Duckie May - Mad Hatter & The Maker Of The Things

 My experience with illness has always been complicated. I had many emotional problems but was never given the language to describe what I was experiencing. I told myself, and others, that I was sick with “a stomach ache” or similar, when I needed to rest or avoid a triggering situation.  I also frequently told my teachers that I was sick so I could be sent home. I knew I was lying, but I didn’t know why. And looking back now, my stomach actually did hurt, but for reasons that no one in my world understood, including me. Although, beyond the fib of a tummy ache, I actually do have odd physical health episodes. My hobby of hiking has been slowly brought to an end as my stamina has severely decreased. An alarming episode occurred a few years ago after a strenuous hike in Yosemite National Park. We had gone on this trail many times, but this time was different. On the way back to the parking lot, which was about a mile away, I collapsed. My legs had completely lost strength. I tr...

One of my parting gifts into adulthood was a box of pictures from my childhood. It was then that I understood that pictures of a child in their childhood aren’t for the parents to remember, but for the child. Noticeable though, is the gap of pictures between my birth and preschool years. Of course, it was the 80’s, so there weren’t nearly as many family pictures back then as there are now. But still, there is a gap. My mom told me I always hid from the camera and would cry if my picture was taken. She told me of the ruined professional photos because I wouldn’t stop crying. Thus, there were fewer pictures of me in the early years.  But, the pictures that were taken of me, were mostly of me eating. Being distracted by eating is a pretty good time to sneak a picture. My relationship with food has always been deep. I adore food. My relatives are always sure to tell me how much of “an eater” I was when I was a toddler. I was famous for eating almost anything, hiding my food in my cheek...

People told me I was artistic though I never really believed them. I was just bored with busy hands.  I was frequently gifted those cheap art kits for holidays and birthdays. I loved to use the pastels. Watching them smear across the page was so satisfying. I played with the paints and made a mess. But I didn’t know what to draw. My brain was incapable of creating anything new without plagiarizing someone else. I was artistic, but not creative.  My mind only knew facts and words. There were no pictures. Reading a book without pictures left me largely in the dark. My mind knew nothing of fantasy or an alternate reality.  I started to paint and draw on my bedroom wall. I took pictures that I found in life, and then used them as a skeleton to turn them into my own. I was ashamed of my lack of being a “real artist” and I felt like a fraud. The world is only black & white to me. There is no grey area. And to me, a “real artist” draws with a pencil. I can only draw stick fi...

I have always lived slightly to the left of others and I never understood why.  I was born in December of 1985. My sister was only 18 months older than me, but we were very close. My older sister became my voice when I was a toddler and refused to talk. I was a late walker as well, but for the same reason: I really had nothing to say, and no desire to move around. I was content in calm and silence.  And I was happy. I did all the things other kids do; birthday parties, roller skating, bike riding, and spending the summer in the backyard swimming pool. But in every activity, every event, and every setting, I was always slightly to the left; standing on the outside and looking in. In my own world. I knew I was different, but I blamed it on being a “bad girl” and I spent my whole childhood hiding my self-hatred. I only had a couple of short-lived friendships though most of my childhood was spent tagging along with my sister, who was very popular in school. I followed her everywhe...