigger, and there were crowds of students I didn’t know—and never would. I knew a few people, but not well. Of course, some of my classmates from Redlands also moved to Loma Linda. It didn’t matter. I was still a stranger in a strange land. This was the year it really hit me that I was alien, that I didn’t fit. I was a wallflower and was unable to connect with people. I was the island that John Donne said no man was. This is the year I really began falling apart, the year I began my descent into hell.
Academically, I did well at the academy. I was, in fact, one of the two brightest students, according to one of my teachers. The other was my friend, Joy. I was among the popular girls at school. I was quite nice looking and dressed very well. I was also very disturbed and “different,” but “different” in a good way. It was, after all, the late 1960s. Perhaps my quirks even added to the intrigue that was me.
When I was 7 and asked what I wanted to be when I grew up (not that the thought had ever crossed my mind), I said, “an artist.” I was very good. I could look at something and draw it. Reproduce it. I had an artistic gift. When I graduated from the Academy, I moved to the dorm at La Sierra College (now University) and became a music and art major. I didn’t last the semester. I ended the year in the psychiatric unit of Loma Linda University Hospital. I was there 3 months. I’d pretty much stopped talking. And that’s when the death of my music and my art began. Fortunately, I had never been more than a reluctant artist, anyway.
I Did Well Academically
In 1995, I finally graduated from Andrews University with a bachelor of science in zoology, with a biomedical emphasis. When Lars started school, I went back to school myself, first taking drawing and printmaking classes. Else accompanied me to class—she is now quite a fine artist. Once Else was in school and I was feeling more confident, I began taking more classes. My goal was to get into medical school. But I still was not “all right.” I still talked little, and I kept ending up in the hospital. At one point, I had so many electroconvulsive treatments that I forgot everything except how to use the restroom. Else had to teach me everything I had lost.
I