Splinter's Journal

For almost five years I have been raising four wonderful sons. And I love them all equally. However, I have been noticing certain things. For example, Michelangelo, my youngest son, has quite the hard time paying attention and is very hyperactive. He just cannot stay still. While, yes, his older brothers also have their troubles with focus and their energy, with them being very young, Michelangelo's case is rather extreme. Still, I can never be anymore prouder for him than I am now, just like his brothers.

Donatello and Leonardo act "normal", as many would think almost five year olds should act- very active and happy. Sociable to their own extent. But I know that they are just as unique.

Raphael, oh, the most passionate and sensitive of my sons! He cares very much about animals and his family, far more than he cares for himself. He is a very loyal child, even though he is so young, it is almost like it is his grave fault. But that is not what I wish to write about him.

Recently, Raphael has been distancing himself from our family. I would just assume that he prefers solitude and requires it much more than his brothers, and while very true, I feel that it might be something else. Whenever his brothers or I show even the slightest bit of affection, he recoils and begins to kick and scream the moment he feels even the slightest brush of a finger. He has also had many problems speaking. At first, I had believed that he refused to speak because he did not like that, although it could be partically true. But now I believe that his speech problems are a part of something else. Yes, he can talk now, but he was very late, only learning to form short sentences when he was three and a half. Now, he stutters and goes back to repeat his words. Most times, he will not even use his words. He will just lash out in a toddler's rage, which is something else I have noted. Raphael's temper is far worse than anyone else's, apart from Saki. The most accurate depiction I can make of his temper is like a child's temper tantrum, only the child is holding weapons and is prepared to attack. That is about as accurate as I can be with Raphael.

What only makes his temper worse is the destruction. He constantly breaks things, even though I know he does not mean to. He even hurts his brothers out of anger. But what scares me the most is that Raphael hurts himself. Just the other day, Raphael miscounted his straws and ran off to the kitchen, where I found him repeatedly banging his head against the oven door. I had to grab him and he continued to squirm and tried to bite me. This next one, I worry may become a habit of his. Whenever Raphael becomes extremely distressed or he does not get what he wants, he will bite himself so hard, he will draw blood. Last week, he bit his left hand. I pulled his hand away, only for him to bite his other hand. Holding both his hands, Raphael tried and succeeded in biting his own shoulders. I was forced to hold down his head. I fear he may suffer from something serious.

Splinter put down his brush and journal, sighing. How he wished he could see what his temperamental son was seeing, what he was thinking in his mind. Raphael's mind was a very dark place, he presumed, even though he will only be five in the next few weeks. Leaving his room, the rat realized that it was almost eight o' clock. Bedtime for his sons. They were all gathered in the "living room". Leonardo was watching Space Heroes, Michelangelo was running around the punching dummy, full of energy as always, Donatello was taking apart a broken remote control, and Raphael... well, he was probably waiting to watch the TV himself.

"My sons, it is your bedtime. Leonardo, turn off the TV. Donatello, put away all those parts. You can finish tomorrow. Michelangelo, go brush your teeth, because I know you did not." All of his sons obeyed. Except, of course, Raphael, whose name was not mentioned.

"Daddy!" His shrill voice made Splinter's ears quiver. "I wanted to, I wanted to watch TV! Leo was-was hoggin' it the whole d-day!" Another thing to pay attention to: even if Raphael could form a perfect sentence, he would still stutter when his emotions were too far out of his control.

"Raphael, you need your rest. You are very young and you need it." Then it all set off.

"No! I wanna watch TV! I wanna watch, I wanna, wanna, wanna!" The kicking began, soon followed with biting.

"Raphael, stop it!" Splinter had no choice but to grab ahold of his rather muscular son. It honestly surprised him that his children were only turning five. Of course, Raphael didn't obey. He continued to scream, and with the TV off and most of the parts put away, Leonardo and Donatello watched as their father struggled to retain their brother. Then, out of nowhere, Raphael began to spit out what first seemed like random numbers.

"0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34!" Donatello's eyes lit up.

"Fibonacci Sequence!"

"55, 89, 144, 233, 377, 610!" Raphael kept screaming out these numbers. Then he said a forbidden word, one he probably has never heard before and most definitely should have never said. "SHUT UP!" He finally wriggled his whole body away from Splinter and tried to push the TV down, but to no avail. So, he ran off to his room, tears trailing down his cheeks. Panting heavily, Splinter guided his sons to their room, the door open and Michelangelo waiting for a good night's kiss.

