Shit 10 Year Olds Think About

Maggie DeWaard
Nov 5 · 3 min read

Sometimes if I squint hard enough I see a brief flash of a sinister face. A male, demonic face. I've always wondered who he is, when I'd see more of him, and why he only showed himself in the strangest moments. One Tuesday afternoon I was on lunch, meandering through the cosmetics aisle in some unimportant store when I had an itch in my right eye (it was always the right eye). I have a full face of makeup on, since that’s what Tuesday afternoons call for, so instead of scratching my eye I squeezed it closed as tight as I could in hopes that may alleviate the itch. It didn’t. What’s more, I saw him.

You may think it’s odd that I’m taking the time to write these things down, and are certainly wondering if I thought this “face” was anything at all or simply in my head. I can assure you it is both. It was in my head, but it was also something. A “something” that is symptomatic of everything else that one could say is wrong with me… I find meaning where there is none, I find fear where there should be reassurance, I find oddity and bizarre nuggets of insanity in the mundane, etc.

My life can be characterized as boring on the outside, and wild on the inside. This is not to say that I myself am boring, I like to believe I’m not, but rather that my outward circumstances have always been quite normal. I go to work, I spend time with friends, I torture my cat with fire. Inside my brain, things are quite different.

I first remember feeling that what happened inside of me was not the norm when I was about 10. “The Reader’s Digest” was a favorite read of mine, devoured within hours of arriving. I was a voracious reader with an active imagination, much to my mother’s chagrin (she begin my one and only confidante). It seemed as though every issue told some chilling tale of a child who had contracted a horrible, incurable illness. They hovered at death’s door for days, months, or years, only to make a miraculous recovery. Though these were certainly penned in the hopes of inspiring the reader, they seemed quite clearly a handbook for the certain disaster that awaited all young people. THIS lucky 11 year old survived his horrible blood poisoning, but I certainly would not.

Anyway, this led to years and years of anxious skin checking, pulse taking, and various other rabid and certainly under qualified health assessments. At 10 years old I lay glumly in the bathtub, certain my newly contracted case of muscular dystrophy would seize hold of my healthy legs at any moment. I thought back on the good times with my family, smelled the meatballs my father was making, and reminisced on all the good times I’d managed to squeeze into my panic soaked 10 years. Fast forward 5 years, and I’m pretty much in the same boat except now I primarily fear insanity. Criminal insanity, to be specific. A psychotic break that would result in the death of my family or my pets. I won’t bore you with details.

As I aged, these two distinct avenues of hypochondria morphed into one tortured path. A path that was lined with little realities capable of setting off my panic alarm. This alarm, even when blaring, was never visible to anyone. It remained safely tucked inside me. The me that was sleeping, watching Friends, and skipping classes. And social functions. And deadlines.

One morning, in my junior year of college, I was bending over to put my left sock on and suddenly everything seemed meaningless. Or did everything seem threatening? I wasn’t sure which. I got very cold and slowly sat down, opening my laptop to send an apologetic email to my professor.

The little guy in my eye is part of my rolodex of un-diagnosed death-signaling symptoms. Is it a tumor? Or hallucination? Either option is terrifying. He only shows up when everything else is calm; when the sea inside my mind is not roiling with possibilities and my stomach is not fluttering with angsty adrenaline. He’s there to remind me that, as good as I may get and as much as I may heal, I will never be in control.

Maggie DeWaard

Written by

Philosophy degree, Master of Arts…. works in supply chain management.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade