In The Beginning

It started with elephants, in the First Grade.

The teacher gave a bit of a lecture, then wanted us to draw a picture. I thought she instructed us to draw and color any circus animal, so I did my best to create a circus horse; one where the rider attempts jumps and acrobatics.

When our alotted time expired, I lined up with the other kids to hand in my Picasso. Noticing that my classmates had all drawn elephants, I slunk to the back of the line. Now standing solo in front of the teacher, her piercing eyes burning a hole through my 6 year-old soul, I had become her demon boy.

I pleaded for a second chance. She refused. Why?

The very next morning, upon entering the classroom, up above the blackboard, was a row of elephants followed by... gasp... one single horse. I stood still, waiting for hell to freeze over. I wished I'd die right then and there; six years-old.

Embarrassed, yes, but worse, scheduled for that evening was a one-on-one Parent-Teacher Conference.

As tears streaked my cheeks, I begged her to take my horse down. Again, she refused. Why???

A few weeks later I had my hearing tested for the first time; soon to be followed by a body-aid.

This was only... the beginning.

* * *

Well, that is how it all began for me. As a kid, you don't accept hearing loss. It takes a series of blows to break your spirit. And still, you don't want to believe you are different. Somehow demonized, cursed, forever falling to the bottom of the barrel, climbing back up, peering over the rim, only to be kicked back down again.

Lately there has been a lot of news about bullies. So I thought I would put up this true story of my own little journey thru that pleasant experience we like to call . . . "high school."

I Stood Alone

The evil ones lurked behind me on the one-mile walk to school, following at three or four paces back. I heard some giggling; turned around to see Raf and Jason, two kids from my gym class. They seem to be talking to each other, but I could not grasp the conversation and so, continued on my way.

Soon came a mumble, followed by silence, then more giggling. I turned around, "What’s up guys? Whatcha say?"

Looking at me quizzically, "Huh? We didn’t say anything."

So I continued the journey, but could hear more giggling. I decided not to respond. They got louder and louder until I could finally hear what it was they were saying.
"Jimmy is an asshole," over and over again, followed by more giggling and more snickering.

I told them to knock it off, but again they denied anything was happening.

I figured at some point I would have to deal with this, but I never counted on the evil ones to up the ante.

* * *

Junior High was rough. Everything was new to me. Having multiple teachers, as opposed to the one teacher in grade school, was a recipe for disaster. The amount of focus required for me to hear, under different circumstances for each class, was over-whelming. There was no special assistance then, no note-takers, no voice-interpreters, nor any affordable tutors.

So what’s a hard-of-hearing kid to do? A mainstreamed kid, one who could experience the world from only a hearing-impaired perspective. From age six to age thirteen I wore this box-like body-aid. It had scratches, dents, with this embarrassing brace to hold it to my chest. Somehow this device would stick with me for four more years. And by some miracle, it now sits on my fireplace mantle, still in working condition.

* * *

As I joined the sea of bodies flowing through the school hallways, weaving my way to the next class, I heard that giggling sound again. Then I heard the "asshole" part.

Why me, I thought. Just because of this damn cord running from my chest to my ear?

I forced Raf over to the lockers and said my piece. "You and me are gonna meet after school! Meet me at the fields!"

For some odd reason, I don’t to this day know why I said this next bit, but it was a ‘live or die’ situation for a desperate teenager.

"You can bring all your sassy friends, too! I’ll fight all of ’em, but I’ll only fight ’em one at a time!"

Raf was laughing hysterically. He couldn’t believe that I called out his entire gang. “It’s gonna be a feast,” he marveled.

I was scared. I was nervous. Bypassing the fields, I hurried straight home after school. Soon there-after, came a knock on the front door. It was Raf. Could he please, please, please, be here to apologize?

"Come on Jimmy," he sneered. "We got a play date, remember?"

It was one of those cold brisk autumn days. I never thought to grab a sweatshirt. I was shaking so hard from cold and fright, my bones rattled. The sight of me shivering must have made Raf’s wolfpack feel quite confident.

At the fields, a gang of eight formed a circle. I was bull-in-the-ring. Jason stepped in first. He started with a little shove, then I cut loose. A flurry of hard body shots and he was finished. I beat up two more lighties, then they all scattered, running for safety.

But, Raf, he was their alpha male. He could not run. Alone now, we faced off. After a few exchanges, I knocked him down, jumped on him and grabbed his head. Fueled on adrenaline, all my anger, and all my emotions wanted to destroy this coward, to lift his head up and slam it against the turf.

