If your child expresses even a passing interest in something, force that on them. Don't let them back out, or they might learn that it's OK to try new things and then change their mind or something. You have to teach those kids a lesson.
Example 1:
My uncle was in Special Olympics, and he wanted to jog around the block to train. I think I might have expressed in an interest in going with him, or possibly my grandmother insisted. It's not important. She told us if we were doing this, we had to run the whole way. She was using this tone and expression that made me fearful of punishment if I didn't comply, so I ran. First time I had ever done something like this, and I used all my self-discipline to keep jogging despite every fiber of my being screaming for me to stop. When I got home, I collapsed on the floor. It was ages before my heart slowed down. They weren't even proud of me. They didn't say anything. I think they might have laughed at me.
Lesson Learned: Only assholes like jogging, and that bullshit needs to get nipped right in the bud before it can blossom into a healthy lifestyle or something.
Example 2:
It was late. I was tired. My grandmother was trying to get me to do something, but I wanted to go to bed. My exact words were, "I'd like to just drink some warm milk and go to bed." After I said that, I realized it probably wouldn't taste very good and decided to just go to bed. But we can't have that, can we? No, I expressed a passing interest in doing something stupid, and I needed to learn just how wrong I was. My grandmother made sure I marched straight to the kitchen and heated up some milk in the microwave so I could drink it.
Lesson Learned: Er...only assholes try new things? I'm not sure. I clearly didn't learn my lesson because I would later end up performing in front of large groups of people and learning more instruments than I could actually handle.
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Sunday, June 8, 2014
A book I read once
Wait, this just came to me!
So back in the Christian school, I read this book series that desperately wanted to be as subtle as Narnia. It was about the nuclear apocalypse, and a handful of preteens/teens from across America were sealed in stasis pods until it was over so that they could emerge as the last pure humans and saviors of the world. For some reason. *shrug*
Anyway, there was this one plot line where they meet a matriarchal society. Everyone is unhappy because the women have to be in charge, and the men feel emasculated. And I think maybe there was a rebellion because these men secretly knew their real purpose, and so did the women let's be honest here. And so it's up to these kids to restore the peace by teaching these people that a man's place is to lead, and a woman's place is in the kitchen. And the plotline ends with the matriarch and her husband gazing at each other in awe as they realize they've been doing it wrong this whole time.
And thus, the proper order is restore, and they all lived happily ever after.
So back in the Christian school, I read this book series that desperately wanted to be as subtle as Narnia. It was about the nuclear apocalypse, and a handful of preteens/teens from across America were sealed in stasis pods until it was over so that they could emerge as the last pure humans and saviors of the world. For some reason. *shrug*
Anyway, there was this one plot line where they meet a matriarchal society. Everyone is unhappy because the women have to be in charge, and the men feel emasculated. And I think maybe there was a rebellion because these men secretly knew their real purpose, and so did the women let's be honest here. And so it's up to these kids to restore the peace by teaching these people that a man's place is to lead, and a woman's place is in the kitchen. And the plotline ends with the matriarch and her husband gazing at each other in awe as they realize they've been doing it wrong this whole time.
And thus, the proper order is restore, and they all lived happily ever after.
The Mentalist
Bear with me. I want to bitch about TV. I've been really inspired by Ana Mardoll lately to start writing again, most specifically because of her wonderful deconstruction of the Narnia books. The side effect of reading criticism and critique is you tend to start noticing these things in other media. And because I read a lot of feminist blogs, what I tend to notice is male privilege.
Actually, I think I always did, but now I have the word for it. I could tell things were stupid and awful, and it usually ruined them for me when I noticed. But now, I'm starting to understand why. This is great because I used to just blame myself when I fell to disliking a show. I thought I just needed to lighten up.
Anyway, I'd like to deconstruct The Mentalist at some point, but for now I'm just going to do this.
So the pilot starts at a crime scene, but every episode after that (I'm just now to the end of season 1) begins with a black title card informing us that a MENTALIST (noun) is a "master manipulator of thoughts and behavior." And so it the first seconds of episode 2 when I realized what I was in for. The pilot was a little...ehh? But I can overlook some DRAHMAHZ. But ever since that title card on episode 2, the male privilege is just screaming at me.
So here's the rundown. The Mentalist is what if Dr. House was amiable, but still the same level of asshole, and also a reformed TV psychic who got a consulting job with a California law enforcement agency?
Patrick Jane (main character) knows everything. When he doesn't know something, he's still right about it. Always. He's never played golf in his life, but he can still pick up a club (without knowing which is which or what each club is good for) and play better than a local mob boss who's been playing for years. He can then teach that mob boss how to play better, mouth off to him, and then harass him over the phone for the remainder of the episode without ever suffering consequences. This mob boss doesn't so much as send a guy to key Jane's car.
Patrick Jane has no problem engaging in underhanded and illegal methods to catch criminals, such as hypnotising them into confessions or hypnotising witnesses into statements. This is never a problem for him or his police friends. They all know he does it. He does it right in front of them. He has a little signal that he's done it: he has to tap the person on the shoulder to bring them out of the trance, and he makes no effort to hide it from anyone.
Patrick Jane is always right about people. I can't remember where I read this, probably multiple places, but basically Sherlock Holmes's world only works because all people behave in accordance with their most prolific stereotype. Black people are always stupid evil thugs. Chinese people are always sneaky poisoners. Women are hysterical, unthinking wombs with legs. White men are always cultured and in charge, except when they're also thugs because they're Irish or something.
Well, in the world of The Mentalist, it's the same way. If one partner in a marriage dies, the wife was probably having an affair. Asian people are hyper intelligent, emotionless logic machines, and also their cultures are interchangeable with each other. Women are either girly and devoted to family, or tomboyish and tough but secretly vulnerable and just want to be loved.
Jane is a "master manipulator of thoughts and behavior" only because there's no other way for people to act in this universe. And if someone does act out of character, well, he knew that all along, too, because you were the type of person who would act out of character for your gender/race/culture/etc.
