Growing up was never easy. No, growing up with severe Tourette’s syndrome from the age of five and not having it diagnosed till you were 14 was never easy. It was that much worse not having a diagnosis because you thought you were a freak, with really bad “habits” as they were called. It made you feel like they were things you could easily control, but you can’t, and you blame yourself for it. Thus, from young, you feel like a failure; a failure to be happy, a failure to be handsome, a failure to be normal. People stared, people laughed, people judged. Many wanted to do or did things to me, to make me stop “misbehaving”. “Slap him”, they said. Uncle censured me and threatened to bar me from his house unless I “controlled my habits”. You blame yourself for it, for everything you were. You were ugly, hideous, retarded, abnormal; you were a freak. Twitching eyes, facial grimaces, arm swinging, grunting, screeching, shoulder shrugging. People stared, people laughed, people judged. You never dared to be the centre of attention, because soon that attention would turn into embarrassment and a freakshow, a stand-up caricature of the world’s biggest joke: yourself. In a silent lecture room, a grunt is heard. Heads start turning. More grunts and screeches, continuous and dragged, though suppressed. Faces show disgust and abhorrence. You look back into those supercilious eyes, embarrassed and small. You gasp for breaths. “Are you okay?” they asked. During show-and-tell, your eyes twitch. Your cheeks next, then your neck and arms. People stare, no longer at the Teddy Bear you brought, but at you. You were short, a freak, and ugly. Your eyes are slits. Your nose is humongous. You are a mistake. You look at the handsome normal boys. People stared, people laughed, people judged. You look up. Two boys are sniggering and mimicking your eyes. You feel small, afraid of the big normal world. They called you gay. They laughed and taunted your soft, gentle voice that wouldn’t speak up; the voice that was silenced by normality. To be still and motionless is a privilege. You are different. You are a sissy. You can’t look straight without blinking or shaking your head. You are mimicked by the normal boys. You are questioned. You finally cry. You are insecure. You are broken.
