occasions in which he could shut down his mind and simply exist outside of thought, but he had never been able to just let go and let his thoughts wander without direction. He had been conditioned to always be focused, always be on guard, lest the unstable, dangerous portions of his fragmented mind seize control. For nearly forty years his mind had been racing, trying to stay ahead of the insanity that matched his every step.
Seven minutes left , he thought. He stared at the dark ceiling, willing his mind to relax. He tried closing his eyes, but all he saw was the dark man kicking a woman’s shoe. He changed his mind’s channel and watched a bead of sweat slowly meander down Dana’s cleavage. He watched for a moment and began to feel an unfamiliar stirring. She stood before him, only now she was naked and beckoning to him; the café had dissolved into a sleazy hotel room. I’m dreaming , he thought, and Dana immediately disappeared. Now all he saw were the blood vessels in his eyelids. I’m awake , he thought, and opened his eyes. He tried relaxing all his muscles, but he still felt the passage of every second.
You’re going to be late , one of his old voices said.
Phil could ignore this one; it dated back to his childhood and instead of growing stronger with time, this one had weakened, making room for the new and more dangerous small voice, the one with the power to destroy his carefully created and insulated world.
As a child Phil and his parents were forced to accept the fact that he would always be different. When he was two his mother noticed that he never cried, and in fact, rarely verbalized at all; when she fed or bathed him he almost never made eye-contact, preferring to stare over her shoulder and track unseen objects. On occasion, however, he would stare at her intensely, following her with his eyes, even crawling and latter walking after her if she left the room, and after finding her he would simply sit down and resume his quiet staring. At first she found it adorable; latter she found it disturbing. When he started stacking his unused toys and the cans in the pantry, his parents sought help. The diagnosis of autism wasn’t much of a surprise, but it was still devastating. Aside from institutional placement, no treatment options were offered. He was still young and required no more care than the average three year old, so the Ruckers made a promise to themselves and to Phil to keep him home for as long as they could safely manage him. Molly Rucker became a full-time stay-at-home mom and slowly coaxed Phil out of his mental prison. Within a year, he had begun to use words, quietly voicing his needs. By age five, his occasional speech was punctuated by verbal outbursts of astonishing clarity and detail. It was clear to the Ruckers and to the pediatricians who examined Phil that while he was emotionally stunted and socially retarded, he was not in the classic sense autistic; whatever was going on was much more complex. By age seven, Phil could pass for a normal child, a strange, intense, and reserved child, but functionally independent. His intellectual development was extraordinary, which only intensified his emotional isolation, both of which intensified the fragmenting of his mind. He explained it to himself in Freudian terms as a lack of self: superego versus id, a constant battle for control. He tried to explain it to his father in terms he would understand; they were at a local swimming pool and the two watched as several boys wrestled over a beach ball in the deep end of the pool. The smallest of the group managed to grab the ball and swim away, but a moment later his bigger and stronger playmates overwhelmed him. They took turns dunking him over and over again; finally, the lifeguard was forced to intervene. Phil took his Father’s hand and pointed at the near-drowned boy, and said simply: “that’s me.”
It doesn’t have to be , the small voice said.
Phil refused to take the bait. This
Seven minutes left , he thought. He stared at the dark ceiling, willing his mind to relax. He tried closing his eyes, but all he saw was the dark man kicking a woman’s shoe. He changed his mind’s channel and watched a bead of sweat slowly meander down Dana’s cleavage. He watched for a moment and began to feel an unfamiliar stirring. She stood before him, only now she was naked and beckoning to him; the café had dissolved into a sleazy hotel room. I’m dreaming , he thought, and Dana immediately disappeared. Now all he saw were the blood vessels in his eyelids. I’m awake , he thought, and opened his eyes. He tried relaxing all his muscles, but he still felt the passage of every second.
You’re going to be late , one of his old voices said.
Phil could ignore this one; it dated back to his childhood and instead of growing stronger with time, this one had weakened, making room for the new and more dangerous small voice, the one with the power to destroy his carefully created and insulated world.
As a child Phil and his parents were forced to accept the fact that he would always be different. When he was two his mother noticed that he never cried, and in fact, rarely verbalized at all; when she fed or bathed him he almost never made eye-contact, preferring to stare over her shoulder and track unseen objects. On occasion, however, he would stare at her intensely, following her with his eyes, even crawling and latter walking after her if she left the room, and after finding her he would simply sit down and resume his quiet staring. At first she found it adorable; latter she found it disturbing. When he started stacking his unused toys and the cans in the pantry, his parents sought help. The diagnosis of autism wasn’t much of a surprise, but it was still devastating. Aside from institutional placement, no treatment options were offered. He was still young and required no more care than the average three year old, so the Ruckers made a promise to themselves and to Phil to keep him home for as long as they could safely manage him. Molly Rucker became a full-time stay-at-home mom and slowly coaxed Phil out of his mental prison. Within a year, he had begun to use words, quietly voicing his needs. By age five, his occasional speech was punctuated by verbal outbursts of astonishing clarity and detail. It was clear to the Ruckers and to the pediatricians who examined Phil that while he was emotionally stunted and socially retarded, he was not in the classic sense autistic; whatever was going on was much more complex. By age seven, Phil could pass for a normal child, a strange, intense, and reserved child, but functionally independent. His intellectual development was extraordinary, which only intensified his emotional isolation, both of which intensified the fragmenting of his mind. He explained it to himself in Freudian terms as a lack of self: superego versus id, a constant battle for control. He tried to explain it to his father in terms he would understand; they were at a local swimming pool and the two watched as several boys wrestled over a beach ball in the deep end of the pool. The smallest of the group managed to grab the ball and swim away, but a moment later his bigger and stronger playmates overwhelmed him. They took turns dunking him over and over again; finally, the lifeguard was forced to intervene. Phil took his Father’s hand and pointed at the near-drowned boy, and said simply: “that’s me.”
It doesn’t have to be , the small voice said.
Phil refused to take the bait. This
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