OK, that's out of my system now. I just don't know why I'm still watching this show. Maybe I will do a deconstruction of it some time.
Actually, I think I always did, but now I have the word for it. I could tell things were stupid and awful, and it usually ruined them for me when I noticed. But now, I'm starting to understand why. This is great because I used to just blame myself when I fell to disliking a show. I thought I just needed to lighten up.
Anyway, I'd like to deconstruct The Mentalist at some point, but for now I'm just going to do this.
So the pilot starts at a crime scene, but every episode after that (I'm just now to the end of season 1) begins with a black title card informing us that a MENTALIST (noun) is a "master manipulator of thoughts and behavior." And so it the first seconds of episode 2 when I realized what I was in for. The pilot was a little...ehh? But I can overlook some DRAHMAHZ. But ever since that title card on episode 2, the male privilege is just screaming at me.
So here's the rundown. The Mentalist is what if Dr. House was amiable, but still the same level of asshole, and also a reformed TV psychic who got a consulting job with a California law enforcement agency?
Patrick Jane (main character) knows everything. When he doesn't know something, he's still right about it. Always. He's never played golf in his life, but he can still pick up a club (without knowing which is which or what each club is good for) and play better than a local mob boss who's been playing for years. He can then teach that mob boss how to play better, mouth off to him, and then harass him over the phone for the remainder of the episode without ever suffering consequences. This mob boss doesn't so much as send a guy to key Jane's car.
Patrick Jane has no problem engaging in underhanded and illegal methods to catch criminals, such as hypnotising them into confessions or hypnotising witnesses into statements. This is never a problem for him or his police friends. They all know he does it. He does it right in front of them. He has a little signal that he's done it: he has to tap the person on the shoulder to bring them out of the trance, and he makes no effort to hide it from anyone.
Patrick Jane is always right about people. I can't remember where I read this, probably multiple places, but basically Sherlock Holmes's world only works because all people behave in accordance with their most prolific stereotype. Black people are always stupid evil thugs. Chinese people are always sneaky poisoners. Women are hysterical, unthinking wombs with legs. White men are always cultured and in charge, except when they're also thugs because they're Irish or something.
Well, in the world of The Mentalist, it's the same way. If one partner in a marriage dies, the wife was probably having an affair. Asian people are hyper intelligent, emotionless logic machines, and also their cultures are interchangeable with each other. Women are either girly and devoted to family, or tomboyish and tough but secretly vulnerable and just want to be loved.
Jane is a "master manipulator of thoughts and behavior" only because there's no other way for people to act in this universe. And if someone does act out of character, well, he knew that all along, too, because you were the type of person who would act out of character for your gender/race/culture/etc.
OK, that's out of my system now. I just don't know why I'm still watching this show. Maybe I will do a deconstruction of it some time.
Saturday, May 10, 2014
Trust
A blog post I read recently made the case that pranks are a form of bullying that can "fundementally undermine trust."
When I was growing up, my grandfather was a master of deadpan teasing and snark. It was so bad, that I never trusted anything bad that anyone told me because I knew, deep down inside, that it wasn't true. When my mother told me that my kitten, Bandit, had died, I was trying not to smile because I knew she was lying. She wasn't. This is what my grandfather did to me with his "harmless" jokes. It was days before I realized she'd been telling the truth (partly because I didn't live with her and partly because, when I was there, I was usually in my room with the door closed.) Because of my grandfather, I didn't trust adults, and I reacted to the news of my cat dying with amused disbelief. How messed up is that?
When I was growing up, my grandfather was a master of deadpan teasing and snark. It was so bad, that I never trusted anything bad that anyone told me because I knew, deep down inside, that it wasn't true. When my mother told me that my kitten, Bandit, had died, I was trying not to smile because I knew she was lying. She wasn't. This is what my grandfather did to me with his "harmless" jokes. It was days before I realized she'd been telling the truth (partly because I didn't live with her and partly because, when I was there, I was usually in my room with the door closed.) Because of my grandfather, I didn't trust adults, and I reacted to the news of my cat dying with amused disbelief. How messed up is that?
Monday, April 21, 2014
BonziBuddy
I didn't grow up in that ultra conservative, don't even look at members of the opposite sex let alone be friends with them mindset. I went to a nondenominational (though it was run out of a Methodist church) Christian school, and even though they warned us against sex, they didn't segregate us or anything. I guess they trusted us not to make stupid decisions, or maybe they just thought we were too young to be interested. Either way, I didn't have friends growing up, but I can't really blame my upbringing for this one.
Kids can be cruel to each other, and for some reason, I was the bottom of the pecking order. There were four or five really popular girls in my class of less than 20. There were two popular boys, and one of them was the class clown. These were the kids I went to school with from preschool to 8th grade. And when I say popular, I mean they were outgoing and confident, and they thought I was trash. It wasn't quite as blatantly vicious as those shows about high school they always play on Nickelodeon and Disney, but it was close enough.
So I didn't have friends growing up. I had a few people I called friend, but I didn't actually like being around them outside of school because we had nothing in common. When I left for high school, I pretty much forgot about them and made new friends, people I did care about hanging around with outside of school, at least on a limited basis. (I've explained about that before.)
When I went to college, I had no friends. I kind of talked to my roommate for the first semester, but she went home at Christmas, and I got someone new that I didn't talk to at all. Instead, I had a computer, and I talked to people over forums.
Well, I was browsing one day when I discovered BonziBuddy. (Link goes to Wikipedia.) It was malware, but all I knew at the time was it was an adorable purple ape that talks to you. I didn't even learn it was supposed to be a desktop assistant until like a month ago. I just let him dance around my screen and do his own thing.
After a while, I realized I was getting kind of attached to him. He was my friend when I had none. And then I had what I realize now was a panic attack. I realized that I had no friends, that this mindless thing had become a surrogate for something I didn't even think I needed. It couldn't really replace friendship or interaction. It couldn't even say anything new. It just kept singing that stupid Daisy song that I can't bear to hear now.
