Confusion. The dictionary defines it as refers to loss of orientation (ability to place oneself correctly in the world by time, location, and personal identity) and often memory (ability to correctly recall previous events or learn new material).
My ability to focus is so gone right now. I have put down for the first 19 years of my life. Put them down and tucked them away. Now though, I find that I am still as scatter brained as ever.
When I moved to Virginia in July of 2005, I went through this same feeling. I toyed with the idea of moving to California and working as a writer or doing the same thing in NYC. I started an application for Survivor. I tried to "run off" to the Peace Corps but started coming out of the closet and then took a chance on love.
The following year, I remember bringing home annals and annals of job descriptions and applications. I think I applied to a job for a whole year. I interviewed with the Peace Corps, with four or five universities, even went to an on campus visit at one. The whole time, what I was thinking is that I wanted to do DO DO DO something with my life.
Then I am here again. What is wrong with me? Why can I not focus my attention? Why am I so confused?
You see moving and starting over are things I have to do for my frame of mind. It is now a health issue.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Today I feel depression seeking in. Which is to say that it is seeking "back in", not like it was last week. Going home to Washington was absolutely the best time that I have ever had. I really enjoyed being with my parents and sisters, and seeing my neices and nephews and cousins, aunts, uncles and high school friends. It was the best time I had had there.
The day before I left my parent's house, I went to the river in the valley below. I took a few newspaper clippings that my dad had hung on my wall. There were indicative of the type of "humor" my dad sometimes uses that gets me down.
I took the clippings down to the river, said a few lines about forgiveness and letting go, then I lit them on fire and floated them down. Overhead, a bald eagle flew.
I am really homesick now. It is weird but I know that I am sick because coming back to Virginia. I miss my family. I miss my neices and nephews and definitely know that I want a family of my own. I miss my things. I miss what Trey has taken from me. I am really sad about it and I can not seem to shake it. He has taken so much. Hurt me so much and I just want to put it all behind me. I despise him. I want nothing to do with him, but I just want my stuff back first. I wish that I never would have met him. He has been the cause of so much pain in my life and I just want it to end. My "relationship" with him. I want him out of my life, yet I know that it is hard.
The other reason it is hard to be here is because of my current salary, 27,000 a year. When I was 25, I started out making 32,000 a year. I have three degrees and 50,000 dollars in student loans. Then, I left CNU, spent a year and a half earning around 15,000 total as a volunteer, and then was unemployed for few months. But, the fact that I am on this path is all because of Mr. &&&&. He is the reason for all of it. He has really affeted my life negatively. He has hurt me and controlled me and lied to me and manipulated me. He got me in trouble at my workplace. He destroyed my stuff. Took my dog. When I write these things now, I get angry. ANGRY!
And I know that I can feel these sins no more, but I also no that I have to quit feeling like I NEED something to "save me" because no one can save you but yourself. God is not going to come down and get you a better job or put you in a better school. He isn't going to buy you a house. That is bullshit. God's greatest gift, is that of life. The rest is up to us. I truly believe that we have guardian angels and that they look over us, but I know that it is not everything. I know it is not everything. I know that nothing replaces education and hard work. WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS, MAKE LEMONADE.
The day before I left my parent's house, I went to the river in the valley below. I took a few newspaper clippings that my dad had hung on my wall. There were indicative of the type of "humor" my dad sometimes uses that gets me down.
I took the clippings down to the river, said a few lines about forgiveness and letting go, then I lit them on fire and floated them down. Overhead, a bald eagle flew.
I am really homesick now. It is weird but I know that I am sick because coming back to Virginia. I miss my family. I miss my neices and nephews and definitely know that I want a family of my own. I miss my things. I miss what Trey has taken from me. I am really sad about it and I can not seem to shake it. He has taken so much. Hurt me so much and I just want to put it all behind me. I despise him. I want nothing to do with him, but I just want my stuff back first. I wish that I never would have met him. He has been the cause of so much pain in my life and I just want it to end. My "relationship" with him. I want him out of my life, yet I know that it is hard.
The other reason it is hard to be here is because of my current salary, 27,000 a year. When I was 25, I started out making 32,000 a year. I have three degrees and 50,000 dollars in student loans. Then, I left CNU, spent a year and a half earning around 15,000 total as a volunteer, and then was unemployed for few months. But, the fact that I am on this path is all because of Mr. &&&&. He is the reason for all of it. He has really affeted my life negatively. He has hurt me and controlled me and lied to me and manipulated me. He got me in trouble at my workplace. He destroyed my stuff. Took my dog. When I write these things now, I get angry. ANGRY!
And I know that I can feel these sins no more, but I also no that I have to quit feeling like I NEED something to "save me" because no one can save you but yourself. God is not going to come down and get you a better job or put you in a better school. He isn't going to buy you a house. That is bullshit. God's greatest gift, is that of life. The rest is up to us. I truly believe that we have guardian angels and that they look over us, but I know that it is not everything. I know it is not everything. I know that nothing replaces education and hard work. WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS, MAKE LEMONADE.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Confusion and fatigue is what I feel most of the day. Anger and sadness represent the rest. How can it be that we find our places in these places? How can I be back to square one? Do I not take life seriously enough? Do I not have discipline. Low Delayed Gratification? Do I just fear that I will not amount to anything or anoyone?
Can't, Won't, Hurt, Should have, would have, could have. DOUBT.
I am
I dont want to. is the worst statement in the world. Start focusing on what you want. not on what you dont want.
We know what we dont want. these things are really simple. but the things that we want. they are numerous and it can sometimes be hard to narrow those choices down. dont be so hard on yourself. forgive yourself for your faults and your past mistakes. forgive your father. forgive your mother for staying with him. forgive the friends that have made you angry or not mentioned you or your name. forgive those that have hurt you beyond measure. forgive and release the pain. release the anger. breathe it out. forgive in order to live.
I am
I dont want to. is the worst statement in the world. Start focusing on what you want. not on what you dont want.
We know what we dont want. these things are really simple. but the things that we want. they are numerous and it can sometimes be hard to narrow those choices down. dont be so hard on yourself. forgive yourself for your faults and your past mistakes. forgive your father. forgive your mother for staying with him. forgive the friends that have made you angry or not mentioned you or your name. forgive those that have hurt you beyond measure. forgive and release the pain. release the anger. breathe it out. forgive in order to live.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Fear of Failure
Fear of not accomplishing what I want, I dont even know what I want. I am so confused as to what I want to do with my life. I am thuroughly confused. I just feel so fucking confused.
