The Real Wild Child

My 6-year-old niece is the real wild child. She is my hero. She is a woman who knows exactly what she wants, believes that she can do anything, sets challenging goals for herself, and is unafraid to do what is necessary to achieve her dreams.

My family and I took her swimming today at the lake near our home. The adults talked and watched from dry land. Half child/half adult, I played in the sand on the beach. The wild child refused all suggestions/commands to change from her dress into a swimsuit (a decision I supported) and cannon-balled into the water. 

The shallow water, safe for swimming, was divided from the deep boating area by a horizontal wooden barrier with a vertical pole at its center. My niece swam out toward the barrier with fearless determination. When she passed the point where she could no longer stand on the lake shelf, the adults and I all screamed simultaneously for her to stop and return to shore immediately.

She swam back and sat next to me, quiet and defeated. The following conversation sounds like a transcript from a Family Channel sitcom (you can almost hear the sentimental piano music twinkling behind it), but I promise it's 100% accurate:

Me: Why did you swim out so far when you knew you weren't allowed?

Her: I wanted to touch the pole.

Me: Do you know how to swim well enough to make it on your own?

Her: Yes. Don't you believe me?

Me: If you know you can do it, I believe you.

She promised to shout for help if she got into trouble. The adults and I all stood at the ready as she waded out into the water. She looked back for permission, and we gave her the thumbs-up. Her feet left the shelf, and she paddled hard toward the deep water. She reached the pole easily, turned around, and smiled.

When she returned to shore, her younger brother begged for permission to swim out to the pole. My niece and I explained to him that he would have to work very hard until he's ready to swim to the pole himself. She taught him how to paddle, and he started to practice diligently on his own.

Untitled Comic from 2005

I'm going home for a while soon and hopefully learning how to drive, so it seems like a good time to share the first comic I made as an adult.

Dazed and Klon-fused: Crash Landing onto Psychotropic Island

In 2003, I moved to Cincinnati to study art at the University of Cincinnati's College of Design, Architecture, Art, and Planning (DAAP). At 21, I was convinced I was too mature to live in a dorm, but I didn't know a soul in "the big city," so I rented a one-bedroom by myself.

The students of DAAP, with their pantone skinny jeans and sculptural hairstyles, intimidated me with their apparent confidence. I missed the first day of my first class because I walked in, took one look at the people, and assumed that I had mistakenly walked into a graduate-level studio. I was actually three years older than everyone there.

Under the stress of the demanding Fine Arts program and difficulty making friends / adjusting to city life my first year at DAAP, I started having regular panic attacks and reluctantly started taking psychiatric medications.

Enter Klonopin.

Also known as Clonazepam, Klonopin is an anticonvulsant muscle relaxer used to treat epilepsy, spasms, and severe anxiety disorders. Prescribing such a strong, habit-forming medication was probably a mistake, but my doctor suggested it as a last resort, given my lack of response to Wellbutrin, Zoloft, Celexa, etc. and a horrible antidepressant/sleep aid called Remeron that gave me a migraine that lasted a month (that's another story).

Klonopin worked, in a way. I didn't have panic attacks. The problem was, I didn't have consciousness, either. Taking the drug allowed me to attend my classes, but I sat through them unproductively, more focused on the sensation of my blood cells floating through my veins than on gestalt theory. During a lecture, I fell asleep and out of my chair and was confronted by the concerned professor about my disinterest in his subject. For the one academic quarter I took Klonopin, my grades dropped from A's to C's. I couldn't remember what I'd done an hour earlier and busted my lips and knees tripping up the stairs on a daily basis. 

Klonopin also allowed me to vegetate at social events, too. My then-boyfriend (who has the patience of a saint) loved to throw parties, and I would pop my "mother's little helper" and then crumple in the corner like Milla Jovovich in Dazed and Confused, that heavy-lidded, strung-out girl who's always hanging around but is definitely not present.

After a difficult withdrawal process, I regained consciousness. Currently, I take no prescriptions. I still struggle with anxiety, a lot, especially in social situations. But I have been able to channel my daily anxiety toward productive goals. Other than a bad back and diminishing eyesight, the side effects of my new medication—drawing—are fantastic.

Hiding Place

The house where I grew up is in a very special place—an isolated, womblike enclosure of acres of forest and fields. As a kid, I played outside whenever I could, striking magical flint rocks, concocting various formulas of mud in the creek, naming and talking to the trees like they were my friends. When I transformed into a brooding, miserable teenager, the familiar woods became my escape by default; it was the only thing within walking distance on all sides.

Photo by Josh Barker

The woods (the wild) was a safe place where I could think, try out new voices and facial expressions, be angry if I wanted to be. More importantly, it was a solitary place where I could hide emotionally, and if no one could find me, no one could hurt me. When I couldn't physically escape to the woods, I retreated to my thoughts and hid there instead.

But, even in a good hiding spot, the forest does not feel safe at night, and, surrounded by the dark and dangers both real and perceived, one becomes acutely aware that she is alone.

I will find my way out.

Parting Gift

In a few weeks, I will pack up and move from the village of Yellow Springs, Ohio to the city of Columbus.

Today I received a very special gift from Yellow Springs' head (and other) cartoonist, Walter Rhodes: his own vintage calligraphy pen and pewter rest from Italy. 

Walter is an accomplished retired actor, an unforgettable personality, and an elder at the church where I currently work. I tried my best to be shy in his presence, but it was impossible to stay quiet around such a ham. We have spent many a long hour in the church office swapping ideas and stories and generally being kids.

True story from the church office.
Comic by M Young, color by Walter.

I have met many people who call themselves Christians in my life. Many of them horribly misunderstand the title, and most of them would bore God to tears. Walter is not one of those.

Read Walter's local cartoon series, Bench to Nowhere, here.

Bonus Story: Wolf Girl

My first attempt at writing Wild Child was in the form of a single, hand-bound artist book about a girl raised by wolves--a veiled autobiography. (This was also my college thesis project.) Years later I resolved to grow a pair and quit hiding behind a persona in my comics. But I love the archetypical character of the feral child, the patron saint of the free-spirited loner, so I decided to include, in addition to my life experiences, a storyline about a girl who runs away from home and is raised by wolves--to function as an allegory for my individual psyche while being a relatable figure who will appeal more to the collective unconscious. 

By the way, about 8 pages of Part 2 are sketched out, so watch for new work soon!

Dweeberella, circa 1993

Note scale of basketball to human.