But I could not.

My mind raced from thought to thought; all of this hate, this poison bottled up inside, where did it come from? Would it ever stop? Would it consume me?

Meanwhile, the rest of Raf’s gang had alerted his older brother Joe. He arrived on the scene as I sat atop Raf’s chest, mulling over what to do next.

"When you’re done with him, let me know," Joe calmly stated, then went over to a rock wall to have a front row seat.

I thought it over. "Say uncle!"

Raf mumbled "uncle" as requested.

"No, that’s not loud enough. I couldn’t hear you. Scream it!"

And so he did. In tears, he cried out an "uncle" that echoed across the valley on that brisk autumn day; humiliated in front of his brother, a brother who would not save his sorry butt for what he did.

As it turned out, these were kids from my own neighborhood.

Betrayed by the kids I thought were my friends, the damage was done.

I Feel Broken...



My hearing test didn't show much change, but like I said in my last post, my hearing-aid is on it's death bed. Bicross hearing-aids are still available as analog, but the cost is near 2 grand. Digital bicross are about 3 grand. I can't afford either one. I went to orientation for a state agency hoping they can purchase the aids for me. That will be a long paperwork process and then they could reject me.

I was awake half the night thinking about all the crap that has happened to me. Stuff that was related to my hearing loss.

I still remember the bullies from high school, how I finally got the nerve to stand up to them. I challenged an entire gang to a fight, that was my after-school extra-curricular activity.

And I remembered friends telling me I was awarded school sports awards because everyone felt sorry for me. What kinda friends were those? And who needs em?

Then I thought about the more recent crap. How my co-workers bullied me and mocked me. How it pushed me to the brink of suicide. That shit is scary. Freaking scary!

Then there was Billy.

I've tried to write about him, but it is so hard. I must have hurt him so bad. He was in the same nightclubs I was, but he was too weak to tell me himself. He would send a bartender to tell me he was there. But I couldn't hear her. Another time, at the same bar, he sent his daughter over to talk to me. I couldn't understand her. And I hadn't seen her since she was maybe 10 years old. So I didn't recognize her either.

It didn't end there. No.

I was hiking a local park. I had jus climbed up a small hill where the trails intersected. This old old man passed by jus as I reached the top of the hill. He looked to be 80, frail and bent over as he slowly walked by with wisp of white hair left to the wind. He looked familiar. I turned and watched him until he was out of sight, and wondered if he would reach the road.

I didn't know it was Billy.

I stopped into the bar for a beer and sammy. An old man, all bent over, shuffled to a barstool with the help of a middle-age man. An Irishman making his "last call," I thought. He drained one beer, then slowly gathered himself up and departed. "God bless ya," called out the barkeep.

I didn't know it was Billy.

You see, Billy and I were friends from years ago. We lost track of one another. He recognized me and tried a few times to reach me. But my hearing let me down. Actually no, I let myself down. I did all the wrong things when I couldn't hear the barkeep or the daughter. I gave a yes or a no when actually I didn't hear what they said to me. I was frustrated from trying to hear in a crowded noisy bar. So I took the easy way out, figuring it was some kind of mistaken identity.

Billy died 2 days after making his "last call" to the bar.

The service was on a Saturday. On Friday evening, I stopped into the bar. I struggled to finish one beer. It was too emotional, so I got up to leave. The barkeep rushed over and handed me a token.

"It's on Billy," she said.

I scratched my head like...whatdafu? A dead man bought me a beer?

Come Saturday, there was no viewing at the wake. But I recognized the daughter...and the son. I knew I'd seen them before. At the same bar. It started to click, the sick old man, omg, that was Billy.

Billy wasn't 80 years old. He was 46. He had lupus. It ravaged his body.

If I knew my hearing would cause this much pain, I would have offed myself years ago. I live with this burden everyday.

Broken.

HOH Word Association

At MyHearingLoss web, I asked for friends to suggest words/phrases associated with their own hearing loss experiences. I made minor edits for clarity purposes. Remember, this list has been composed by people who are hard-of-hearing, not profound deaf. Feel free to add your own or comment.

