RUNNING IN PLACE
Running in Place- Chapter 4
For those who know—or for those who don’t—ADHD is Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, OCD is obsessive-compulsive disorder, and Anxiety is… anxiety. ADHD makes me unable to concentrate and constantly hyperactive. OCD makes me put everything in place and count. And anxiety is—well, anxiety.
I also learned that dopamine is something I needed for my very survival. You can get dopamine in several ways. Dictionary definition: Dopamine is a chemical messenger in the brain that affects movement, motivation, and reward-seeking. It’s also known as the “feel-good” hormone because it can create feelings of pleasure and motivation.
So, getting angry creates a pleasant feeling. Eating cookies gives you a sugar rush—and dopamine.
As a child, I had a crippling fear of heights. I couldn’t go upstairs in the mall because of the huge open area in the center that looked down from the second floor. The mall was called Colonie Center, anchored between Macy’s and Sears.
My magic counting number was 13. Now I know what you’re thinking 13 isn’t an even number. But if you count it twice, it balances out to 26. And 26 is smooth, comforting, and equal. To achieve this, I’d tap 13 times with my right hand, then 13 times with my left.
Thirteen represented Jesus and his apostles. The only odd thing about this was that I was raised Presbyterian. We believed in quick, one-hour church, Sunday school, and cocktails.
As early as I can remember, my grandmother told me a story about Jesus and the 12 apostles, and I think it just stuck in my brain. She was slightly crazy and neurotic. She saved the comics page from the newspaper. There were stacks and stacks of newspapers throughout her house. She would read the Hollywood magazines and talk to me about “who was doing what with whom” as if I knew them.
My adopted grandparents on my mother’s side lived in a two-story, three-bedroom, one-bathroom house in Syracuse.
In the basement was my grandfather’s woodworking shop. He used to work for Brannock Devices—the company that makes those shoe-sizing tools. He made us wooden toys. My grandfather was a kind, strong man with a wonderful smile and a wicked sense of humor. My mother adored him.
My grandmother, on the other hand, was cold. She loved her cat, Miss Cat, and her son—who we now call “Uncle Shit Stain”—more than she loved my mom. My grandmother had been born into a wealthy family. She grew up with furs, cars, and plenty of money—until the Great Influenza of the 1920s took her father. She married my grandfather; a man deemed below her standards and had two children: my mom and my “Uncle Shit Stain.” My mom was left out in the cold by her mother, who was jealous of her daughter's closeness with her father.
They had a one-car garage in the back with a little driveway. A swing hung from a tree, and her cat, Miss Cat had a zip line that grandma could see from the kitchen window. “Arthur!” she’d screech out the window anytime she saw anything—and I mean anything. She was always yelling for my grandfather.
Across the street lived Mrs. Maxfield, an old woman whose house was filled with salt and pepper shakers. Every kind imaginable, arranged in huge sections. “Here are all the food salt and pepper shakers,” she’d say, holding up a ceramic cheeseburger and fries. We visited her collection every time we were in town.
During those visits, I learned to walk on stilts and played hopscotch with my sisters. We watched scary movies on the old black-and-white TV that had a red vintage lava lamp sitting on top. My mom would shut off the TV on her way by and tell us to put our feet on the footstool, which was piled with newspapers. “Dang it,” Grandma would exhale, running over with another newspaper anytime someone touched, sat on, or breathed on her furniture.
They had an old-timey organ. Grandpa would sing “In the Good Old Summertime” and “Bicycle Built for Two.” We would pump the pedals and Grandma would hiss, “Now stop fooling around.”
On the screened-in front porch, Grandma would spy on her neighbors and talk about them as if we knew them. “That one over there rats her hair,” she’d say, letting the blinds snap shut.
Grandma had a ganglion cyst on her pencil-thin arm. She told me that when she was a child, it was considered a sign of the devil. The only cure? Hitting it with a giant Bible. She was also left-handed, another supposed “devil sign,” so she was forced to write with her right hand.
Grandma had the scariest photo of Jesus above the bed we slept in. Have you ever seen the movie, Carrie? The Jesus that Piper Laurie puts in the closet for Carrie to pray to? That’s the one. My grandmother had that Jesus above my bed.
As she closed the door and said goodnight, the light from the hallway would illuminate the picture and make his eyes glow. That room had two doors—one a closet, the other to the attic. I was convinced monsters lived in the attic. I constantly checked the knob, ready to jump back into bed. The attic door was always unlocked.
Also in the room was a vintage baby carriage with a hard roll-top. Inside sat a giant ceramic doll whose eyes closed when you laid her down. “Mama,” she’d cry.
So, if I tapped 13 times with my right hand and 13 times with my left, I would be protected. Anyone I did 13 taps for would also be protected by the magic of Jesus. That’s what I believed.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 with my right hand.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 with my left.