Fear of failing/Fear of Trying
Not feeling like I am good enough or that I can accomplish what I want to accomplish or that I will not get to where I want to be or that the hill is too steep or that there are so many people that are better than me or that i am too old. That is what I feel. I feel like I do not belong and that I am not good enough. I just cant take that step forward. I am afraid of money. I am afraid of starting over. I am afraid of trying. So I procrastinate. I take on so much and I just end up wasting so much of my time and energy. I have wasted so much of my life analyzing who I am. SO MUCH TIME!
Fear of failing/Fear of Trying
Not feeling like I am good enough or that I can accomplish what I want to accomplish or that I will not get to where I want to be or that the hill is too steep or that there are so many people that are better than me or that i am too old. That is what I feel. I feel like I do not belong and that I am not good enough. I just cant take that step forward. I am afraid of money. I am afraid of starting over. I am afraid of trying. So I procrastinate. I take on so much and I just end up wasting so much of my time and energy. I have wasted so much of my life analyzing who I am. SO MUCH TIME!
My head feels clouded and I want to eat. I have wsted for 6 months. I feel cloudy cloudy cloudy. I feel cloudy.
I cannot even think straight right now. I just waste away on this couch. I dont call anyone and i feel so disconnected from everyone. I mask this under my inability to have fun. I just feel so
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
What would it Take?
What would it take?
To live all your dreams.
To swim across oceans and rivers and streams.
To lay in the sun and never get burned.
To go to the front, without waiting your turn.
To eat what you want and never get sick.
To go out each night, to treat and to trick.
To fly as high as the stars.
Over mountains and trees.
To taste the sweet honey of success, and from bees.
To live how you want, with no care whatsoever.
To walk down the street as light as a feather.
To dream and dream big.
And dream beyond hope.
To have everything you want, from houses to soap.
To get every gift and smile every smile.
To win every race. To run every mile.
To feel safe and feel free and never look back.
To live with yourself with nothing you lack.
To love and be loved and be loved just some more.
To be shaken by love, write down to your core.
Oh what would it take, to make this come true?
A lot of hard work and you believing in you.
To live all your dreams.
To swim across oceans and rivers and streams.
To lay in the sun and never get burned.
To go to the front, without waiting your turn.
To eat what you want and never get sick.
To go out each night, to treat and to trick.
To fly as high as the stars.
Over mountains and trees.
To taste the sweet honey of success, and from bees.
To live how you want, with no care whatsoever.
To walk down the street as light as a feather.
To dream and dream big.
And dream beyond hope.
To have everything you want, from houses to soap.
To get every gift and smile every smile.
To win every race. To run every mile.
To feel safe and feel free and never look back.
To live with yourself with nothing you lack.
To love and be loved and be loved just some more.
To be shaken by love, write down to your core.
Oh what would it take, to make this come true?
A lot of hard work and you believing in you.
what would that look like?
What do you fear?
I am fearful that my life in materials has been permanently lossed or destroyed or sold at auction.
I am fearful that I will never see my dog, Caiman, again.
And when I think of these fears, I get angry and sad.
I am fearful that my debt, unpaid and over 90 days past due, will keep me from getting a student loan. And when I think of this, I become worried.
I am fearful that my past employment record will prevent me from future employment, and this makes me worried.
I am fearful that I have HIV from having sex with several men this past year, and this makes me worried.
These are all my fears.
What would it look like? To be consumed by fear?
It would resemble a man in his late 20s, powerless and crying on the lawn during a beautiful summers day.
It would resemble laying in bed all day, and staring at the white ceilings and the walls of my sister's bedroom, and then covering up your head with the covers, just so things remain dark.
It would resemble sleeping fully clothed, eating at will and falling asleep on anything but a bed.
It would resemble not taking care of your hygiene.
It would resemble bad choices, fueled by a lack of confidence and irrationality.
It would resemble constant sadness and crying.
It would resemble bursts of anger.
It would resemble procrastination and the use of vices like sex, food and alcohol to get by.
It would resemble extreme remorse.
It would resemble feeling powerless and not empowered.
It would resemble feeling like a loser and that you will end up homeless.
It would resemble not being excited about anything, not wanting to move, not wanting to run.
It would resemble criticism and getting annoyed with others easily.
It would resemble giving your controls away.
It would resemble crying and crying and crying.
What would it look like to be consumed by hope and confidence and excitement about your future?
It would resemble nothing like what I just wrote.
It would resemble feeling powerful and empowered and in control.
It would resemble happiness and calm.
It would resemble pride.
It would resemble no regrets and no pain.
It would resemble feeling like you are living on your own terms for the first time.
It would feel liberating.
What does it take?
A strategic plan. A list of goals, objectives and the tasks and steps needed to accomplish those. It takes constant reminding yourself that you are good enough for this. It takes will power. It takes strength.
This is a test. "Adversity causes some men to break, others to break records" -William A. Ward
I am fearful that my life in materials has been permanently lossed or destroyed or sold at auction.
I am fearful that I will never see my dog, Caiman, again.
And when I think of these fears, I get angry and sad.
I am fearful that my debt, unpaid and over 90 days past due, will keep me from getting a student loan. And when I think of this, I become worried.
I am fearful that my past employment record will prevent me from future employment, and this makes me worried.
I am fearful that I have HIV from having sex with several men this past year, and this makes me worried.
These are all my fears.
What would it look like? To be consumed by fear?
It would resemble a man in his late 20s, powerless and crying on the lawn during a beautiful summers day.
It would resemble laying in bed all day, and staring at the white ceilings and the walls of my sister's bedroom, and then covering up your head with the covers, just so things remain dark.
It would resemble sleeping fully clothed, eating at will and falling asleep on anything but a bed.
It would resemble not taking care of your hygiene.
It would resemble bad choices, fueled by a lack of confidence and irrationality.
It would resemble constant sadness and crying.
It would resemble bursts of anger.
It would resemble procrastination and the use of vices like sex, food and alcohol to get by.
It would resemble extreme remorse.
It would resemble feeling powerless and not empowered.
It would resemble feeling like a loser and that you will end up homeless.
It would resemble not being excited about anything, not wanting to move, not wanting to run.
It would resemble criticism and getting annoyed with others easily.
It would resemble giving your controls away.
It would resemble crying and crying and crying.
What would it look like to be consumed by hope and confidence and excitement about your future?
It would resemble nothing like what I just wrote.
It would resemble feeling powerful and empowered and in control.
It would resemble happiness and calm.
It would resemble pride.
It would resemble no regrets and no pain.
It would resemble feeling like you are living on your own terms for the first time.
It would feel liberating.
What does it take?
A strategic plan. A list of goals, objectives and the tasks and steps needed to accomplish those. It takes constant reminding yourself that you are good enough for this. It takes will power. It takes strength.
This is a test. "Adversity causes some men to break, others to break records" -William A. Ward
Monday, November 30, 2009
Why didnt I realize I was at-risk?
These glaring mistakes. He ruined me. For a short time He ruined me. I did what I had to do, I used sports to raise me out of mobile home beginnings. I used it and rided it all the way to the Sunshine state. I was never going to be pro. If I would have worked my ass off, I probably could have went small Division I in basketball. But, I gave up on myself. Just like I gave up after winning the school spelling bee. Why didn't I compete?
Why didn't I let the world see the real me? This real person? This real man? Why didn't I shed this insight into other people? Why am I so guarded?
I gave up on the spelling bee...then I gave up on basketball. Then, I guess I found myself again...at UF and I was successful.
Found this online: Am I at-risk?
1. Has the teen ever been suspended, expelled, been truant, or had their grades drop? Truant, yes. In 10th grade, I was truant to first period 10 times. I had to clean the school cafeteria and scrape gum off desks to make up for it.
2. Is the teen verbally abusive? Yes, to my parents. To the principal once, when he did not let me take the ASVAB.
3. Does the teen struggle with basic family rules and expectations? Ugh, I never had any.
4. Does the parent have difficulty getting the teen to do basic household chores and homework? Sure, I never did any.
5. Has the teen had problems with the law? Not in high school. I got pulled over like 4 times. Once for running a stop sign (got a $72 ticket and went to traffic school), then for speeding/no ticket.
6. Does the parent have to pick their words carefully when speaking to the teen, so as not to elicit a verbal attack or even rage from them? Who knows
7. Is the teen in danger of dropping out of high school? No
8. Does the teen associate with a suspect peer group? In 10th grade I did.
9. Has the teen lost interest in former productive activities, sports, hobbies, or childhood friends? In 10th grade I did.
10. Has the teen ever displayed any evidence of suicide? No, though I thought about it the summer before 9th grade. I was 14.
11. Does the teen seem depressed / withdrawn? Yes.
12. Does the teen ever display violent behavior? Yes.
13. Is the teen sexually promiscuous? No.
14. Has the teen’s appearance or personal hygiene changed? Uh, hard to say.
15. Is the teen deceitful and manipulative? No.
16. Has the teen been caught stealing money or personal items from their family? Yes.
17. Is the teen severely lacking in motivation? In 10th grade.
18. Does the teen sometimes lie regarding their activities? No.
19. Does the teen display outbursts of temper? Yes.
20. Does the teen lack self-worth and self-esteem? Yes.
21. Does the teen defy established rules regardless of the consequences? Yes, sometimes.
22. When trying to deal with the teen, do the parents feel powerless? Shit, they never cared.
23. Does the teen have a problem with authority? He does now.
24. Do the parents suspect the teen is experimenting with drugs or alcohol? Yes.
I was at risk!
Why didn't I let the world see the real me? This real person? This real man? Why didn't I shed this insight into other people? Why am I so guarded?
I gave up on the spelling bee...then I gave up on basketball. Then, I guess I found myself again...at UF and I was successful.
Found this online: Am I at-risk?
1. Has the teen ever been suspended, expelled, been truant, or had their grades drop? Truant, yes. In 10th grade, I was truant to first period 10 times. I had to clean the school cafeteria and scrape gum off desks to make up for it.
2. Is the teen verbally abusive? Yes, to my parents. To the principal once, when he did not let me take the ASVAB.
3. Does the teen struggle with basic family rules and expectations? Ugh, I never had any.
4. Does the parent have difficulty getting the teen to do basic household chores and homework? Sure, I never did any.
5. Has the teen had problems with the law? Not in high school. I got pulled over like 4 times. Once for running a stop sign (got a $72 ticket and went to traffic school), then for speeding/no ticket.
6. Does the parent have to pick their words carefully when speaking to the teen, so as not to elicit a verbal attack or even rage from them? Who knows
7. Is the teen in danger of dropping out of high school? No
8. Does the teen associate with a suspect peer group? In 10th grade I did.
9. Has the teen lost interest in former productive activities, sports, hobbies, or childhood friends? In 10th grade I did.
10. Has the teen ever displayed any evidence of suicide? No, though I thought about it the summer before 9th grade. I was 14.
11. Does the teen seem depressed / withdrawn? Yes.
12. Does the teen ever display violent behavior? Yes.
13. Is the teen sexually promiscuous? No.
14. Has the teen’s appearance or personal hygiene changed? Uh, hard to say.
15. Is the teen deceitful and manipulative? No.
16. Has the teen been caught stealing money or personal items from their family? Yes.
17. Is the teen severely lacking in motivation? In 10th grade.
18. Does the teen sometimes lie regarding their activities? No.
19. Does the teen display outbursts of temper? Yes.
20. Does the teen lack self-worth and self-esteem? Yes.
21. Does the teen defy established rules regardless of the consequences? Yes, sometimes.
22. When trying to deal with the teen, do the parents feel powerless? Shit, they never cared.
23. Does the teen have a problem with authority? He does now.
24. Do the parents suspect the teen is experimenting with drugs or alcohol? Yes.
I was at risk!
Friday, November 27, 2009
I cant stop the fear
Two days ago I was at my therapists. It was our second session in as many weeks. I started seeing her back in July of 2007. During that time, I was very depressed and going through a major episode. After our first session, it became apparent to me that the main reason for my troubles was my sexual orientation, and lack of acknowledgment. She told me to liberate myself. So I did.
I went home and called my sister. She said, "Are you a homosexual?". Beat me to the punch. I said, "yes". The next month was filled with similar conversations. I told my friends from grad school. My friends from elementary and high school. My friends from undergrad. A few colleagues. Exhausting, repetitive conversations. The same questions. The same nervousness before each. Exhausting. Emotionally exhausting.
I waited to tell my parents until October 6, 2007. I flew home for a three-day weekend and drove down. Unbeknown to me, my sister had already told my brother and sister-in-law. I guess she did this to take the pressure off me. Anyways, I overcame the fear. That is my point. I told my parents.
However, there has always been a sense of fear in me. A constant sense of fear. I have really only lived without it for the two years I was at the University of Florida, studying Sport Management and working full-time. Since I have left, the fear has consumed me. An inner voice.
You're not good enough. You'll never make it. You don't deserve success. You will never live your dreams. You will never be rich. You will never own a house. You will never have a great body. You will never be loved. You will never live abroad. You will never have a great successful job abroad. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! I can't deal with it. It is the first voice I hear in the morning, and it chums along everyday. It is the last voice I hear at night. It all boils down to what I am doing with my life, my mistakes and where I want to be.