"Dada, what's wrong with Raph?" Donatello asked, looking up at his tall father. Maybe he'd come close to his height one day. He sighed.

"I do not know, my son. Raphael, well, is very different. But so are all of you," he muttered, then kissed the top of both of his sons' heads. "Now, go get into bed. I will tuck you in after Michelangelo. Then, I will check on your brother."

"Okay. Night, Dada!"

"'Goodnight, Father!" Both of the turtles went into their room. It's a wonder they still chose to sleep in the same room as Michelangelo. Of course, Raphael wanted his own room, and he got it when he was only three. Why, Splinter still didn't understand. Perhaps he really enjoyed solitude? Even if he did, Splinter would've preferred if his second oldest son socialized more with his brothers. The rat leaned over his youngest son and gently tucked him in and kissed the tip of his nose.

"Goodnight, my precious Michelangelo."

"Papa, will... Is Raphie sick? Will he be okay?" His baby blue eyes widened. Honestly, this was one of the few times Splinter did not know the answer to.

"I do not believe your brother is sick. Perhaps he just has a problem but has chosen not to speak of it. I will talk to him tonight, my son."

"Okay, Papa. Goodnight." What a beautiful smile. How Splinter wished he had a camera at that moment. He moved next to Donatello's bed. He smiled at his son, who grinned back.

"I love you, my son. Rest well."

"I will, especially now that you can fix Raphie." The turtle rolled onto his side. "Goodnight, Dada." Splinter rubbed his carapace before finally heading for his oldest son, Leonardo. He was already under the covers and tucked in. Splinter kissed the top of his head, getting a giggle from his son.

"Your whiskers tickle. I love you, Father." A solemn spitting of words, but extremely sentimental to the father.

"I love you too, Leonardo. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Raphael's door was locked. Splinter took that as a sign to not even try to bother him. Well, at least he could watch the news. It was the one thing he had left of keeping touch with the human race topside. Just as he switched to Channel 6 News, a segment on noticing signs of mental disorders in children at a young age could help them improve in their lives. This caught Splinter's attention very quickly. The first mental disorder symptoms listed was ADHD, or Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Just by the name, it sounded a lot like Michelangelo. The symptoms stood out especially to him. The behavioral problems the youngest of his sons had were excitability, lack of self-control, hyperactivity, impulsivity, and the nervous movement or persistent repetition of words and actions. They all fit him so well! But it didn't stop there. Splinter wrote these symptoms down, and added more that he knew fit Michelangelo all too well.

Cognitive

Short attention span

Difficulty focusing

Distraction

Forgetfulness

Problems paying attention

Mood

Boredom

Enthusiasm

Common

Learning Disability

Splinter knew most mental disorders needed a proper diagnosis, and ADHD happened to be no different. But he also knew that it would be best to take note of his sons' actions. Now it made more sense to him why Michelangelo struggles with his academics. His writing is unintelligible, spelling is terrible and he cannot read short books yet; he still needs the picture ones. Splinter was never harsh on his son's struggling. Now he had an even better reason why he might be suffering: ADHD, possibly even dyslexia. It's horrible to Splinter that he can never be able to help his son to be what he wants to be, but at least he can guide him through his troubles.

The program continued, this time with autism, which apparently was very difficult to get a diagnosis on. Splinter never understood autism. It was far too complicated, just like Raphael. Every single symptom of autism fit him perfectly. It scared Splinter a bit. Thinking back, everything makes so much more sense now- Raphael's aggression, his sensitivity to loud noises (yet, for some reason, only certain things could be loud, like music and TV), his lack of communication, everything. But it didn't end there. The program moved on to what Splinter feared most- schizophrenia.

Tang Shen had an uncle who had schizophrenia. Almost everyone feared him, except for Shen herself. Even Splinter had been afraid of him. He always saw evil, even demonic hallucinations, and would act out horrifically in rage. He was killed in a driveby a year before Miwa was born. Shen wept heavily those following days. Like ADHD, schizophrenia needed a medical diagnosis. And the signs. Oh, the signs! Instead of writing down what did fit, Splinter wrote down what was not correct about Raphael. He did not have amnesia or memory loss- his mind was like a steel cage. And if he forgot something, he would throw himself to the ground and pound his fists against it until they bled. And Raphael was almost never slow; he fluttered from thought to thought, like Michelangelo. He was a lot like a griffin, since he's a lot like a bird and a lion. Raphael's motor coordination was strong; hand-to-eye coordination, too. Most of these were so right, even the anxiety! Even though he is still a child, Splinter has noted many attacks, and it was near impossible to help his son relax.