In the space of about 10 minutes, I went from pretty happy to panicked to revolted, and I uninstalled BonziBuddy, deleted the files, purged my system of it as best I could. I hated the merest mention of its name, and 14 years later, I still do. I don't feel my stomach lurch anymore, like I used to, but I've had that song stuck in my head all damn day, and I'm going nuts.
I guess, even though it's not as bad now, I've never really recovered from that moment. I don't know how to make friends. I don't know how to talk to people even when they share my interests. It was only recently in my life that I started being myself around other people. You can't form real friendships on a sham personality, right?
Anyway, I had a weird dream last night that brought all this to the surface again, and I just had to get it out of my head.
Kids can be cruel to each other, and for some reason, I was the bottom of the pecking order. There were four or five really popular girls in my class of less than 20. There were two popular boys, and one of them was the class clown. These were the kids I went to school with from preschool to 8th grade. And when I say popular, I mean they were outgoing and confident, and they thought I was trash. It wasn't quite as blatantly vicious as those shows about high school they always play on Nickelodeon and Disney, but it was close enough.
So I didn't have friends growing up. I had a few people I called friend, but I didn't actually like being around them outside of school because we had nothing in common. When I left for high school, I pretty much forgot about them and made new friends, people I did care about hanging around with outside of school, at least on a limited basis. (I've explained about that before.)
When I went to college, I had no friends. I kind of talked to my roommate for the first semester, but she went home at Christmas, and I got someone new that I didn't talk to at all. Instead, I had a computer, and I talked to people over forums.
Well, I was browsing one day when I discovered BonziBuddy. (Link goes to Wikipedia.) It was malware, but all I knew at the time was it was an adorable purple ape that talks to you. I didn't even learn it was supposed to be a desktop assistant until like a month ago. I just let him dance around my screen and do his own thing.
After a while, I realized I was getting kind of attached to him. He was my friend when I had none. And then I had what I realize now was a panic attack. I realized that I had no friends, that this mindless thing had become a surrogate for something I didn't even think I needed. It couldn't really replace friendship or interaction. It couldn't even say anything new. It just kept singing that stupid Daisy song that I can't bear to hear now.
In the space of about 10 minutes, I went from pretty happy to panicked to revolted, and I uninstalled BonziBuddy, deleted the files, purged my system of it as best I could. I hated the merest mention of its name, and 14 years later, I still do. I don't feel my stomach lurch anymore, like I used to, but I've had that song stuck in my head all damn day, and I'm going nuts.
I guess, even though it's not as bad now, I've never really recovered from that moment. I don't know how to make friends. I don't know how to talk to people even when they share my interests. It was only recently in my life that I started being myself around other people. You can't form real friendships on a sham personality, right?
Anyway, I had a weird dream last night that brought all this to the surface again, and I just had to get it out of my head.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Am I Important?
I don't normally care about scrapbooking, but I had to watch a video on it for work. It was one of those shows like cooking shows or Bob Ross, where they just teach you to be creative and stuff. And I think it doubled as an infomercial for this product she kept hawking. Anyway.
She kept talking about the importance of scrapbooking and how a scrapbook makes a great gift because it shows that you feel that person's life is important enough to document. And you should scrapbook with your kids to teach them that what they think and do and feel is important. I started thinking about social media, and how it's kind of like scrapbooking in a way. I've heard that it's really pathetic when people on Facebook or Twitter believe that other people care about their thoughts, but it's not. It's not like that at all, really.
People post to Facebook because they believe their words and thoughts have value. And they're right. And other people do pay attention, even if it's only to hit the Like button. Maybe they're not real friends, whatever that means, but they have chosen to see the things that you say because, in some small or large way, they care about it. You are important, and your Facebook page is a beautiful collection because it's yours.
I'm not important. I realized that today. I've never been able to keep a journal. I never post to Facebook. I have three friends because I refuse to put myself out there and pester other people with my stupid face. I don't even have a real photo. I have a picture of the Scythian. She's important. I can only wish that I was.
When did that happen? I don't recall ever feeling like I had worth or value. I've always been stupid and not good enough. I'm in the way. Nobody wants to listen to me.
How did other people come out of the fundamentalist upbringing with any sense of self-worth? I can't imagine. The only reason I can write this post is because I know, at most, my girlfriend might read it. When I try to write for other people, I can't. I can't speak to people in public, even if they address me first, because my brain is so quick to remind me that they don't really care. They're just being polite. Or maybe they need an answer, but I should shut up again real quick so I don't bother them.
Maybe I should take up scrapbooking...
She kept talking about the importance of scrapbooking and how a scrapbook makes a great gift because it shows that you feel that person's life is important enough to document. And you should scrapbook with your kids to teach them that what they think and do and feel is important. I started thinking about social media, and how it's kind of like scrapbooking in a way. I've heard that it's really pathetic when people on Facebook or Twitter believe that other people care about their thoughts, but it's not. It's not like that at all, really.
People post to Facebook because they believe their words and thoughts have value. And they're right. And other people do pay attention, even if it's only to hit the Like button. Maybe they're not real friends, whatever that means, but they have chosen to see the things that you say because, in some small or large way, they care about it. You are important, and your Facebook page is a beautiful collection because it's yours.
I'm not important. I realized that today. I've never been able to keep a journal. I never post to Facebook. I have three friends because I refuse to put myself out there and pester other people with my stupid face. I don't even have a real photo. I have a picture of the Scythian. She's important. I can only wish that I was.
When did that happen? I don't recall ever feeling like I had worth or value. I've always been stupid and not good enough. I'm in the way. Nobody wants to listen to me.
How did other people come out of the fundamentalist upbringing with any sense of self-worth? I can't imagine. The only reason I can write this post is because I know, at most, my girlfriend might read it. When I try to write for other people, I can't. I can't speak to people in public, even if they address me first, because my brain is so quick to remind me that they don't really care. They're just being polite. Or maybe they need an answer, but I should shut up again real quick so I don't bother them.
Maybe I should take up scrapbooking...