Now that’s 26. I’m protected. They’re protected.
But ADHD speaks up: “Did you do thirteen with the right hand?” Maybe I didn’t. Just to be sure—again:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13.
Now to balance it: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13.
Jesus plus all the apostles. Twice.
This was normal to me. If I tapped my right foot, I had to tap the left. Always lead with the right. That was the rule. If I started with the left, someone might die—and I’d have to undo the curse by tapping.
Every Sunday growing up, my parents took us to church. My sisters and I wore our Sunday best and sat in hard wooden pews, facing the minister. Behind him was a giant clock. I stared at that clock, watching the second hand slowly tick away our hour of torture. If he went even one minute over, I’d hiss, “He’s supposed to stop!” and my mother would pinch me.
To alleviate the boredom of the stories—magic fish and bread, traditional hymns, bowing, standing, sitting—the church had beautiful stained-glass windows. Each was a different Bible scene. The sunlight beamed through and scattered colored light on the floor. It was beautiful.
We’d have to stand and sing hymns. I gave up trying after my mother once pinched my arm and hissed in my ear, “You sound terrible.”
After service, we’d go to Sunday School—a babysitting service that talked about Jesus. It was in the building next door. On the way, we’d pass the church bell. If you asked, they’d let you ring it. I was afraid of heights, so when the rope lifted me up, it terrified me.
Sunday School had little chairs in a semi-circle and a felt board. We’d stick cutouts of Jesus and the apostles on it.
Every year the church hosted a flea market—spin art, games, food, and junk for sale. I once bought a plastic suit attached to a vacuum. The box said it would suck the pounds off. I hid it, imagining the day I’d show up slim and surprise everyone.
My parents used to leave during Sunday School and come back to pick us up. I think they went to Friendly’s—my mom’s favorite. Sometimes we sat waiting for 30 minutes.
My mother often took me to the minister to “correct” my behavior. I’d sit across from his desk while he lectured me about the evils of homosexuality. I met with him as young as I can remember. My parents also sent me on many religious retreats.
Every summer, I was dropped off at Camp Hebron while the rest of my family went to Disney or the beach. In the beginning, I went with them, but that ended around age eight.
The first house I remember was on Ann Drive in Guilderland, New York, near Greulich’s Market—a grocery store famous for the giant cow on its roof and, as my dad would proudly say, “A real butcher.”
We grocery-shopped all the time with my dad. He was happiest in a grocery store. His handwriting looked like a serial killer’s—impossible to read. If my mom wanted something, we’d jump in the car and go. I loved flipping through the National Enquirer at checkout.
At home, my mom would go through the bags. My dad always forgot something, so we’d go back. My sisters and I had a theory: grocery shopping was his escape from Mom.
Early on, my mom was kind and funny, dressed to the nines, very Laura Petrie. Everything had to be perfect. She dressed my sister and me in matching outfits. I wore jackets, hats, and bowties.
But when my little sister came along, things changed. I always thought it was because I was adopted. I now believe it was because I was getting older—and harder to control. And maybe, because I was a boy who didn’t fit the mold.
I was rough-and-tumble but loved Barbie, Hot Wheels, and dressing up. I once played football with Elvis Presley playing on a record player stretched outside on an extension cord. My dad was puzzled. “What are you doing?” he asked. Probably the first time he’d seen football played to Elvis.
As a child, I believed I’d meet my real mother someday—she would love me and take me away. I believed she was always looking for me. I had high hopes after seeing Annie on Broadway.
My father, meanwhile, did my mother’s bidding. If she called him at work to report my behavior, he’d pull into the driveway at 6:00 p.m. full of rage. Off came the belt. I’d make him chase me around the house. My mother would knock over chairs. “Get him!” she’d yell.
When my dad traveled for work, a dark mood settled over my mother. She’d chain-smoke True cigarettes, blowing smoke in my face. “You’ll never be like your sisters,” she’d say. “What am I going to do with you?”
When she dragged me to psychiatrists, they’d conclude she was the problem. She’d storm out, dragging me behind her. In the car, she’d mutter, “You’ll never be any good,” lighting another True with the car lighter.
She controlled what I ate, wore, read, listened to, and did. Yes, that’s what moms do—but not to this extent. The more she controlled, the more I resisted. It was like laying down in chalk—she wanted me outlined and stuck. I couldn’t move an inch outside the lines. I was told I was no good. Every day.
We had birthday parties, Christmases, visited Frontier Town and Story Town. We fed deer at the Catskill Game Farm, rode the train, and got ice cream at Hoffman’s.
Life was good when Mom was happy.
Things got worse when we moved to Red Pine Drive. Everything I did was wrong.
