I am one of four children, three of whom are boys. What that meant for a family in the pre-internet, pre-cable days was that all the boy energy tended to get channeled into physical, outdoor activity, especially in the summer. And what that meant was, with the occasional exceptions of the kid with asthma or an over-protected only child, there were no fat kids. On my street and the streets adjacent, many of us spent most of our summer days outside, where our natural vigor could be spent without messing up the interior of our respective households and where, with any luck, that vigor would be used up in its entirety some time before sundown. Without rules such as “be home when the street lights come on” and the freedom implicitly granted from not being allowed in the house during the day (except for meals or skinned knee repair,) I’m convinced many of my peers would not have made it to adulthood. Rather, they would have been cut down in their youth by enraged, at-the-end-of-their-rope parents.
Things were no different in my household. Summer days in our tight knit neighborhood in St. Clair Shores, Michigan featured roving bands of pre-teens in search of any activity to relieve the constant prospect of boredom. My two brothers and I were often members of these diminutive gangs. We each had our own group of friends and though age and maturity differences often prohibited it these groups could overlap socially should an impromptu game of baseball or kickball require it, or if a kindly parent turned a sprinkler on for the kids to run through. While technically we were allowed to enter the house during the day, we were mostly discouraged from doing so. My younger brother, only six years old, was granted the indulgence of the Queen (my Mother) and was generally allowed at-will in-and-out privileges. My older brother and I however, at ages eleven and nine respectively, were often made to feel unwelcome should we somehow manage to penetrate the household defenses erected by my Mother. These defenses could include locked doors but mostly consisted of an in-the-moment crossness that was thoroughly unpleasant but easily avoided by exiting the premises as quickly as possible. However it was those incursions, undertaken in what we were sure was only the direst of need, that served to drive my Mother crazy. Not a clinical “crazy,” as far as we knew. More like a generalized, in the moment, “you’re driving your Mother crazy,” crazy.
It was in this context, the context of potentially homicidal behavior directed at my Mother’s tormentors, materialized in human form by her two oldest sons, that Mom decided to take action. Should the torment not be neutralized, one of us was sure to suffer a horrible end. With an innate understanding of this dire circumstance she took me, the worse of the two, to our family physician to see what, if anything, could be accomplished from a medical and/or chemical perspective.
Now, I’m not really sure when Ritalin became a “thing,” like a big “thing.” What I do know is that at the time the doctor prescribed it for me kids were not generally being drugged in order to control their behavior, at least not to the degree drugs are prescribed nowadays. Indeed, in the era of my childhood behavioral control was still being exerted mainly by parents, extended family, neighbors, teachers, mail men, random passers-by, or really just any adult, because at that time adults tended to take it upon themselves to train and discipline children, regardless to whom the children belonged. My Mother was no exception, however I had by the time of the doctor’s appointment clearly driven her to her last nerve, to a point at which she found the prospect of a miracle drug that would save her sanity and her son’s life too attractive a prospect on which to pass. With a shaky hand she received the Ritalin prescription from the Doctor and drove home to await the return of my Father, with whom she intended to consult before making a final decision.
My Dad listened intently (I imagine) to his wife’s desperate plea, but for perceived potential health reasons would not sign off on giving a psychotropic drug to one of his kids. For his part my Father, who would not brook bad behavior in his children (and whose children understood the consequences of said bad behavior, should their Father witness or otherwise find out about it) worked outside of the home, and as a result was not forced to spend every day, all day with his energetic offspring. That job was left to my Mother, who did not work outside of the house and therefore bore the brunt of our need for near-constant activity. And since my parents could not afford to send us to summer camp, relief from this predictable hell would not come until after Labor Day, when she could hand us back to the public school system.
Forlorn but resigned to her fate, my Mother informed the Doctor that I would not be taking the drug.
But wait!
“There is another option.” said the Doctor.
“Another….option?” my Mother asked, an anxious touch of hope bleeding into her voice. “What might that be?”
“We can try Valium.”
“Valium? But what will that do to his behavior?” She asked, already figuring her husband wouldn’t sign off on that drug, either.
“Nothing for your son, actually. The Valium is for you.”
“For me?” Mother asked, her voice strengthening, but still afraid to hope too much.
“Yes. Of course, it won’t alter your son’s behavior, but it will make it easier for you to bear.” The Doctor said with a little chuckle.
“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” I imagine her saying, though she denies it.
Modern Medicine is not short on miracles, and in the case of my family was able, as I’m sure it has in many families, to once again bring a happy conclusion to an otherwise harrowing situation. I’m sure many lives were spared as a result of that simple prescription, mine not being the least. Obviously, however, my Father’s hesitation to put his kid on drugs did not extend to his wife. Who can blame him? I imagine he received as many benefits from the prescribed diversion as any of us. Happy wife happy life.
In retrospect it occurs to me that, as far as I know, I was never diagnosed with hyperactivity or ADHD, the former nomenclature being the precursor to the latter. If that was the case then the attempt to drug me was purely the result of my Mom’s diagnosis of “energetic child syndrome,” which I imagine is often the case. I don’t blame anyone. I’ve often fantasized about drugging my own kids into submission, but have never done so. They have generally been spared by my self-dosing of alcohol, a drug for which I don’t need a prescription.