Have you ever seen the movie “A Beautiful Mind”? Where Russell Crowe imagines his roommate and a little girl? He eventually learns to just sort of… ignore them.
It’s scary how true that is.
Seeing that movie was a turning point for me. I realized I could maybe learn to live a normal life, and for an 11 year old who’d been to a hundred doctor’s, admitted to three mental hospitals, and tried every antipsychotic it was safe to give an 11 year old (and a few that weren’t. Thanks, dad.), that was more hope than I’d ever had before.
Ever since I was born, I’d see… things… wandering around. I remember seeing them before I remember my own parents’ faces. They ignored me, and I could never touch them, but, I mean, that’s what most adults seem like, to an infant, so why was it strange? It’s all pretty fuzzy, that far back. No one remembers being a baby. But they’ve always just been there.
About the time I turned 3, I think I realized no one else could see them. That’s when my parents told me I started having imaginary friends.
I’d talk about the big animals I’d see, and they’d smile, and humor me.
If the animals I described had a few too many eyes and teeth, well, that’s the imagination of a child, right?
It wasn’t until I was a little older that they started to worry.
I was past the “it’s cute” stage, and they started looking at my drawings with concern. I’d become obsessed with drawing the creatures no one else could see. For a kid, I think I was pretty good, too. That was the problem.
They really didn’t like what they saw in my drawings.
I remember very vividly, my mother grabbing one in particular I’d finished, and I was so happy I got it exactly right.
She looked down at the purplish gray blob, the appendages that didn’t match the body and a face that looked simply wrong, to her, I realize now.
She held it up to me, angry, tears running down her cheeks, screaming at me to never draw something like that again, before ripping it up and sending me to my room.
I stopped showing them my pictures after that, though I had a serious collection by the time I was 6.
That’s when they sent me to my first psychiatrist. We talked for a couple of hours, then once a week for a month and a half.
It was so exciting, having an adult who listened to me talk about the creatures. One that didn’t get angry, or leave the room and shut the door a few minutes later.
So, I was pretty upset, the day she asked me if I knew the animals weren’t real.
I stopped talking to her after that.
The next three doctors lasted even less time.
By the time I was 7, though, we found Dr. Thompson. She was amazing. She didn’t seem to care if they were “real” or not, just that I was able to live a life without being unstable because of them. I talked to her for six months.
My parents were so much happier, and I thought everything was going to be okay, in that way a child doesn’t think about the future.
One day, Dr. Thompson asked if I wanted to show her my drawings.
That night I went home and pulled out the boxes of drawings from under my bed, and my closet.
For the next week I combed through them all, picking the very best ones.
I was so excited to finally share them with someone who I trusted wouldn’t react to them.
The next Tuesday, I pulled them out of my back back and happily handed them over to her.
She stared at them for a long time, flipping through the stack slowly.
Eventually, she looked at me, and smiled, asking if she could keep these for a little while.
I said yes, and we talked about school for the rest of the session.
As we left, she asked me to wait in the playroom, and had my parents step into her office. I was sure she was telling them I was okay, and there was nothing wrong with my drawings.
My parents came out a few minutes later, and I knew something was wrong. My father looked worried, and mom… she picked me up and held me close, telling me she loved me.
That night we packed a suitcase, and my parents told me that there was a place Dr. Thompson thought I should visit for a little while.
The way the described it, it sounded like summer camp, which I’d always wanted to try, so when we got in the car, I was eager to get there.
I think you know it wasn’t camp, though.
The hospital wasn’t like what you see in the movies. No white paint and fluorescent lights.
There were bright primary colors everywhere, and paintings of cartoon elephants and dogs, and the staff wore uniforms with flowers and clowns on them.
I was left in the play room under the careful watch of a kindly nurse, who talked to me while I colored.
A purple cat, that time. I knew better than to draw Them in front of other people by now.
After a while, maybe an hour, I think, my parents came back with a man in a white coat over a green shirt and glasses. I remember thinking his hair matched the brown of his tie.
They introduced him, and said I’d be staying here with him and some other children.
I was quiet, and asked them if we could, please, go home instead.
Mom started tearing up a little, and turned away. Dad knelt down, and gruffly told me this was for the best, and they’d visit all the time.
I tried not to cry as they hugged me and kissed my head, telling me how much they loved me.
Then they left, and I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
The nurse, who’s name I learned was Tina, held me and rocked me back and forth until I stopped, then carried me to a room with a small bed, and a cubby for my suitcase.
She lay me on the bed, and asked me if I was hungry.
I shook my head, saying I was just tired, and so she sat down in a chair in the corner of the room, while I lay there, still sniffling a little, fell asleep.
I woke up to the sound of the door opening, and Tina coming in with a tray of food.
She said it was dinner time and I needed to eat.
Before I could though, she gave me a little cup of small bright pills, and told me I had to take them.
I was still emotionally and physically drained, and did so without arguing. I quietly ate my dinner, and went back to sleep.
Sometime in the middle of the night I awoke again, and saw Tina dozing in her chair, a book hanging from her limp fingers.
I watched her for a long time, then went to my suitcase, and began drawing the creature that was sleeping next to her.
I put it under my mattress when I was finished, and returned to my dreams.
The next day I met with the man with the coat and glasses.
We talked for a while in his office, and by now I was used to the questions new doctors asked to know what answers he wanted.
It was a week before my parents came to visit me.
I didn’t talk to them, I was too angry.
Then they were leaving and I began sobbing, begging them to take me home.
Tina had to pull me off them and hold me tight as I fought her, before they left.
I hated that place.
It was a year before I left the hospital.
They’d tried every medicine they could, but nothing stopped me seeing the Things, and eventually I learned to pretend I was okay, when they tried a combination of pills that didn’t leave me feeling sick or sleepy.
I kept it up for a long time, and finally they told me I could go home.
Mom and Dad were happy to have me back, and “normal”, finally. I was glad to be out of there.
The next few years were turbulent, though. Eventually they realized I was faking. And the doctors started again. The meds. Then they found the pictures, and when I was 10, it was another hospital. That one didn’t last too long. The doctor there was pretty arrogant, and he was convinced I was ‘cured’ within a few weeks.
My parents were more skeptical, and less than a year later I was in another facility, this time one that wasn’t just for kids.
It was there I met Paul.
Paul was an orderly, but he was probably the nicest person I’ve ever met, and the only reason I’m not still in some room, drugged up.
He was the one who snuck in the movie, and explained that sometimes you just have to ignore the things no one else can see.
To this day I don’t know why he took the risk and gave me the very unprofessional advice, but I’ll forever be grateful for it.
That was when I finally learned what I had to do to stay out of places like that forever.
I was able to go to a normal middle school, and my art teacher loved me. I’d had a lot of practice after all. I never showed her the pictures I did in me free time, of course.
I went through high school, drawing, and eventually painting, making friends, dating.
It was as close to happy as I’d been in a long time when Lauren came into my life. She loved my art, and we spent hours together, talking about colors and shapes.
My first girlfriend. My parents were thrilled, naturally. They took this as a sign I really was going to be okay.
We broke up a few months later, when she found a piece I was working on. One of the ones I never meant to show anyone.
She didn’t like the things that lurked in my mind, she said.
That pretty much sums up my life through college. I got an art scholarship, and eventually found an outlet I could share a few of the tamer pieces I’d previously have hidden.
Most people found them disturbing, still, but a few people thought they were “awesome”. I even sold one to a heavy metal band for their album cover.
I still paint, and even have a few exhibitions now and then. Most of my income comes from commissions, though. (Thanks, Reddit.)
I’d largely put everything behind me, until one day a few weeks ago.
I hadn’t mentioned Them to anyone in years. I hadn’t even shown anyone a painting of one since college.
I was at a park, painting, enjoying the sun, and doing a few sketches for some side cash and tips.
It was nice.
Around lunch time I grabbed a pita from a vendor nearby, and a bottle of water, taking a spot under a tree to enjoy the shade.
I saw one of Them drinking from the fountain, and watched it a while. Standing up, stretching, I caught sight of something that made me freeze.
There was a man, just some old man in a suit and hat, staring at it.
At least it looked like he was staring at it.
He had a little book in his lap, and a pencil in one hand.
Heat rising in my chest, heart pounding, I walked towards him. I sat down on the bench next to him, and tried to catch a look at at the page he was scribbling on.
Sure enough, It was there. He was drawing it.
A numb serenity washed over me, and I caught his eye.
He raised an eyebrow, in the universally recognized expression of “What?”.
I worked my tongue for a minute, testing my words, forming a question I wasn’t sure how to ask.
Finally, it came out as “Do you know what they are?”
He stared at me a moment, studying me with a furrowed brow.
Eventually, he smiled sadly, and shrugged. “For all I know, they’re just in my head.”