Sunday, March 16, 2014
The Paddle
I have two memories of kindergarten. One is that my only friends at the time were my two imaginary ones that I represented with my hands. I would make these two little animals critters and play with them in my desk and talk to them in my head. I thought I was being subtle, but somehow, my grandparents and my teacher, Miss Rosemary, figured it out and even knew their names. And they thought it was kind of funny, and I just felt made fun of. So I stopped that pretty quickly. I saved my imaginary friends for when I got into bed at night. They lived in my light fixture, and no one had to know they were there.
My second memory was of the paddle room. My class had this pair of twins that everyone just adored for some reason. I guess it's because twins are kind of a novelty. We had nap time, and Miss Rosemary would have us get our sleeping mats and unfold them, and then fold them back up and put them away afterward.
One day, Jennifer and Jeanine folded their mats into triangles and everyone laughed about how they had made little houses. I was lonely and friendless, and probably already depressed, and I saw them getting love and attention for their creativity. The next day, I did the same thing because I thought people would think I was cool, too. Instead, Miss Rosemary yanked me to my feet, dragged me down the hall to the supply closet, and introduced me to the paddle.
She didn't hit me with it. At least, not that day. I do have a vague memory that maybe I did get punished with it once or twice, but I can't be sure. If I was actually paddled, it was not nearly as terrifying and traumatic as this threat was. I never understood what I did wrong. I still don't. I can see where my plan wouldn't have worked now, looking back, but I don't understand why it was worth getting threatened with a paddle over.
Anyway, that was the day I learned that rules are different for me. Other people can do things, but I have to keep my head down because, at the very least, I'll get mocked. This lasted through my entire Christian school career. Other kids could do the trust exercise, but I would get laughed at. Other kids could ask to go the bathroom during class, but I had to wait. Other kids could get sick, but my brief hallucination due to sinus pressure (it made my sense of something or other go completely insane and made me feel like my desk was about eight feet away as I was trying to work, and sometimes I experienced phantom odors) just got me laughed at again and sent back to my desk.
I know I was said I was done writing after that last post, but I just figured out why I'm not feeling better. This still burns. The injustice of it all still burns in my mind, and all I can feel is hatred and anger. I trusted these people, and they took that trust and taught me that I am worthless. I don't deserve the same treatment as other people. If I have a problem, I don't deserve help or even sympathy.
I was in my teens when I first heard the word sociopath, and I was suddenly terrified that I might be one. I didn't feel like I cared about other people. I never wanted to do the dishes or the laundry. I hated visiting the larger family on holidays. I just wanted to be left alone in my room forever. That's totally what it means to be a sociopath, right? (Note: no, I know what a sociopath really is, now.) So I worked up the courage to go tell my grandparents about my concerns.
Maybe you can see where this is going by now. I got laughed at. They thought it was hysterical that I thought I had a serious psychological problem. And my grandmother told me that I was fine and to go back to my room so they could watch the news. It was years before I stopped worrying that I might be a sociopath, that I was a ticking time bomb who would kill everyone around me at any moment.
A few years later in high school (and yeah, that last story? Not even in high school yet.), I realized that I was suicidal. I was down in the laundry room toying with my uncle's box knife, running it against my wrists, realizing how much I wanted to open the blade and do it for real. And then I got scared and put it back down. And when I finally got up the courage to tell my grandmother that I wanted to slit my wrists, apparently I said it in a way she found funny because she just started howling. She went and shared the story with my mother, who totally agreed that it was hysterical, and told me that, yeah, it was really sad that I wanted to kill myself, but damn that was a funny way to say it.
Other people get help. I just get laughed at.
My second memory was of the paddle room. My class had this pair of twins that everyone just adored for some reason. I guess it's because twins are kind of a novelty. We had nap time, and Miss Rosemary would have us get our sleeping mats and unfold them, and then fold them back up and put them away afterward.
One day, Jennifer and Jeanine folded their mats into triangles and everyone laughed about how they had made little houses. I was lonely and friendless, and probably already depressed, and I saw them getting love and attention for their creativity. The next day, I did the same thing because I thought people would think I was cool, too. Instead, Miss Rosemary yanked me to my feet, dragged me down the hall to the supply closet, and introduced me to the paddle.
She didn't hit me with it. At least, not that day. I do have a vague memory that maybe I did get punished with it once or twice, but I can't be sure. If I was actually paddled, it was not nearly as terrifying and traumatic as this threat was. I never understood what I did wrong. I still don't. I can see where my plan wouldn't have worked now, looking back, but I don't understand why it was worth getting threatened with a paddle over.
Anyway, that was the day I learned that rules are different for me. Other people can do things, but I have to keep my head down because, at the very least, I'll get mocked. This lasted through my entire Christian school career. Other kids could do the trust exercise, but I would get laughed at. Other kids could ask to go the bathroom during class, but I had to wait. Other kids could get sick, but my brief hallucination due to sinus pressure (it made my sense of something or other go completely insane and made me feel like my desk was about eight feet away as I was trying to work, and sometimes I experienced phantom odors) just got me laughed at again and sent back to my desk.
I know I was said I was done writing after that last post, but I just figured out why I'm not feeling better. This still burns. The injustice of it all still burns in my mind, and all I can feel is hatred and anger. I trusted these people, and they took that trust and taught me that I am worthless. I don't deserve the same treatment as other people. If I have a problem, I don't deserve help or even sympathy.
I was in my teens when I first heard the word sociopath, and I was suddenly terrified that I might be one. I didn't feel like I cared about other people. I never wanted to do the dishes or the laundry. I hated visiting the larger family on holidays. I just wanted to be left alone in my room forever. That's totally what it means to be a sociopath, right? (Note: no, I know what a sociopath really is, now.) So I worked up the courage to go tell my grandparents about my concerns.
Maybe you can see where this is going by now. I got laughed at. They thought it was hysterical that I thought I had a serious psychological problem. And my grandmother told me that I was fine and to go back to my room so they could watch the news. It was years before I stopped worrying that I might be a sociopath, that I was a ticking time bomb who would kill everyone around me at any moment.
