Princesses are Always in Peril.

I'm ten years old, playing Super Mario Bros with my two older brothers on the floor in my room. The games and consoles are outdated, and have been forgotten by their original owners since they were long ago replaced by newer, advanced versions while these gems were passed to me. Yet, here they are, those original players one and two, sitting with me on my floor playing a game while the tears begin to dry on my blotchy, red face.
The doctor my mother had taken me to six months earlier declared that I had ADD, that I should be taking Ritalin, and that I would be much more manageable for her while taking them.
The medication makes me awkward and painfully antisocial, which would be difficult enough to deal with had I grown up among my current classmates. But all the kids I bonded with way back in kindergarten are all 2,000 miles away, where they ought to be, where I feel I ought to be. There is no loyalty to depend on at school. There is no one to see a difference in my behavior. No one, save my brothers.
They, not my parents, witness my coming down off the medication my mother insists on force-feeding me every morning. They witness the shakes, both physical and emotional. They sit with me when I sob from the frustration of not understanding what is happening to me, to the point where my lungs hurt inside my chest and I can't breathe. They, not my parents, sit with me, distracting me, probably as scared as I am.
But their voices, if used at all in this matter, fall upon deaf, stubborn ears. Their concerns probably meet the same response I get every night when I tell her how much I hate taking the medication, "The doctor said there may be some adverse reactions, at first. Stop being dramatic. Do your homework."
Or, perhaps merely witnessing my struggle every morning deters them from seeing a point. A woman so bent on drugging me up does not seem open to the opinions or viewpoints of others. Except, of course, unless that person's name is followed by, 'MD.'
At the ripe age of ten, I will experience what it feels like to come off cocaine - an experience I will find myself in much later in life, after experimenting with drugs at the seemingly generous will of a future boyfriend I wish to impress. I'll recognize the dip in emotions, the aches, the lack of hunger, the cloudy head. The memories of the toll this feeling took on my childhood will ultimately be what turns me off to cocaine and, as a result, I'll be weary of taking any recreational drugs and eventually drinking altogether. This will be the only perk of the whole situation, and in fact, that behavior doesn't win me any gold stars among drinkers as I age, causing me to remain somewhat antisocial and aloof for life.
I will always fear others trying to control me for their own benefit, especially women.  It will destroy many relationships.
I will have no respect for the older generation, to the point of seeming cold and ungrateful.
I will not want to have any children, and dread settling down, for fear of being the next generation of this type of parental behavior.
But, for now, my brothers try to make me laugh, a banter I am not able to join in on. I don't understand why yet, but they instinctively leave me out of it.
It's my turn and I pick the Princess for the chosen level.
"You're like a princess," one says, thinking incorrectly that this would cheer me up.
"They're always in peril, something's always going wrong for them," he explains.
"No," I gesture to the screen at the pink dressed icon floating around the bombs and waterfalls.
"Well, if you aren't a princess, what are you?" Later in life, he'll learn how to control a conversation to make you think things like this were your ideas. He'll be so good at it that it concerns me, but for now I'm not convinced by his claim. After all, it doesn't feel like someone's coming to rescue me.
My other brother puts his arm protectively on my shoulders and responds calmly and quietly, "She's someone who is going to get far away from here one day."
A tear rolls down my cheek and he adds, "We both will."
Years later, after this brother moves three thousand miles away on his own, he'll give me the Dr. Seuss book, "Oh The Places You'll Go," with an inscription that LA was made for me and I will remember this moment.
The hard part is over, my cheeks will be dry by the time we hear the garage opening for her, in about an hour. It will still be midnight before my heart will stop racing and for my brain to stop reeling. And then it will all happen again, more or less, tomorrow.