HOH WORD ASSOCIATION


1. Achievement
2. Agony
3. Alone
4. Anger
5. Angry
6. Baffled
7. Best
8. Better
9. Blank look
10. Blissfully quiet
11. Bored
12. Brainless
13. Brave
14. Brave
15. Calm/tranquil
16. Canny
17. Complicated
18. Computer
19. Confident
20. Courage
21. Creative
22. Days
23. Depressed
24. Desolate
25. Disconcerted
26. Discrimination/discriminated against
27. Dream
28. Dreamstate as your body can not feel what you can not hear
29. Dumb (sometimes)
30. Dying to know what's going on
31. Emails
32. Embarrassed
33. Expected to know everything when you haven't been told about it
34. Facing my fears
35. Family
36. Fatigue
37. Fear(3f’s)
38. Feeling stupid
39. Feeling totally alone
40. Foiled
41. Forum
42. Friends
43. Frown for absolutely no reason.
44. Frustration
45. Frustration (#1)
46. Gullible
47. Happy
48. Having no privacy (need interpreter/helper for communication)
49. Helpful
50. Humorous
51. Imagine
52. Inadequate
53. Intelligent
54. Isolated, even from the ppl that know better/love you most
55. Isolation
56. Jittery
57. Logical
58. Lonely
59. Modest
60. Nervous
61. Panic
62. Peaceful
63. People make decisions for/control your life
64. Perseverance
65. Played cruel "jokes" on
66. Proud
67. Prudent
68. Puzzled
69. Rattled
70. Real
71. Resourceful
72. Sad
73. Satisfaction/pride in oneself proving ppl wrong, who said you couldn't
74. Savvy
75. Self-doubt
76. Sharp
77. Shrewd
78. Shyness.
79. Smart (sometimes)
80. Strength
81. Strong
82. Sudden
83. Support
84. Terrible
85. Thwarted
86. Timid
87. Torment
88. Ugly
89. Uncertainty
90. Unimportant
91. Unique
92. Wise
93. Witless
94. Worse
95. Worthy

Every now and then, I put up a story about my hearing loss adventures. The purpose being to demonstrate for those with hearing difficulties that they are not alone, and to educate their family and friends about what a hard-of-hearing individual experiences.

Off Key

I recently learned that my sixth-grade music teacher passed away. That reminded me of the time I sang in defiance because of my hearing loss.

Our elementary school consisted of kindergarten through sixth-grade. There were two separate sixth-grade classes. Both classes assembled in the gymnasium for chorus practice. We were singing patriotic songs like The Star-Spangled Banner when the music teacher became upset.

“Who ever is making that screeching sound?” she demanded. “Who is it?”

A couple of the guys looked at me, but I didn’t think I was the one. I reached for my hearing-aid box and turned down the volume. Maybe the aid was squealing from feedback, I thought.

“Okay then,” she groveled, “we will start over.”

And so she led us off with the national anthem. She started walking amongst us, intently listening to each and every student.

Still one row away from me, she yelled, “Stop, Jim will you come forward please.”

I stepped out in front of the chorus not knowing what to expect.

“Jim, I’d like you to sing the national anthem for us.”

“B-b-but umm,” I stammered.

“No buts son! Just sing for us.”

“Uh n-n-no, I can’t.”

“Was it you making that awful noise?” she inquired. “It was you trying to disrupt my class, wasn’t it?”

“No ma’am, not me.”

“Then why won’t you sing for us?”

My gaze dropped to the gym floor. My voice nearly a whisper. “Cuz . . . I umm, I don’t know all the words.”

The gym filled with laughter. Then class was dismissed. The following week I was instructed not to attend chorus anymore. No reason forthcoming.

Even though I was currently taking weekly speech lessons, I didn’t really believe anything was wrong with my way of speaking or singing. When youngsters grow up with a partial hearing loss, they don’t realize how they are speaking different from all the others. I pronounced the words the same way I believed others spoke them. I stubbornly insisted that I spoke perfect English.

There was one other person who didn’t participate in chorus. Her name was Nina. She was an ill child and needed lots of study time to catch up. So she worked one-on-one with our classroom teacher while the rest of the class participated in chorus. I, as the intruder, was set-up with reading/writing compositions or math problems to solve. So much fun, huh?

Come June was graduation from Elementary School. I finally get to escape this living hell for another hell called Junior High. But first came the ceremony. We assembled in the gym to go over the event; who would speak, when to get your diploma, and practice the songs we would sing as the graduating class.

“Sing? No way!” I protested.

My classroom teacher stood before me, with the music teacher peering over his shoulder.

“But Jimmy,” he pleaded. “The entire class is going to be on-stage singing, even Nina.”

“Nobody liked my scr-E-E-E-ching, remember?” I added, with arms folded.

“Well, why not stand on-stage with your classmates and just mouth the words?” suggested the music teacher. “Besides all the parents want to see their child participate. If you don’t join the others, you’ll have to sit down front by yourself while they are singing.”