A few years later in high school (and yeah, that last story? Not even in high school yet.), I realized that I was suicidal. I was down in the laundry room toying with my uncle's box knife, running it against my wrists, realizing how much I wanted to open the blade and do it for real. And then I got scared and put it back down. And when I finally got up the courage to tell my grandmother that I wanted to slit my wrists, apparently I said it in a way she found funny because she just started howling. She went and shared the story with my mother, who totally agreed that it was hysterical, and told me that, yeah, it was really sad that I wanted to kill myself, but damn that was a funny way to say it.
Other people get help. I just get laughed at.
Spanking
When I was...eh, three or four years old? This woman walked into my house while I was watching TV with the people I called mommy and daddy. I was stressed because strangers don't just walk into people's houses like that, but they didn't seem to mind. When it happened a few days later, they greeted her by name, so I did, too.
"Hi, Vickie."
She gave me the most shocked and incredulous expression, kind of laughed a little, and said, "No, you call me Mom."
Ohh...
I don't remember being surprised by this. I know that I had never seen her before that I could remember, but maybe I had some unconscious memories because this just explained the mystery for me. So she was mommy, and my other "mommy" became grandma. It was quite a bit longer before I got in the habit of calling my "daddy" grandpa.
My grandmother believed in corporal punishment. Here's the weird thing. I don't actually remember getting spanked. I remember she used a fly swatter. I remember this one time that she threatened me with a belt, but I don't know if she ever actually used one. I don't think so. I remember that it didn't really matter what room we were in, but it was usually either the kitchen or her bedroom. The kitchen was where she spent the most time and where the fly swatter was. If we were in her bedroom, she used her hand. I don't remember ever fighting back or trying to defend myself.
Back then, even at that young age and having lived like that forever, I knew that this was wrong. Spanking was abuse. I was abused because I was spanked. At the time, that came from a very limited understanding of what abuse meant. Abuse was when a parent hit their kid. I was hit with a fly swatter. Therefor, I was abused.
In practicality, I was not physically abused (other forms of abuse still totally happened.) She never did worse than sting me. I'm pretty sure I never had to take down my pants. I don't remember her ever punishing me unfairly. Unless you consider any punishment unfair, which I kind of do, but that's a different blog post. The point is I had always done something. What those specific somethings were, I don't remember now. But if you are the type to believe in spanking, then my grandmother always was justified in spanking me.
It wasn't awful and abusive, is what I'm trying to say, and she didn't spank for every perceived infraction.
My mother quickly became a kind of ally to me. She was my mommy, my real mommy, and that meant I could talk to her. Right? Well, apparently not, because when I tried to complain about this abuse I thought I suffered from, she thought it was funny.
I remember that I complained that my grandmother hit me with the metal part of the fly swatter. That wasn't true, but I thought it sounded worse and would get a better result. I thought my mother would be horrified that my grandmother hit me. Instead, she laughed a little and told me the metal end would probably hurt less because it was thinner.
She knew. She already knew my grandmother hit me, exactly how she did it, and had no problem with it. I never complained about punishments again. At least, not until I was much, much older.
When I got too old for spanking, my grandmother resorted to grounding. I have actually met some people who don't know what that means, so let me just explain real quick. Grounding is, at its core, when you have to sit and think about what you did for X amount of time. In practice, this usually means no TV for a day or two, going to your room for the rest of the night, or other things like that. Everyone does it a little bit differently.
In my case, the rules were no TV and no video games, but I could listen to the radio in my room or watch TV with the family or go outside to play. I usually chose being in my room because I could close the door, turn the TV down, and play video games to my heart's content because my grandmother was sitting down, and that meant she didn't have to stand up again until it was time for bed. As I mentioned in a previous post, I was on the third floor, and she was on the first.
Grounding doesn't sound that bad for a night or two, right? But as I got older, the amount of time I spent grounded got longer and longer. See, she grounded me for everything. Didn't wash the dishes because no one told me to and I didn't realize that was my permanent job? Grounded. Forgot the laundry because I hate doing your job for you while you sit on your ass and watch soap operas or go shopping? Grounded. Got a B in class? Grounded.
It was that last one, especially. I don't know when she realized that being grounded didn't improve my grades, but her answer to this was to ground me for longer. It's like she thought if she could just ground me for long enough, I would suddenly realize the error of my ways and start getting straight A's. I don't know, maybe she thought I'd study or something if I couldn't watch TV, but if so, she never addressed that with me.
So by the time I was in 6th grade, or maybe 7th, I was grounded for the school year. Literally. And in practice, this meant I spent pretty much my entire life alone in my room. All my social interaction came from class, and there were only like a dozen kids in my class. I same that same dozen or so kids from preschool to 8th grade. I was able to interact with other people during recess times, but, you know, I didn't. I was the bottom of the pecking order, so only a couple other people really even wanted to interact with me. Once I discovered books, I stopped interacting with my class almost entirely.
When I got home, I went straight to my room, closed my door, and watch Power Rangers or played Final Fantasy until dinner. Then I came to the table to eat, but I always brought a book with me or stared into my plate and ignored the people around me. Then I went back to my room until it was time for bed. That was my day. For seven years.
By the time I escaped to Washington, it was just my life. My mother didn't understand why I didn't want to spend time with "the family", by which she meant her and our roommate. I tried to tell her, but she just didn't get it. She didn't understand, and neither did I at the time, that spending my time isolated wasn't really a choice for me. I couldn't enjoy other things. I didn't know how to go without video games. I didn't know how life worked without video games.
But I couldn't articulate any of that except to complain about how I spent my life grounded and alone, and so she would turn the whole conversation into a pissing match about who had it worse. She would make me feel like I was being unreasonable, like it should have been easy to just come out of my room now that I wasn't being punished anymore. I don't even know if she meant to do it, or even realized she was doing it, but she manipulated me into feeling guilty to bring me out of that room. If I didn't come out, I'd sit in there unable to have fun because the guilt would have me in knots. If I did come out, I'd sit there, miserable and resenting her, and the guilt would still have me in knots because I was miserable and resenting her.