So what does success mean to me?
-Living your dreams.
-Being financially secure.
-Owning your dream house.
-Paying off your debts.
-Getting the education you want.
-Working at a job you love.
-Doing the little things you want to do, however small, however big.
-Finding love.
-Retiring financially secure
-Living a balanced life, in consideration of all this.
Which brings me back to the voice. The voice that haunts me and beats me up...and down. That voice, as my therapist pointed out, is not my own. That voice. Is the voice of my father. His voice. His voice is the one which resonates so loudly in my 29 year old head. Even to this day. It rings louder than my own.
3 voices. Mine. My father's. His (whatever spiritual body that I come to solidify as my shephard). There should only be two voices in my opinion. But, my voice, is the most important.
So how do I get rid of my my father's voice? The voice that told me I was not good enough. Who was there as a distant, "Oz-like" creation from the back bedroom. The voice that was either comparing me to my brother, or yelling at me, or criticizing my mother's cooking, or yelling at me, or making a cynical and sarcastic criticism of someone else, or was exploding and telling me, I wasn't good enough.
Not good enough to win the hoop shoot in 4th grade. Not good enough to start on the varsity basketball team. Not good enough to go to school at Concordia or Willamette. Not good enough.
Fuck, what happened to that boy that wanted to see the world and live abroad and feel that satisfaction. Where b
I went home and called my sister. She said, "Are you a homosexual?". Beat me to the punch. I said, "yes". The next month was filled with similar conversations. I told my friends from grad school. My friends from elementary and high school. My friends from undergrad. A few colleagues. Exhausting, repetitive conversations. The same questions. The same nervousness before each. Exhausting. Emotionally exhausting.
I waited to tell my parents until October 6, 2007. I flew home for a three-day weekend and drove down. Unbeknown to me, my sister had already told my brother and sister-in-law. I guess she did this to take the pressure off me. Anyways, I overcame the fear. That is my point. I told my parents.
However, there has always been a sense of fear in me. A constant sense of fear. I have really only lived without it for the two years I was at the University of Florida, studying Sport Management and working full-time. Since I have left, the fear has consumed me. An inner voice.
You're not good enough. You'll never make it. You don't deserve success. You will never live your dreams. You will never be rich. You will never own a house. You will never have a great body. You will never be loved. You will never live abroad. You will never have a great successful job abroad. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! I can't deal with it. It is the first voice I hear in the morning, and it chums along everyday. It is the last voice I hear at night. It all boils down to what I am doing with my life, my mistakes and where I want to be.
So what does success mean to me?
-Living your dreams.
-Being financially secure.
-Owning your dream house.
-Paying off your debts.
-Getting the education you want.
-Working at a job you love.
-Doing the little things you want to do, however small, however big.
-Finding love.
-Retiring financially secure
-Living a balanced life, in consideration of all this.
Which brings me back to the voice. The voice that haunts me and beats me up...and down. That voice, as my therapist pointed out, is not my own. That voice. Is the voice of my father. His voice. His voice is the one which resonates so loudly in my 29 year old head. Even to this day. It rings louder than my own.
3 voices. Mine. My father's. His (whatever spiritual body that I come to solidify as my shephard). There should only be two voices in my opinion. But, my voice, is the most important.
So how do I get rid of my my father's voice? The voice that told me I was not good enough. Who was there as a distant, "Oz-like" creation from the back bedroom. The voice that was either comparing me to my brother, or yelling at me, or criticizing my mother's cooking, or yelling at me, or making a cynical and sarcastic criticism of someone else, or was exploding and telling me, I wasn't good enough.
Not good enough to win the hoop shoot in 4th grade. Not good enough to start on the varsity basketball team. Not good enough to go to school at Concordia or Willamette. Not good enough.
Fuck, what happened to that boy that wanted to see the world and live abroad and feel that satisfaction. Where b
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Why I do the Things I do?
For me, understanding why I am the way I am and why I am working, thinking and doing the things I do boils down to a few key words: poverty and abuse. Bottom line.
When I was young, I was enthralled by geography. Maps, pictures of places, Europe, Greece, facts and figures. All I did was study about history and cultures and maps and flags. I was obsessed with the Ms. Universe pageant, keeping scores as they program went on. I was enthralled by the Olympics, especially the parade of nations. The flags of each country, I memorized at an early age.
But as time went on, my opportunities diminished. Well, they were never there. Poverty. That is what it is like. Go to a museum...can't. Go to a show...can't. Go to a speech or a literary reading or anything else remotely defining culture...can't. You have logging. You have cow pastures. You have deer. You have Friday Night Lights. Football was what it all revolved around.
When I was young, I was enthralled by geography. Maps, pictures of places, Europe, Greece, facts and figures. All I did was study about history and cultures and maps and flags. I was obsessed with the Ms. Universe pageant, keeping scores as they program went on. I was enthralled by the Olympics, especially the parade of nations. The flags of each country, I memorized at an early age.
But as time went on, my opportunities diminished. Well, they were never there. Poverty. That is what it is like. Go to a museum...can't. Go to a show...can't. Go to a speech or a literary reading or anything else remotely defining culture...can't. You have logging. You have cow pastures. You have deer. You have Friday Night Lights. Football was what it all revolved around.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Brain and Braun
I'm sitting in 3rd grade. The teacher is speaking. I am in my own little world. I am at the back of the class. Behind my book, I keep amusing myself by plugging my nose and looking wildly from side to side and making this throaty sound. I cannot stop laughing. The teacher busts me and then moves me the front of the class. I'm embarrassed. However, as the year goes on, the teacher lets us move our desks around. Some of us are in groups. I sit in this little corner in the back left room. Directly in front of me is a large open cabinet with art supplies. To my left the wall, to my right the rest of the class. A girl puts a little name tag that says "The Brain" on my desk. It is generally believed I am one of the smartest kids in class. I feel secure. I feel creative. I don't get a long with one of the girls in that class and then I develop a crush on her...what gives? I enjoy this teacher a lot.
It was only until I worked as an educator that I realized what it is this teacher had done. She allowed my and my classmates the freedom to learn in the environment which best suited us. What a great teacher! The class is full of art and animals and creativity. I just love being there. I can create. We can be imaginative. It's awesome!
But the playgrounds are another story. The friends I have had before this are not really my friends anymore. My best friend now is a girl....and that is not what 9 year old boys are supposed to do. 9 year old boys in Wishkah play kickball at recess and football. Fuck I hate football. Hate it. I hate kickball too. Not because of the game, but just because I feel like I don't have the muscle or strength of the other boys (even though I do). I'm not aggressive. I'm not tough. I am timid and I just don't feel like "competing". On the playground, me and my friend play jump rope. I learn to double-dutch. No other guys play. Well, this one boy does, he is a grade behind me and doesn't like me. What a jealous queen! Haha.