“You kicked me out and now ya want me to fake singing,” I shouted. “You didn’t even try to help me, or work with me. You humiliated me in front of the entire chorus. Then you just booted me out . . . with no explanation! I’m not singing! I’m not faking it either!”

Right up until the actual event, they tried to persuade me otherwise, but I wouldn’t budge.

And to this day, I still don’t know all them words to the national anthem.

This is a true story, one of my own.

MIND GRIP

Did you ever try to wake up from a dream or a nightmare, but for some strange reason, could not quite bring yourself to the world of consciousness? You are almost awake, struggling to open your eyes, desperately trying to move an arm or a leg, but your body is frozen stiff. You use all your might, trying to break out of this mental state, but nothing gives; no, not until you relax, accepting your fate, whatever it may be.

* * *

My mind, stoned and drunk, was in a spiraling daze. . . again. Am I coming or going? One minute, I’m having a rollicking good ol' time at a Fairport pub. Next thing ya know, swoosh; flying, spinning, floating on air, I’m summoned back to my hometown, Diamond Flatts, located some hundred-fifty miles away. I moved away from Flatts two years ago. I have been revisiting this nightmare scene, dropping into this dark creepy old bedroom of my childhood friend, Mud, maybe three times a week. Just being here feels so eerie and creepy. The sweat pouring off of my mop is drenching my Led Zep tee.

But hey, this is Mud’s turf. Here in his room, we play by his rules. I can barely make him out, sitting in the dark corner, listening to the original ‘live’ '69 Woodstock album, playing the same track over and over again.

"Give me an F. . . give me a U."

I softly call out his name, but Mud never answers anymore. Nor does he acknowledge me with that familiar bellow of his, "Hey! Jimmy! How's ya doo-in?" No, he just sits there, stoicly spinning that same Woodstock track, day and night.

"Give me an C. . . give me a K."

Oh my freak! I don’t understand what is happening! Is it my nightmare. . . or his?

I edged over to the window, peeked through the curtains from his upstairs bedroom; down below is Mud’s old ’64 Plymouth Fury; now with a modified rooftop.

"Um, hey Mud," still speaking softly, "I’m heading downstairs to see your folks in a minute. Why am I summoned up here, anyways? Ya never are allowed to speak anymore."

It’s as if he can speak, but it’s prohibited. In every nightmare he never answers; just keeps on spinning Woodstock, his head bobbing to the tune.

"Give me an F. . . give me a U."

Well, it’s his gameboard; if he don’t wanna talk and explain, he don’t haveta.

Finding my own way down the winding stairway, "Hi folks, sorry to be dropping in on ya this late, but for some bizarre reason I’m s’pose to be here."

Everyone is just kind of on edge, sitting around the parlor. Sisters, brother, parents, each one every once in awhile stealing a glance toward the upper front corner section of the house, his bedroom. They never question why I am here, nor how I mystically surface out of thin air. It feels awkward.

From the misses, "Jimmy, aren’t you returning home to Fairport? It’s a three hour drive! You’re going to miss work tomorrow."

"No prob, Mrs. K," stealing an upward peek of my own. "I’ll be back in Fairport at the blink of an eye," another nervous upwards glance.

Hmmm, thinking to myself, wonder if he’ll stay up there tonight. This house has a vibe all of its own, Mud’s isolation. For some odd reason, he’s not allowed to leave that bedroom, not for supper, not for company, and not for any reason. He just doesn’t belong downstairs anymore. And nobody speaks of him either. Somehow, I know it is taboo to even think of mentioning his name. The subject just never comes up.

Geez. . . here I am, in his home, he doesn’t talk to me anymore. It’s like he is not even living here. . . but he is! Why won’t his family acknowledge him anymore?

One scary thought always lurks in the back of everyone’s mind. What if he does come down, descending those winding stairs? All the laws of physics prohibit it; time will stop; up will be down; good shall become evil.

* * *

Wiping my eyes, blinking a few times, daylight is breaking. What a weird nightmare. The bedsheets were drenched in sweat. Glad it was finally over. That spinning journey always gives me the creeps. It was a restless sleep and the coming day will be the worse for it.

The hangover won’t help either. Been doing that lots lately. A sixpack is not enough; a dozen go down pretty easy. . . burp! Heck, this past year alone I’ve probably been thrown out of every bar in Jefferson County. Just can’t seem to help myself anymore. Lately, life has been an out-of-control slow downward spiral; still haven’t hit bottom yet. My body feels all banged up from the drug and alcohol abuse.

Did I even take time for supper last night? Can’t remember. Perhaps I should punish myself with a three-mile jog this morning. Nowadays, gutting it out seems to be my style. Kind of like I’m pushing myself to the limit and from two directions, at that! On the one hand being physical with the jogging, and on the other, drowning my sorrows with alcohol.

When and where shall it all conclude? Somehow, I’ve gotta defeat that ghoulish nightmare in Diamond Flatts, too!

Pulling on my sneakers, gonna be a nice easy jog this fresh sunny morning. Nah! If I run hard enough, maybe my nightmares and taunts will be left in the dark.

"Can ya see the light? Run to the light, Jimmy, run to the light!"

Darn squeaky voice, just won’t stop haunting my mind. It hints of that time as a young boy, climbing with my pals, through the long storm sewers beneath the NYS Thruway. We had climbed a ladder in the storm pipes, then had to make a short hop into the next sewer section. I was afraid to make the jump. Losing patience, my friends started to leave.

"Come on back. . . please don't, don’t leave me behind."

Who would wanna be abandoned there, alone in that dark, dank storm sewer? But that is where I find myself now; somehow lost, in this dark sewage of emotion.

It was scary enough, being deserted by my best friend; one who often helped me deal with my hearing loss and the emotional train wreck that comes with it. Some days are bad, really sinister. I often end up having disagreements with friends because I didn’t hear all the facts. At times, it can make me look like a real jerk. People don’t wanna hear excuses, so I just take my lumps, then move on.

Except for Mud, there is nobody who listens anymore. I can’t hear every word and my friend, Mud, can no longer help me hear. So I’m gonna run for the light. . . and run hard, at that.

* * *

The next night, 3 o’clock, I mysteriously find myself on my feet, standing beside my waterbed. Wiping my sleepy eyes clear, gee, gotta take a whiz. After the long drain, I snuggle back under the warmth of the blanket. Hmmm, nice and cozy and, hey! What the heck was I doing standing on my feet in the middle of sleep?

Remembering the nightmare now, on an eerie moonless night, stark naked and cold, there I lie, inside a coffin, set down in an open grave. It’s a plain wooden coffin. One like ya see in old western flicks, but with no lid on top. As I lie there, I stare upward at the glimmering stars.

What the heck is that? Ouch! Crawling on my neck! Something bit me! And now on my feet, my face, everywhere! Ants! Centipedes! Spiders! Thousands of them! Swarming all over my buff-bare bod!

Can’t move. . . my arms. . . my legs. . . straining and straining. . . nothing!

What’s wrong? I gotta get outta this hell-hole! Why can’t I move? All my physical strength is centered on motion, trying to break out of this frozen state, a mind grip.

After tensing for what seems like an eternity, in one swift heave, I spring up out of that open coffin hole, landing on my feet. . . next to my waterbed.

Hmmm, rubbing my eyes, so long as I’m up, might as well drain ol’ willie.

* * *

Jimmy's nightmares continued for well over a year, with no escapement. He was helplessly trapped in his mind grip, yet distant from truths and answers. Only time could heal his mental anguish. Mud was one of the few always willing to help him hear. They had been friends for so long as anyone could remember, and now Mud was dead.

Ate his shotgun. . . while sitting in an old ’64 Plymouth Fury.

"Gimme an F. . ."

©JRM2005 All rights reserved

MY ORIGINAL

As a 6 year-old, this was my very 1st, a body hearing aid. Originally, it was attached to my shirt pocket, and quite often smashed to the ground. Notice all the scratches? Eventually, someone invented a strap and brace, worn around the chest, to hold the aid in place. Still, gravity won out, so my Mom sewed the tight top end of a sock to the brace; problem solved. This thing lasted 11 years until I was 17. Plain and simple, I hated it! It didn't look too cool attached to a mop-head teenager. I often ditched it after leaving the house. School was different tho. Teachers would check to see if I was tuned in. Today it sits on my fireplace mantle, still in working condition.

SCREAMS

cruel affliction, profound hole
darkness moans, alone the soul
silent loudness, quiet blast
lurks the Demon, shadow cast

anvil, hammer, trumpets blare
chain reaction, trembling air
trilling whistles, pounding drums
cranked up volume, rendered mum

a deaf soul seeks no misery
it finds him through anxiety
from sight not sound, reactions come
frustrations tame him, thoughts go numb

twisted tension, rising tide
isolation, boxed inside
crushed emotions, self-esteem
deafened silence....Demon screams

©jrm2005 All rights reserved.