To this day, I have trouble putting down my games. I don't even like watching movies or TV shows on Netflix with my girlfriend. I want to, and I know I'll have fun once I get into it, but my initial reaction to her asking is a resounding no. I have to stop and try to figure out if I don't want to because habit or because I'm really just not in the mood. And sometimes I say yes when I don't actually want to because I couldn't figure it out. That old sense of guilt just starts tying me into knots, and even though she says I can say no if I want, I really can't in that moment. I can't say no, and I can't say yes, so I say yes because maybe I'll be able to relax and enjoy it. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.
I had a goal for this post when I started writing it. I don't remember what it was now. It was all leading into a coherent conclusion, but that's gone from my head now. Usually writing these posts makes me feel better, but this hasn't. Maybe I'll revisit the topic in the future. I'm just going to stop writing now.
"Hi, Vickie."
She gave me the most shocked and incredulous expression, kind of laughed a little, and said, "No, you call me Mom."
Ohh...
I don't remember being surprised by this. I know that I had never seen her before that I could remember, but maybe I had some unconscious memories because this just explained the mystery for me. So she was mommy, and my other "mommy" became grandma. It was quite a bit longer before I got in the habit of calling my "daddy" grandpa.
My grandmother believed in corporal punishment. Here's the weird thing. I don't actually remember getting spanked. I remember she used a fly swatter. I remember this one time that she threatened me with a belt, but I don't know if she ever actually used one. I don't think so. I remember that it didn't really matter what room we were in, but it was usually either the kitchen or her bedroom. The kitchen was where she spent the most time and where the fly swatter was. If we were in her bedroom, she used her hand. I don't remember ever fighting back or trying to defend myself.
Back then, even at that young age and having lived like that forever, I knew that this was wrong. Spanking was abuse. I was abused because I was spanked. At the time, that came from a very limited understanding of what abuse meant. Abuse was when a parent hit their kid. I was hit with a fly swatter. Therefor, I was abused.
In practicality, I was not physically abused (other forms of abuse still totally happened.) She never did worse than sting me. I'm pretty sure I never had to take down my pants. I don't remember her ever punishing me unfairly. Unless you consider any punishment unfair, which I kind of do, but that's a different blog post. The point is I had always done something. What those specific somethings were, I don't remember now. But if you are the type to believe in spanking, then my grandmother always was justified in spanking me.
It wasn't awful and abusive, is what I'm trying to say, and she didn't spank for every perceived infraction.
My mother quickly became a kind of ally to me. She was my mommy, my real mommy, and that meant I could talk to her. Right? Well, apparently not, because when I tried to complain about this abuse I thought I suffered from, she thought it was funny.
I remember that I complained that my grandmother hit me with the metal part of the fly swatter. That wasn't true, but I thought it sounded worse and would get a better result. I thought my mother would be horrified that my grandmother hit me. Instead, she laughed a little and told me the metal end would probably hurt less because it was thinner.
She knew. She already knew my grandmother hit me, exactly how she did it, and had no problem with it. I never complained about punishments again. At least, not until I was much, much older.
When I got too old for spanking, my grandmother resorted to grounding. I have actually met some people who don't know what that means, so let me just explain real quick. Grounding is, at its core, when you have to sit and think about what you did for X amount of time. In practice, this usually means no TV for a day or two, going to your room for the rest of the night, or other things like that. Everyone does it a little bit differently.
In my case, the rules were no TV and no video games, but I could listen to the radio in my room or watch TV with the family or go outside to play. I usually chose being in my room because I could close the door, turn the TV down, and play video games to my heart's content because my grandmother was sitting down, and that meant she didn't have to stand up again until it was time for bed. As I mentioned in a previous post, I was on the third floor, and she was on the first.
Grounding doesn't sound that bad for a night or two, right? But as I got older, the amount of time I spent grounded got longer and longer. See, she grounded me for everything. Didn't wash the dishes because no one told me to and I didn't realize that was my permanent job? Grounded. Forgot the laundry because I hate doing your job for you while you sit on your ass and watch soap operas or go shopping? Grounded. Got a B in class? Grounded.
It was that last one, especially. I don't know when she realized that being grounded didn't improve my grades, but her answer to this was to ground me for longer. It's like she thought if she could just ground me for long enough, I would suddenly realize the error of my ways and start getting straight A's. I don't know, maybe she thought I'd study or something if I couldn't watch TV, but if so, she never addressed that with me.
So by the time I was in 6th grade, or maybe 7th, I was grounded for the school year. Literally. And in practice, this meant I spent pretty much my entire life alone in my room. All my social interaction came from class, and there were only like a dozen kids in my class. I same that same dozen or so kids from preschool to 8th grade. I was able to interact with other people during recess times, but, you know, I didn't. I was the bottom of the pecking order, so only a couple other people really even wanted to interact with me. Once I discovered books, I stopped interacting with my class almost entirely.
When I got home, I went straight to my room, closed my door, and watch Power Rangers or played Final Fantasy until dinner. Then I came to the table to eat, but I always brought a book with me or stared into my plate and ignored the people around me. Then I went back to my room until it was time for bed. That was my day. For seven years.
By the time I escaped to Washington, it was just my life. My mother didn't understand why I didn't want to spend time with "the family", by which she meant her and our roommate. I tried to tell her, but she just didn't get it. She didn't understand, and neither did I at the time, that spending my time isolated wasn't really a choice for me. I couldn't enjoy other things. I didn't know how to go without video games. I didn't know how life worked without video games.
But I couldn't articulate any of that except to complain about how I spent my life grounded and alone, and so she would turn the whole conversation into a pissing match about who had it worse. She would make me feel like I was being unreasonable, like it should have been easy to just come out of my room now that I wasn't being punished anymore. I don't even know if she meant to do it, or even realized she was doing it, but she manipulated me into feeling guilty to bring me out of that room. If I didn't come out, I'd sit in there unable to have fun because the guilt would have me in knots. If I did come out, I'd sit there, miserable and resenting her, and the guilt would still have me in knots because I was miserable and resenting her.