Oh God, could this all really be to my sons? Had he been not so immersed in his notes and the program, he would have heard Raphael's door unlocking... and opening.

Splinter's Journal

At first, I had thought today would be a bad day for Raphael. I say this because when I woke up sitting on the couch, Raphael's door was open. He must have left his room in the middle of the night. I went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast when I found one of my robes in the sink, cut up and wet, sloppily shoved down the garbage disposal. I knew Raphael had been responsible. I could not find him for a solid hour, though. I discovered him in my room, covered in bandages and papers with drawings. Some of them were rather- how should I say this- disturbing. One even had "666" written on top. But the rest were more happy. There were some called 0 (just the number), Pholly, Scrap and Loo. I did not like the 666 one at all. It was hideous. I will have to ask Raphael about "it" later. He looked innocent, with large eyes, irises forming into a vibrant green, and covered in bandages. They were on his hands, arms, face, neck, legs and even feet. I do not believe I will ever understand my son's obsession with bandages, but they are like stickers to Michelangelo- they make him happy, so I will continue to find them for him. Instead of being angry, I asked Raphael to come with me for breakfast. He agreed, with no battle against him.

Breakfast went so wonderful. Michelangelo, as always, had finished his meal long before the rest of us, but he was still hungry. He began to whine. I learned the previous night that people with autism and schizophrenia do not do well with empathy, and in fact struggle with it. They may feel apathy instead. But in this situation, Raphael understood how his youngest brother felt. I expected he would just give up half of his meal- no! Raphael handed Michelangelo his entire plate! I was honestly astonished and proud of my son. Michelangelo is a happy spirit, but this was pure joy I had witnessed that morning. I felt a few tears build up in my eyes. I did not let them fall, however. It was time for my sons' gymnastics. Today was to dive and roll properly so they are not to injure themselves.

When we entered the dojo, Raphael just... disappeared. Perhaps my sixth sense is not as sharp as it previously was. Then I heard a rustling above me. There was Raphael, in the tree. He was just sitting there, talking to... nothing. Perhaps one of those "friends" he has? But this was the fifth time this week I found him there, and it was only Wednesday. He really does have autism, or else he would have understood the risk he is taking and would do as I had said. I yelled at him to come down, but instead, he let out a cry. He looked down and for what seemed like a split second, Raphael's eyes bore straight into mine. But that was it. He looked down at his hands, and without me asking him why he continued to go up there, he said this:

"Sissy-sin told me to."

I believe this "sissy-sin" was supposed to be 666. Raphael must not realize how to properly say the number, or perhaps he has a reason why he says it that way. After all, he did scream out those numbers of the Fibonacci Sequence, which I also discovered what that was this morning with Donatello. I told him to get down from there, since after many past experiences, it would be useless to get him down myself. Well, he fell instead, but he did not cry like when I yelled at him. His face was neutral, really. Thankfully, he was not injured, but now my suspicions of Raphael's possible mental illnesses are confirmed. Michelangelo, well, he is unquestionable to me, like his brother- they both have mental disorders. I truly did not expect anything like this to occur to my sons.

Splinter looked over to his sons, who were now eating their dinner. Raphael enjoyed worms, but not algae. He had decided to do what his son wanted and just separated the two foods so his son would be content. Donatello did not like either, but that was because he was a very picky eater. Leonardo will eat whatever his father serves him, even if he truly dislikes the dish. Michelangelo... well, he'll eat just about anything.

Michelangelo and Raphael struggled with chopsticks, while Leonardo and Donatello succeeded after a few tries, so the two needed forks instead. Well, it's what the youngest turtle used; Raphael used his hands. Leo grunted.

"Raphie, that's so gross! Stop that!" Instead of using his words, Raphael moaned in distress. Splinter sensed that negative emotion and looked over to his eldest to silence himself. He obeyed, but Donatello continued what he shouldn't have.

"Leo's right, Raph. Why do you do that? It's repulsive." He was lucky Raphael's aim was done out of impulse, or the previously speaking turtle would have a fork jabbed in his right eye. Raphael was screeching and ran off... out from the Lair and into the sewers. The remaining turtles were in shock. Splinter glared at his two sons.

"Michelangelo, go watch TV. I will discuss something with your brothers, then I will go look for Raphael."

"Okay, Papa." The youngest tot grabbed his plate and skipped out of the kitchen, not finished with his meal. Crossing his arms, Splinter stared down at his sons.

"I am very disappointed in you two. You know how sensitive Raphael is-"

"Well, maybe Raph should be tougher! That's what he's always telling us!"

"DONATELLO!" The addressed turtle's neck shrank into his shell in shame. "I will have to teach you to hold that tongue of yours. Now, have either one of you noticed how different your brothers are from you?"

"Including Mikey?" Leo questioned.

"Yes."

"Well, kind of. Mikey's really hyper and Raphie's always angry and never wants to talk. Well, except with himself."

"Well, there are reasons why your brothers are the way they are. And I will tell you and ask for a certain favor from you both."

"W-what?" Donatello stuttered. Oh boy, this can't be good.

"You will help me keep both of your brothers in check; they can't get hurt under your watch," Splinter responded. Tension in the two turtles' tiny bodies dispersed, as if never existing at all."However, you will be grounded for your carelessness of words." This time, their shoulders slumped. There was always a catch. Looking up at their father, they saw no mercy. They must accept their punishment.

Searching for any defiance in his sons and not finding a single sign, Splinter left the kitchen, inevitably passing Michelangelo. The child had obeyed, but the rat would have preferred for his son to sit farther back.

"Papa, can I help?" the little tot queried. Splinter sighed, knowing that his youngest must remain in the lair with his brothers. The sewers were no place for a child. Still, it was relieving to see that Michelangelo cared for his older brother and wanted to help. Disappointed to deny his son, he shook his head.

"Michelangelo, you must stay here with your brothers. I am already running the risk of losing Raphael all alone in the sewers. I cannot risk losing you either. Please understand," pleaded the loving father. Thankfully, the freckled turtle understood perfectly, except with the "losing" part. What Michelangelo thought it meant was completely different to what Splinter actually intended. Waving all of his sons goodbye, Splinter ran off, trying to track down his son by scent. He could no longer hear Raphael's screams. Surprisingly, that was all the former man wanted to hear instead of the sloshing water.

"Raphael!" he shouted as loud as he possibly could. He was certain the pipes shuddered from it. He sniffed the air for Raphael's scent. Oddly enough, he found it- a strangely clean scent that had a trace of smoke and cinnamon. Splinter always wondered how Raphael could even smell like that at all. They lived in the sewers for God's sake! Even Leonardo smelled a little bad, although rarely, when he didn't have a weekly bath. "Raphael!" he shouted even louder, if that was even possible. His eyes flickered from side to side for the slightest movement. There were, but they were mostly rats and dripping water.

Then he heard it- a soft whimper. It was like trying to listen to a pin falling to the ground. That was how quiet it had been. It came from a tunnel by Splinter's right. Unfortunately, he knew that tunnel had the most human waste in this area of the sewers imaginably possible. Why in the known universe would Raphael go in there? Suddenly, Splinter found himself preferring to search for his son on topside. It was cleaner than here. But again, it's the sewers. What could he possibly expect?

Covering his nose, he went in the tunnel, but he could still smell the malodorous stench. His left ear twitched, this time hearing a small croak. That couldn't be his son... could it? He turned abruptly into the smaller tunnel that branched off the main one.

"RAPHAEL!" He scanned the entire , down, left to right, right to left, straight ahead...

There! Splinter saw Raphael crouching over, whimpering. In an instant, he was at his son's side. There were a few cuts and bruises but none that were fatal. A flash of ire overtook but was quickly dispelled. It was not entirely Raphael's fault that he ran off, temper flaring. Donatello was also to blame.

Yet, why was he still whimpering? Raphael, unlike his brothers, would not express pain as easily. Whether he couldn't feel the intensity, had a resistance to it, or simply wouldn't allow himself to express the pain, Splinter would neither know nor understand. That was when he realized his son had been holding something in his hands. He was also counting to it. Raising an eyebrow, Splinter was about to question his son for speaking to a tangible, inanimate object when it began to move. Slowly, two beady eyes came out, accompanied with a beak. Splinter stared in shock.

It was a turtle. A small, filthy, injured turtle.

"Raphael?" He went to touch his son's shoulder but decided against it. He may not like it.

"Four," Raphael murmured at last. Without looking at his father, he added, "That was the fourth time you said my name. You said my name." He nodded, putting a new fact in the back of his mind: Raphael seems to be obsessed with numbers no matter what.

"Okay Raphael. Well, we have to go back home. Leave the turtle." Turning around, he walked off for a few feet before realizing his son was not by his side. Looking back, Raphael was standing, turtle still in his cupped hands. His eyes, for once in a really long time, pierced into his. Suddenly, the desire for his son to "look him in the eye" was incredibly uncomfortable. He wouldn't even blink. "Raphael, your brothers are waiting. Leonardo and Donatello will apologize for what they had said. Now leave the turtle here."

Raphael's mind buzzed with only one thought: he has to keep the turtle. It was hurt and dirty. It couldn't survive by itself. Besides, Raphael had already formed a deep connection with it between the time he found the turtle to when Splinter found him. It was like the little turtle understood him. He needed to keep the turtle, no questions asked. So, once again, the fiery tot showed his defiant side.

"No."

"Excuse me? Raphael," Splinter's voice hardened, "you cannot possibly believe you could take care of a pet. You're too young."

"I'll take good care of him, Daddy! Please!" Tears brimmed Splinter's eyes. Raphael had said "please" for the first time. He also noticed that, although his body was shaking with pent up emotions, Raphael had formed a perfect sentence. No stuttering, no repeating. He glanced down at the turtle. Its eyes were closed, but it was breathing. Its head was resting on Raphael's plastron, near the lightning bolt-shaped crack. He sighed. It might not be a good idea, but...

"Alright. You can keep him. But," Splinter continued before his son would get overly excited, "you must take full responsibility of him. That means bathing him, feeding him, and giving him a healthy life as a pet." Each thing he listed off, Raphael nodded, confident he could fufill each task and then some. He already had unconditional love, which was an odd feeling and something he quickly developed. Before either took another step, Splinter added, "You must also bathe yourself once we return home, Raphael."

The child groaned but agreed. Anything to keep the turtle.

Splinter awoke to a soft voice. It came from the kitchen, but he couldn't make out what it was saying. Slowly, Splinter tiptoed into the room.

"...And then I fell asleep again, and it was cool, Spike. Maybe you did too. Did you dream last night? Chew on your leave if you had a dream last night." Chomp.

Splinter could not believe his aging eyes. Raphael, his temperamental, agitated, insomniac son, had slept through the night. Not only that, but Raphael was communicating with the turtle. Spike? Was that the name?

"Raphael?" Again, Splinter could not believe what happened next. Even though it still felt off, Raphael looked directly into his eyes. Unsettling, seeing how intense his glare was, but relieving as a father.

"Daddy?" he asked, unintentionally making Splinter lean closer. "Can- may I have algae and worms?" Splinter gasped ever so softly.

Please let this be a sign that he will be okay, Splinter thought, looking up at the ceiling.

13 Years Later...

"Donnie,get rid of the one that he doesn't like to be hugged."

"Got it, Leo." Donnie deleted the old so-called trait down on the ever expanding/shrinking document. Splinter watched his two sons. He couldn't believe how quickly his children had grown. Leonardo and Donatello had kept their promise to him. Raphael and Michelangelo's mental health seemed to be in equilibrium.

However, the concerned father would never be able to shake off the memories following the "loss" of Spike. Raphael became a danger once more. He spoke to imaginary friends, attempted to attack his brothers brutally- even Splinter- and continued his fits. However, that all changed after their adventures in space. Raphael spoke of Mona Lisa, a Salamandrian that he fell in love with, and he had taken on the care of a baby alien turtle that he named Chompy Picasso.

Splinter almost couldn't keep the tears from falling. When he had Spike, Raphael was almost a normal child. In just a few short weeks, he was able to have a conversation with his family. However, the moment it converted into small talk, Raphael drew away. However, when Spike mutated into Slash, the good that was done was reversed.

Chompy and Mona Lisa were the ones who saved him. Now, Raphael was playing the role of, as Michelangelo would say it, "Dadda Raph." Now, Raphael barely remembers some of his old "friends"; he has said their names in the past but doesn't realize that they were once a part of his daily life.

Splinter had tried for years to find a medication to help Raphael and Michelangelo. Sadly, he couldn't but it didn't matter. They found their own medicine.

Now Splinter could rest at night, knowing Raphael and Michelangelo would be okay, especially with Leonardo and Donatello taking notes of their progress.