Me and DELETED become really good friends. She rides horses and hangs out with my older cousin who lives closeby because my cousin rides horses too. We play together at every recess. Years later, it is our first day of junior high and at Wishkah, this means you move to the right side of the gym. You are now on the big-kid side, and subject to their rules. You have a locker. She shows up the first day and says, "I'll walk down with ya." We do. We hang out some, but grow apart through high school. The friends I was with in first and second grade become my friends again. Pretty soon, all my friends are boys. I start doing boy things. Watching football, making sexist jokes, playing sports. I have to play flag football. I have to play basketball. I hate football so much. HATE IT! I hate practicing and I hate playing it and I feel like asking everyone else like, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU LIKE THIS STUPID ASS SPORT FOR? You run around with a ball, get hit, it hurts and people are fucking jerks to you if you screw up. Fuck I hate the older boys.
7th grade...It's raining and I am in the stands and this kid, who is now dead, shares a dry gatorade pouch with me. It is sugary and I am not really friends with the kid, but we put it in our mouth pieces and both hope we don't get put in the game. It is a flag football game, and I feel like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. I am so apprehensive. So nervous. So afraid I will make a mistake.
Football was pushed on me from as long as I can remember. Pushed, in a way that I knew it was there, but never actually pushed towards liking it. Just...."Your brother was the best athlete I have ever seen." "Your brother was the best white football player I have ever seen." "Your brother was the best white basketball player I have ever seen besides Larry Bird." Lofty expectations much.
My brother is 48 years old. Has three kids. Been married for 22 years and has not worked a single day in his adult life at a real job. He went to about nine different colleges chasing girls or his dream of football. I cant't recall and it isn't my job to solve his issues. I can't. He became an alcoholic and drug abuser. He quit both, cold turkey. He still astonishes me, because I know he was made into that. Made into that and I feel it when I am around him. He was made into that. Like he had no choice in the matter. Like he was clay.
It was only until I worked as an educator that I realized what it is this teacher had done. She allowed my and my classmates the freedom to learn in the environment which best suited us. What a great teacher! The class is full of art and animals and creativity. I just love being there. I can create. We can be imaginative. It's awesome!
But the playgrounds are another story. The friends I have had before this are not really my friends anymore. My best friend now is a girl....and that is not what 9 year old boys are supposed to do. 9 year old boys in Wishkah play kickball at recess and football. Fuck I hate football. Hate it. I hate kickball too. Not because of the game, but just because I feel like I don't have the muscle or strength of the other boys (even though I do). I'm not aggressive. I'm not tough. I am timid and I just don't feel like "competing". On the playground, me and my friend play jump rope. I learn to double-dutch. No other guys play. Well, this one boy does, he is a grade behind me and doesn't like me. What a jealous queen! Haha.
Me and DELETED become really good friends. She rides horses and hangs out with my older cousin who lives closeby because my cousin rides horses too. We play together at every recess. Years later, it is our first day of junior high and at Wishkah, this means you move to the right side of the gym. You are now on the big-kid side, and subject to their rules. You have a locker. She shows up the first day and says, "I'll walk down with ya." We do. We hang out some, but grow apart through high school. The friends I was with in first and second grade become my friends again. Pretty soon, all my friends are boys. I start doing boy things. Watching football, making sexist jokes, playing sports. I have to play flag football. I have to play basketball. I hate football so much. HATE IT! I hate practicing and I hate playing it and I feel like asking everyone else like, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU LIKE THIS STUPID ASS SPORT FOR? You run around with a ball, get hit, it hurts and people are fucking jerks to you if you screw up. Fuck I hate the older boys.
7th grade...It's raining and I am in the stands and this kid, who is now dead, shares a dry gatorade pouch with me. It is sugary and I am not really friends with the kid, but we put it in our mouth pieces and both hope we don't get put in the game. It is a flag football game, and I feel like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. I am so apprehensive. So nervous. So afraid I will make a mistake.
Football was pushed on me from as long as I can remember. Pushed, in a way that I knew it was there, but never actually pushed towards liking it. Just...."Your brother was the best athlete I have ever seen." "Your brother was the best white football player I have ever seen." "Your brother was the best white basketball player I have ever seen besides Larry Bird." Lofty expectations much.
My brother is 48 years old. Has three kids. Been married for 22 years and has not worked a single day in his adult life at a real job. He went to about nine different colleges chasing girls or his dream of football. I cant't recall and it isn't my job to solve his issues. I can't. He became an alcoholic and drug abuser. He quit both, cold turkey. He still astonishes me, because I know he was made into that. Made into that and I feel it when I am around him. He was made into that. Like he had no choice in the matter. Like he was clay.
Drummer Boy
I'm 10 or 11 years old. It is dark out. I am in my tighty-whities and playing with my Hit-Stix, these electronic like drum sticks that make nose when you hit them. It's dinner time and I am drumming away. Suddenly...my dad snaps...I don't remember what he says or does, only that he is insanely angry with me for making noise with them.
Does he hit me? I don't think so. Does he pick me up and throw me against the wall? Maybe. He's done that before. All I know is that a few minutes later, I am outside, crying in the dark, stuck on the trail half-way between my parent's and my grandmother's house. It is a Sunday night. That I remember, because Unsolved Mysteries is on TV and I am allowed to watch it. Allowed to watch it, like I was ever prevented from doing anything when I was little? Horror movies-watch em. Play with firecrackers-do it. Quit swimming lessons-do it.
I go watch it with my grandmother. She seems apathetic to the fact that I am in my underwear and at her house wathcing tv on a school night,when I should be getting ready for bed. Does she make eye contact with me? She puffs on a cigarette, she is in her night gown. There are few other garments she wears.
She asks me something...what happened, or something. I dont remember much. I go home. Go to sleep.
The next morning my mom asks me if I remember my dad hitting the hit- stix next to my ears while I was sleeping. I don't. She says he got sick from the drinking. "Serves him right," she says or something like that. I go to school.
Does he hit me? I don't think so. Does he pick me up and throw me against the wall? Maybe. He's done that before. All I know is that a few minutes later, I am outside, crying in the dark, stuck on the trail half-way between my parent's and my grandmother's house. It is a Sunday night. That I remember, because Unsolved Mysteries is on TV and I am allowed to watch it. Allowed to watch it, like I was ever prevented from doing anything when I was little? Horror movies-watch em. Play with firecrackers-do it. Quit swimming lessons-do it.
I go watch it with my grandmother. She seems apathetic to the fact that I am in my underwear and at her house wathcing tv on a school night,when I should be getting ready for bed. Does she make eye contact with me? She puffs on a cigarette, she is in her night gown. There are few other garments she wears.
She asks me something...what happened, or something. I dont remember much. I go home. Go to sleep.
The next morning my mom asks me if I remember my dad hitting the hit- stix next to my ears while I was sleeping. I don't. She says he got sick from the drinking. "Serves him right," she says or something like that. I go to school.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
I Guess We Should Start from the Beginning
I am writing this knowing with good intention that no one will really ever read it, or if they do happen upon it by chance, they will not stick around for long. I secretly am hoping that they will do the first, but also, not do the second.
This is my story. I have publicized it in such a way, because for me, there is a liberated feeling when putting down words on a computer screen and out, into the world. It feels less "alone". It makes me feel connected to something much greater, much more alive, and far more expansive than the confines of my conscience and the dingy leather book I call a journal.
I also am writing because, in all honestly, it is much more efficient for me to do so this way. I spend most of my days behind a computer screen now. Either, looking on the internet, working on a spreadsheet, doing research or finagling with some budget. I have yet to decide if any of it is really worth the time, but I hope that it has to be. That I am on a better path.
The title of this blog is meant to be neither satirical, beautiful, exotic, nor passe. In fact, I know the outcome I want to get from starting it. That is, I want it to be some sort of a replenishment for my system, I want to feel saved, I want to feel pure, clean, like I had washed away some sort of sin. Especially, that which has seemingly plagued me the past year: a broken heart, painful reflections, poor performance, dishonesty, mistakes. Self criticism. Self loathing.
That and the only way I know how to do this is to start from the beginning. To dig as deep back as I can go. To dig it all up. To lay it all out...in order to figure it out. To make amends and peace with myself.
I speak, in essence, 4 languages, but when you break it down, it is more like this: English: native speaker; Spanish: I could travel around a Spanish speaking country on my own; Chinese: slightly better than Spanish, and I could travel around China on my own; French...minimal (though it happens to be my favorite "sounding" of the four). Add in Russian and Arabic...some Farsi and Kazakh, and Hindi and Punjab and you have all the languages I would really like to learn some day. But, that is off-track. The point is, that in language, I wanted to pick something that announced this exoneration but also celebrated it phonetically. So, quite stupidly, I typed in the translation for "rebirth" into Google translator, expecting to get a unique and quintessentially French term. I got the latter, in the form of Renaissance. So, feeling quite ignorant that I did not know the translation of perhaps one of the most quoted and noted French words, I (critically) blushed and then adopted it. Along with the Arcata part, which comes later in our story.
From the beginning: That is where it has to start. That is where it needs to start. That is how I am going to rid myself of whatever feelings or poisons I may have. The other reason I feel that this has to be done on a blog, is that I am an exceptionally fast typist. Not stenographer-quick, but my fingers were meant to type. Slender, nimble, they barely shake and I can move them around quite ferociously on the pad, though I tend to make mistakes. My typing, like everything else I do in my life, is like I am double-parked. I have lived my entire life that way...hurriedly.
My original birth was on June 29, 1980 at 12:49pm (or :41 or :42, I cannot quite remember what the birth certificate said, which is surprising considering my memory) at St. Peter's hospital in Aberdeen, Washington, Grays Harbor county, United States of America.
I was the third son of NAME DELETED and NAME DELETED (DELTED is her maiden name) of Aberdeen. My brother, DELETED was 19 when I was born, just about a month short of his 20th birthday. My sister was 15 1/2. Needless to say, I was neither planned nor prevented, and I have joked to the contrary that I was not a surprise, but a blessing.
My dad has filled me in on the details of my birthday. It was sunny....a gorgeous summer's day. I often picture that day in my head, because for the most part in Washington state during that time of year, you will find nothing but London-esque weather...cloudy, mild, or drizzly.
I was raised in a "suburb" of Aberdeen, though you could not really call it that at all. Aberdeen itself is only a shade under 17,000 people and it is the largest town on Washington's Olympic peninsula. Hoquiam to it's west is about another 10,000. Wishkah, unincorporated and uncharted on most maps, houses no more than two small country stores (one of which has a gas pump), a church, a "bark" shed, two firestations, a salmon restoration facility, a water reservoir that supplies water to Wishkah and Aberdeen, and a K-12 school. Not a single stop light. I would estimate that 800 people lived there growing up, though city-data.com now quotes it at 1,581 souls. This being the first "official" figure I have ever seen on the area. It is 2 1/2 hours southwest of Seattle (the closest major city) and three hours Northwest of Portland, Oregon. It lies at the base of the Olympic peninsula, showered for most months out of the year in rain (83 inches a year). Wishkah is 12 miles north, on a windy, old logging road that was paved over. The road out to Wishkah runs along the bank of the Wishkah river and on the edge of logging hills. Logging, along with fishing are the area's two main industries. Both are dead industries as far as I am concerned, and, judging by Grays Harbor's appearance, they have been dead since at least the year I was born.
Back in 1980, when I arrived, things were different for my parents. They were small business owners, they owned the Showboat Tavern in Hoquiam, and I believe the motel that ran alongside it. Sadly, I do not know all the details of this business venture, or my parent's stints at being entrepreneurs. Just that, I know some facts: They owned the business for about 15 years, selling it in 1982 when it began to falter, thanks to the tanking economy (which Grays Harbor has never recovered from). They employed other family members there (my aunt Helen must have been a cook). I vaguely remember being at the tavern when I was little. I was sitting on a pool table playing with the balls and I distinctly remember the 8 ball....its blackness different than all the rest.
But sell the tavern my parents did. My father brags that there was a time in his life when he has made more than a million dollars..."You're looking at a man that has made more than a million dollars in his lifetime", my dad will say. Whether that was gross profit or just revenue I am uncertain. Regardless, my parents have barely anything to show for it now.
My family's assets include a late 1960 style mobile home in which I was raised. My parents have lived in other houses, but it was this shack, with it's lean-to's and collapsing roof that I was reared in. It sits on 17 acres in Wishkah, the homestead passed down to my father after the death of my grandfather (my dad was his only son and my father maintains a strict adherence to royalty like patriarchy in family matters). This aluminum yellow and white "home" was my dungeon for 19 years. For 19 years, I never lived in another house, on another lot, or another piece of land, I never attended another school (Wishkah from Preschool to Senior Year-my dad also jokes about how he pulled me out of preschool after the first semester), and held the same address for those 19 first years of life. I wonder if this is what has caused my wanderlust and insatiable need to "get on the road" whenever I have the chance....I just want to go somewhere. Anywhere but where I am.
Something happened in those early years. Growing up where I did, you can imagine that there was not much around....a football field away was my grandmother's mobile home....a football field from that, my aunt and uncle (dad's sister and brother in-law). They all lived on the same piece of property. This iconic piece of property which I used to idealize as someday being my own, but now I secretly could care less whether it is. Across the way was a cow pasture.
In those first years of life, I cannot remember much, though I can tell you that life seemed pretty innocent. My sister was still living with us. Going to town, meant going into Aberdeen and it was literally like the big city to me back then. When my parents sold the tavern in 1982, apparently the bottom fell out...we went on welfare, though my mom claims we never used food stamps. I was too young to recall, but my sister would later tell me a disturbing tale from her senior year in high school. 1983.
So the Christmas of 1982, my family is on welfare, my sister is graduating from high school in 6 months. Since I am just 2 years old, I get doted on....god all I can see is that crude dark, forest green shag carpeting and small tv stand that supported a small 17 inch tv with bug antennae. My sister received nothing...and it was not until years later that she would tell me this story. I could tell it had a profound impact on her.
Growing up, I relied heavily on my Grandmother to raise me. Grandma was a smoker, avid-bingo player, and I always had to watch shows like Perry Mason and Quincy when she watched me. In fact, everyday, I would walk over to my grandma's to catch the bus, and I would get returned there at night after school. Grandma and I would play card games, while I ate my Lucky Charms or Apple Jacks. She made a profound impact on my life, teaching me these early study habits. She single handedly led me to the school Spelling Bee Championship in 5th grade. I spelled "freight" correctly and beat out my 4, 6, 7, and 8th grade class champion counterparts. Interesting thing the spelling bee. I won it in 2nd grade and at least one other time before 5th. Then, after I won the school championship and went on to compete at the state championship later that year, I self-sabotaged every one of my competitions. Intentionally spelling words wrong so I would be eliminated. In fact, even at the state competition I did this. I am in a room filled with about 200 other students and we take an oral listening exam..I spell several words wrong on purpose, including oyster (spelled it with an I) just to avoid going up to the final 50 on stage.
Why did I do that? Why did I not compete? Prior to 5th grade, I was an avid competitor. In first grade, second grade, I was easily the best athlete, then something changed. I got fat...husky as they called it back then....and timid, real timid. I withdrew from sports (I had loved tennis, track and basketball for the longest time) and would hit a tennis ball against a wall for hours. There was a summer bible school camp that other kids went to, I never went. There was Awanas that all the kids bragged about, I never went. There was an after school program that kids went to, I never went. There was a 3rd and 4th grade basketball camp. I went in the third grade and earned Most Improved, then in the 4th grade, stopped going. I got sick in the fourth grade too and missed 10 days of school....almost like it was alright for me to do that. I was sick, but not whooping cough or rubella sick. Something changed.
I even remember quitting swimming lessons at some point, around 1st grade. I merely didn't go on the swim bus to go to my lessons and just went home instead. I lied to the bus driver, went home, went back to my parent's room where dad was in bad and told him I wasn't going anymore. I remember feeling sad when this happened. Not like sad because I could not compete, but sad that I was lying and sad that I was not getting support from my parents. That kind of sad. I was sad that people were not pushing me to do harder in spelling and geography (won the school competition in 8th grade) or tennis, basketball, track or swimming. I was not being pushed. So I just gave up. I felt sad. Not guilty...but sad. The feeling still resonates to this day. I can feel it. I can feel that feeling and it is so bizarre. It isn't sadness like you have from losing someone or something, it's sadness because no one cares what you do.
This is my story. I have publicized it in such a way, because for me, there is a liberated feeling when putting down words on a computer screen and out, into the world. It feels less "alone". It makes me feel connected to something much greater, much more alive, and far more expansive than the confines of my conscience and the dingy leather book I call a journal.
I also am writing because, in all honestly, it is much more efficient for me to do so this way. I spend most of my days behind a computer screen now. Either, looking on the internet, working on a spreadsheet, doing research or finagling with some budget. I have yet to decide if any of it is really worth the time, but I hope that it has to be. That I am on a better path.
The title of this blog is meant to be neither satirical, beautiful, exotic, nor passe. In fact, I know the outcome I want to get from starting it. That is, I want it to be some sort of a replenishment for my system, I want to feel saved, I want to feel pure, clean, like I had washed away some sort of sin. Especially, that which has seemingly plagued me the past year: a broken heart, painful reflections, poor performance, dishonesty, mistakes. Self criticism. Self loathing.
That and the only way I know how to do this is to start from the beginning. To dig as deep back as I can go. To dig it all up. To lay it all out...in order to figure it out. To make amends and peace with myself.
I speak, in essence, 4 languages, but when you break it down, it is more like this: English: native speaker; Spanish: I could travel around a Spanish speaking country on my own; Chinese: slightly better than Spanish, and I could travel around China on my own; French...minimal (though it happens to be my favorite "sounding" of the four). Add in Russian and Arabic...some Farsi and Kazakh, and Hindi and Punjab and you have all the languages I would really like to learn some day. But, that is off-track. The point is, that in language, I wanted to pick something that announced this exoneration but also celebrated it phonetically. So, quite stupidly, I typed in the translation for "rebirth" into Google translator, expecting to get a unique and quintessentially French term. I got the latter, in the form of Renaissance. So, feeling quite ignorant that I did not know the translation of perhaps one of the most quoted and noted French words, I (critically) blushed and then adopted it. Along with the Arcata part, which comes later in our story.
From the beginning: That is where it has to start. That is where it needs to start. That is how I am going to rid myself of whatever feelings or poisons I may have. The other reason I feel that this has to be done on a blog, is that I am an exceptionally fast typist. Not stenographer-quick, but my fingers were meant to type. Slender, nimble, they barely shake and I can move them around quite ferociously on the pad, though I tend to make mistakes. My typing, like everything else I do in my life, is like I am double-parked. I have lived my entire life that way...hurriedly.
My original birth was on June 29, 1980 at 12:49pm (or :41 or :42, I cannot quite remember what the birth certificate said, which is surprising considering my memory) at St. Peter's hospital in Aberdeen, Washington, Grays Harbor county, United States of America.
I was the third son of NAME DELETED and NAME DELETED (DELTED is her maiden name) of Aberdeen. My brother, DELETED was 19 when I was born, just about a month short of his 20th birthday. My sister was 15 1/2. Needless to say, I was neither planned nor prevented, and I have joked to the contrary that I was not a surprise, but a blessing.
My dad has filled me in on the details of my birthday. It was sunny....a gorgeous summer's day. I often picture that day in my head, because for the most part in Washington state during that time of year, you will find nothing but London-esque weather...cloudy, mild, or drizzly.
I was raised in a "suburb" of Aberdeen, though you could not really call it that at all. Aberdeen itself is only a shade under 17,000 people and it is the largest town on Washington's Olympic peninsula. Hoquiam to it's west is about another 10,000. Wishkah, unincorporated and uncharted on most maps, houses no more than two small country stores (one of which has a gas pump), a church, a "bark" shed, two firestations, a salmon restoration facility, a water reservoir that supplies water to Wishkah and Aberdeen, and a K-12 school. Not a single stop light. I would estimate that 800 people lived there growing up, though city-data.com now quotes it at 1,581 souls. This being the first "official" figure I have ever seen on the area. It is 2 1/2 hours southwest of Seattle (the closest major city) and three hours Northwest of Portland, Oregon. It lies at the base of the Olympic peninsula, showered for most months out of the year in rain (83 inches a year). Wishkah is 12 miles north, on a windy, old logging road that was paved over. The road out to Wishkah runs along the bank of the Wishkah river and on the edge of logging hills. Logging, along with fishing are the area's two main industries. Both are dead industries as far as I am concerned, and, judging by Grays Harbor's appearance, they have been dead since at least the year I was born.
Back in 1980, when I arrived, things were different for my parents. They were small business owners, they owned the Showboat Tavern in Hoquiam, and I believe the motel that ran alongside it. Sadly, I do not know all the details of this business venture, or my parent's stints at being entrepreneurs. Just that, I know some facts: They owned the business for about 15 years, selling it in 1982 when it began to falter, thanks to the tanking economy (which Grays Harbor has never recovered from). They employed other family members there (my aunt Helen must have been a cook). I vaguely remember being at the tavern when I was little. I was sitting on a pool table playing with the balls and I distinctly remember the 8 ball....its blackness different than all the rest.
But sell the tavern my parents did. My father brags that there was a time in his life when he has made more than a million dollars..."You're looking at a man that has made more than a million dollars in his lifetime", my dad will say. Whether that was gross profit or just revenue I am uncertain. Regardless, my parents have barely anything to show for it now.
My family's assets include a late 1960 style mobile home in which I was raised. My parents have lived in other houses, but it was this shack, with it's lean-to's and collapsing roof that I was reared in. It sits on 17 acres in Wishkah, the homestead passed down to my father after the death of my grandfather (my dad was his only son and my father maintains a strict adherence to royalty like patriarchy in family matters). This aluminum yellow and white "home" was my dungeon for 19 years. For 19 years, I never lived in another house, on another lot, or another piece of land, I never attended another school (Wishkah from Preschool to Senior Year-my dad also jokes about how he pulled me out of preschool after the first semester), and held the same address for those 19 first years of life. I wonder if this is what has caused my wanderlust and insatiable need to "get on the road" whenever I have the chance....I just want to go somewhere. Anywhere but where I am.
Something happened in those early years. Growing up where I did, you can imagine that there was not much around....a football field away was my grandmother's mobile home....a football field from that, my aunt and uncle (dad's sister and brother in-law). They all lived on the same piece of property. This iconic piece of property which I used to idealize as someday being my own, but now I secretly could care less whether it is. Across the way was a cow pasture.
In those first years of life, I cannot remember much, though I can tell you that life seemed pretty innocent. My sister was still living with us. Going to town, meant going into Aberdeen and it was literally like the big city to me back then. When my parents sold the tavern in 1982, apparently the bottom fell out...we went on welfare, though my mom claims we never used food stamps. I was too young to recall, but my sister would later tell me a disturbing tale from her senior year in high school. 1983.
So the Christmas of 1982, my family is on welfare, my sister is graduating from high school in 6 months. Since I am just 2 years old, I get doted on....god all I can see is that crude dark, forest green shag carpeting and small tv stand that supported a small 17 inch tv with bug antennae. My sister received nothing...and it was not until years later that she would tell me this story. I could tell it had a profound impact on her.
Growing up, I relied heavily on my Grandmother to raise me. Grandma was a smoker, avid-bingo player, and I always had to watch shows like Perry Mason and Quincy when she watched me. In fact, everyday, I would walk over to my grandma's to catch the bus, and I would get returned there at night after school. Grandma and I would play card games, while I ate my Lucky Charms or Apple Jacks. She made a profound impact on my life, teaching me these early study habits. She single handedly led me to the school Spelling Bee Championship in 5th grade. I spelled "freight" correctly and beat out my 4, 6, 7, and 8th grade class champion counterparts. Interesting thing the spelling bee. I won it in 2nd grade and at least one other time before 5th. Then, after I won the school championship and went on to compete at the state championship later that year, I self-sabotaged every one of my competitions. Intentionally spelling words wrong so I would be eliminated. In fact, even at the state competition I did this. I am in a room filled with about 200 other students and we take an oral listening exam..I spell several words wrong on purpose, including oyster (spelled it with an I) just to avoid going up to the final 50 on stage.
Why did I do that? Why did I not compete? Prior to 5th grade, I was an avid competitor. In first grade, second grade, I was easily the best athlete, then something changed. I got fat...husky as they called it back then....and timid, real timid. I withdrew from sports (I had loved tennis, track and basketball for the longest time) and would hit a tennis ball against a wall for hours. There was a summer bible school camp that other kids went to, I never went. There was Awanas that all the kids bragged about, I never went. There was an after school program that kids went to, I never went. There was a 3rd and 4th grade basketball camp. I went in the third grade and earned Most Improved, then in the 4th grade, stopped going. I got sick in the fourth grade too and missed 10 days of school....almost like it was alright for me to do that. I was sick, but not whooping cough or rubella sick. Something changed.
I even remember quitting swimming lessons at some point, around 1st grade. I merely didn't go on the swim bus to go to my lessons and just went home instead. I lied to the bus driver, went home, went back to my parent's room where dad was in bad and told him I wasn't going anymore. I remember feeling sad when this happened. Not like sad because I could not compete, but sad that I was lying and sad that I was not getting support from my parents. That kind of sad. I was sad that people were not pushing me to do harder in spelling and geography (won the school competition in 8th grade) or tennis, basketball, track or swimming. I was not being pushed. So I just gave up. I felt sad. Not guilty...but sad. The feeling still resonates to this day. I can feel it. I can feel that feeling and it is so bizarre. It isn't sadness like you have from losing someone or something, it's sadness because no one cares what you do.
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