To this day, I have trouble putting down my games. I don't even like watching movies or TV shows on Netflix with my girlfriend. I want to, and I know I'll have fun once I get into it, but my initial reaction to her asking is a resounding no. I have to stop and try to figure out if I don't want to because habit or because I'm really just not in the mood. And sometimes I say yes when I don't actually want to because I couldn't figure it out. That old sense of guilt just starts tying me into knots, and even though she says I can say no if I want, I really can't in that moment. I can't say no, and I can't say yes, so I say yes because maybe I'll be able to relax and enjoy it. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.
I had a goal for this post when I started writing it. I don't remember what it was now. It was all leading into a coherent conclusion, but that's gone from my head now. Usually writing these posts makes me feel better, but this hasn't. Maybe I'll revisit the topic in the future. I'm just going to stop writing now.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Showering
When I was little, I used to spend an hour or more in the shower, but I only took them when my grandmother forced me to. Most of my was spent with the water running while I sat on the floor and daydreamed, and the actual shower didn't take long at all.
When I moved out, I still took them as seldom as I could get away with, but I also stopped spending an hour just hanging out in that room.
I used to tell people I'm hydrophobic, but I've never really been that stressed about rain or swimming. It was more of an excuse for why I hate showering. But looking back, I realize that I spent so long hiding in the bathroom because it was my refuge. We had enough bathrooms that no one was ever yelling for me to hurry up, and if I was in the shower, then no one was yelling for me to do things either.
But at the same time, I hated showering because my grandmother made sure that I knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that I was incapable of washing my own hair. Every time I went in, she gave me a lecture for how to wash my hair that included scratching my scalp raw. Every time I got out, she wanted to know if I did it right this time. When I moved out, I internalized that, and I still can't shake the feeling that if I'm not scratching at it until I bleed, I've done it wrong.
Today, I willingly took a shower. It's something I do more frequently now, though still not as much as I should. Nowadays, showering means time with myself, thinking about the past and what my grandmother taught me, and I like to get out quickly. But today, I had this epiphany.
I'm pretty sure my grandmother kind of ruined my hair. She always insisted that it was horribly oily and any amount of oil was bad. I don't know if I always had dry hair, but I'm pretty sure I do now. All of which is a kind of roundabout way of reminding myself that she was wrong. She was wrong about the scalp's natural oils, and she was wrong about how to deal with them.
I don't need to hide in the bathroom anymore. It's time to stop being critical of my hair-washing skills, now.
When I moved out, I still took them as seldom as I could get away with, but I also stopped spending an hour just hanging out in that room.
I used to tell people I'm hydrophobic, but I've never really been that stressed about rain or swimming. It was more of an excuse for why I hate showering. But looking back, I realize that I spent so long hiding in the bathroom because it was my refuge. We had enough bathrooms that no one was ever yelling for me to hurry up, and if I was in the shower, then no one was yelling for me to do things either.
But at the same time, I hated showering because my grandmother made sure that I knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that I was incapable of washing my own hair. Every time I went in, she gave me a lecture for how to wash my hair that included scratching my scalp raw. Every time I got out, she wanted to know if I did it right this time. When I moved out, I internalized that, and I still can't shake the feeling that if I'm not scratching at it until I bleed, I've done it wrong.
Today, I willingly took a shower. It's something I do more frequently now, though still not as much as I should. Nowadays, showering means time with myself, thinking about the past and what my grandmother taught me, and I like to get out quickly. But today, I had this epiphany.
I'm pretty sure my grandmother kind of ruined my hair. She always insisted that it was horribly oily and any amount of oil was bad. I don't know if I always had dry hair, but I'm pretty sure I do now. All of which is a kind of roundabout way of reminding myself that she was wrong. She was wrong about the scalp's natural oils, and she was wrong about how to deal with them.
I don't need to hide in the bathroom anymore. It's time to stop being critical of my hair-washing skills, now.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Weight Control
I think my weight is the lowest it has been in years. Girlfriend says it's almost definitely gotten a little lower since she's known me, but I didn't have a scale then, so it doesn't count. Woke up today, and I'm down to 321 lbs.
I'm not trying to lose weight. I think that's where most people go wrong. I'm very fat positive (when I'm not depressed, and then I start shaming myself). I don't believe there's anything wrong with being fat or that we should all aspire to thinness. I believe we should aspire to live a healthy lifestyle, and if you can do that while being 500 lbs, then no one has the right to tell you to lose weight.
For me, being this size has a detrimental affect on my health and self-esteem. Food is an addiction, one that I've tried a couple times before to control. For most of my adult life, I've hovered around the 330 to 345 range, and I think I might be pre-diabetic. Switching to more healthy eating habits is causing me to lose weight, but my goal is only to feel better about myself and not tip over into serious health problems.
I think I can trace this problem back to when I was a kid. I don't know where I got the idea, but I recall being in third or fifth grade and lying about my weight because otherwise, my peers might think I was fat. I very vividly recall telling someone that I was 98 lbs and having them all make fun of me for lying about it, but thinking that was better than them knowing the truth. If I recall correctly, I was around 120 at the time.
I've always had a sweet tooth, and I was never taught to manage it. I used to be on the local swim team, and I looked forward to matches, not because I enjoyed swimming or competition, but because my grandparents would give me a giant cooler full of soda and candy to eat at my discretion. They reasoned that the sugar would give me a burst of energy for winning, but it probably just weighed me down.
In high school, my grandmother decided that the solution to this problem was diet pills, which she made me take on and off. She'd get the latest fad pills, and I would take them for a few days until they were forgotten. And then a new fad would start up, and she would make me take those for a while. Apparently, she did the same thing to my mother, only the diet pill fad of choice back then was Black Beauties, which did not help her already struggling school career.
