My mom used to always say I was an easy child to raise.
Right out of the womb, I barely cried when the doctors pulled me out. It actually caused them a bit of worry, assuming that I had respiratory problems. Really though, I just wasn’t crying as baby often should.
When I grew older, I’d have the occasional temper tantrum, but nothing serious. More often than not when I was angry, I would be unusually quiet. I’d silently fume on my butt, scowling at everything. My mom even told me a story that I got angry during preschool. I just sat at my table arms crossed, scowling like I was practicing my Batman impression. When the teacher tried to pick me up to move me, I suddenly swiped at a bucket of markers and crayons spilling them. That seemed to scare everyone enough to the point of calling my parents. The teacher even described it as a “tranquil fury”.
When I wasn’t being a terrible two year old, I was lackadaisical and obedient. I played in relative silence, babbling only loud enough for myself to hear. I would wander around and do the typical kid things, but my parents were always in control. In fact, my father used to tell me about how at a bus top, I would play dangerously close to the street. When a concerned adult asked my dad why he would let me wander like that, he simply called out my name. Like a computer told to cancel a task, I suddenly stopped what I was doing and casually came back to my father’s side. I had all the complexity of a house pet.
Naturally, being this reclusive I was bound to live a rather lonely life. I could be in the company of others, but I could just as easily be by myself. In the beginning, there wasn’t a problem with this. However, as I entered elementary school, I had been the victim of bullying. While not physically abusive, my bullies were able to erode my self-confidence and, by proxy, my confidence. Couple this with a not-so-stellar home life with two divorcing parents and you have a recipe for a bad time.
As a quiet kid, the TV became my vice. Even when I was a toddler, I could just sit in front of a television set and I wouldn’t move for hours. My babysitter loved me for that. As my home life worsened as did school, it only became more and more essential to my daily functioning.
I would come home from school, my shirt covered in snot stains and dried tears, walk past my parents who were having a low level argument that would eventually grow out of proportions, close myself in my room, and turn on the TV.
As I sat on the floor, my eyes would be filled with wonder and colors. The yelling outside my door descended into silence as my laughter filled my little bubble. I felt a connection with the TV that I seldom had with many others. At least, I thought it was the TV, but let’s put a pin on that thought.
Eventually, my mom grew wary. I had gotten into the routine during middle school of doing my homework and chores, then immediately hunkering down in front of the TV. There was only ever a foot of distance between us, the TV and me. My mom even heard me have full on conversations with the TV. Whenever she turned it off, she told me, I would get hysterical. I would cry “boo-hoo” tears about how she was taking my friends away. She initially worried that I was schizophrenic or suffering from bipolar disorder. After visiting a child therapist, it was recommended that I be refrained from watching television.
It was rough.
At first, it was a simple rule: No TV. However, I quickly learned to be more sneaky in when and how I watched it. There was a period of time where I was home by myself, when I got home from school but mom was at work. To remedy this, my mom had unplugged and sealed the outlet. Somehow, I managed to actually find a way to not only break the seal, but found a way to reattach it so that my mom wouldn’t know. This lasted for a while until she came home early one day.
Next, the TV was moved from the living room to her room and she made sure to lock the door. Simple, right? She later found lockpicking equipment in my room during a surprise cleaning. This started to unnerve her, as I was still in middle school during this time. After a stern punishment, the TV was removed altogether. Even when we visited family, she made a concerted effort to have them remove their TVs as well, in order to prevent me from getting a hold of it. She even went so far as to get rid of our computer and monitor before I grew to be tech savvy.
For a while, I complained, begged, and even raged over not having a TV, or any electronics, anymore. It was months before I finally learned to live without it. I had resorted to writing, reading, and studying in my free time, since I still failed at basic social skills. Life was not easy and there were many times I had been tempted to seek out a TV. But I held fast, not wanting to disappoint my mom any further.
Fast forward to high school, Junior Year. I’m up to my neck in AP classes, Honors classes, and college prep classes. Miraculously, I was managing to keep all of my grades up, but at the sacrifice of my sanity. After what had to be 4 years without a television in the house, she finally took the chance of putting in a new one. After a run down of the ground rules, including 1 hour limits, only watching when she was in the house, and to report to her if there was anything wrong, specifically in the mental department.
Today is Friday. Monday was when I spent my first time back on the ‘ol tube. I flipped through all the channels, some old, some new. A lot of the modern day cartoons weren’t my cup of tea and anything else I just found boring. I was endlessly flicked through the many channels, a sudden, vivid memory popped into my head.
“Channel 222…” I muttered, timing each press to the syllable. The screen briefly turned black, as it did when changing channels. When it came back, I was greeted by a familiar intro. It had been a long time, but I had seen it enough times that nostalgia washed over me in waves. I smiled and chuckled, reading the title of the show.
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.