At 19, I finally moved to Washington to live with my mother, and that's where things really got out of control. I went there for school, but wound up working 18-hour days as a housekeeper, constantly on the road and eating fast food and candy bars to get through the day. Every second that I wasn't working or eating, I was passed out in the passenger seat of the car because I couldn't stay awake. I realize, in retrospect, that was when I started stress eating. I needed those candy bars between McDonald's and Taco Bell meals. I drank nothing but Coke (the literal brand of soda) except for the rare moment's when I got a Dr Pepper or a Mountain Dew with my meal. I think I had water once over the entire two-year period.
To this day, 10 years later, I can't have more than a single can of soda at one time. It turns completely tasteless after the first few sips. I mean, I shouldn't be doing that anyway, but sometimes I still do.
When my grandmother's health took a turn for the worst, and my mother and I moved back to Missouri together, things got a little better for a little while. We both got jobs at Wal-Mart, and suddenly we had time to cook real food. Except that we both spent so long on a fast food diet that neither of us felt like it anymore. Real food became a weekend treat, and while we gradually got better about that, defaulting to pizza delivery or something never really went away.
At the same, we started off and on dieting. About once or twice a year, mom would see a new fad diet. She didn't believe in pills after her experience growing up, but she kept getting taken in by the latest programs. I would go along mostly to support her because I didn't believe either of us could ever lose weight. So we'd join a program for a few weeks, do really good the first few days, then slowly get worse until we gave up entirely. Rinse and repeat for like five or six years until I moved in with Girlfriend.
Girlfriend was bigger than I was back in high school, and she had successfully lost that weight and kept it off through a combination of martial arts and educating herself about nutrition. She taught me that what I considered a healthy diet (meat fried in butter, potatoes with butter, cheese, and sour cream, fried chicken-- staples of a Southern diet.) was actually pretty high in fat and calories.
I know, right? Butter is high in fat? Who would have ever thought?
So now my diet is pretty healthy, except for one thing. I still have a food addiction, and when we hit rough times, I lose control and eat an entire bag of chips every day. Healthy meals don't do much good when you're snacking on high fat and sugar snacks constantly.
Like I said, I've tried twice before to control this. I do good for a while, and then every crashes at once. This time, though, I've got a secret weapon. Somewhere along the way, I have developed a taste for sugar free candy and soda. I know, I know, sugar free doesn't actually help you lose weight. But the thing is, it does help me.
See, I still have those days where I drink nothing but soda and eat candy all day. Having sugar free around means I can get through those days without beating myself up over it. Although, re-reading that article, I had forgotten about the increased risk of diabetes. I may have to rethink this plan.
But I can do that now because I have the most important thing that someone in my position can have-- support. I am not alone. I do not have people telling me to just eat less and have some self control. Now, I'm the only person telling me that I'm bad and lazy for being fat, and Girlfriend has a much louder voice and is happy to help me drown those thoughts out.
I'm not trying to lose weight. I think that's where most people go wrong. I'm very fat positive (when I'm not depressed, and then I start shaming myself). I don't believe there's anything wrong with being fat or that we should all aspire to thinness. I believe we should aspire to live a healthy lifestyle, and if you can do that while being 500 lbs, then no one has the right to tell you to lose weight.
For me, being this size has a detrimental affect on my health and self-esteem. Food is an addiction, one that I've tried a couple times before to control. For most of my adult life, I've hovered around the 330 to 345 range, and I think I might be pre-diabetic. Switching to more healthy eating habits is causing me to lose weight, but my goal is only to feel better about myself and not tip over into serious health problems.
I think I can trace this problem back to when I was a kid. I don't know where I got the idea, but I recall being in third or fifth grade and lying about my weight because otherwise, my peers might think I was fat. I very vividly recall telling someone that I was 98 lbs and having them all make fun of me for lying about it, but thinking that was better than them knowing the truth. If I recall correctly, I was around 120 at the time.
I've always had a sweet tooth, and I was never taught to manage it. I used to be on the local swim team, and I looked forward to matches, not because I enjoyed swimming or competition, but because my grandparents would give me a giant cooler full of soda and candy to eat at my discretion. They reasoned that the sugar would give me a burst of energy for winning, but it probably just weighed me down.
In high school, my grandmother decided that the solution to this problem was diet pills, which she made me take on and off. She'd get the latest fad pills, and I would take them for a few days until they were forgotten. And then a new fad would start up, and she would make me take those for a while. Apparently, she did the same thing to my mother, only the diet pill fad of choice back then was Black Beauties, which did not help her already struggling school career.
At 19, I finally moved to Washington to live with my mother, and that's where things really got out of control. I went there for school, but wound up working 18-hour days as a housekeeper, constantly on the road and eating fast food and candy bars to get through the day. Every second that I wasn't working or eating, I was passed out in the passenger seat of the car because I couldn't stay awake. I realize, in retrospect, that was when I started stress eating. I needed those candy bars between McDonald's and Taco Bell meals. I drank nothing but Coke (the literal brand of soda) except for the rare moment's when I got a Dr Pepper or a Mountain Dew with my meal. I think I had water once over the entire two-year period.
To this day, 10 years later, I can't have more than a single can of soda at one time. It turns completely tasteless after the first few sips. I mean, I shouldn't be doing that anyway, but sometimes I still do.
When my grandmother's health took a turn for the worst, and my mother and I moved back to Missouri together, things got a little better for a little while. We both got jobs at Wal-Mart, and suddenly we had time to cook real food. Except that we both spent so long on a fast food diet that neither of us felt like it anymore. Real food became a weekend treat, and while we gradually got better about that, defaulting to pizza delivery or something never really went away.
At the same, we started off and on dieting. About once or twice a year, mom would see a new fad diet. She didn't believe in pills after her experience growing up, but she kept getting taken in by the latest programs. I would go along mostly to support her because I didn't believe either of us could ever lose weight. So we'd join a program for a few weeks, do really good the first few days, then slowly get worse until we gave up entirely. Rinse and repeat for like five or six years until I moved in with Girlfriend.
Girlfriend was bigger than I was back in high school, and she had successfully lost that weight and kept it off through a combination of martial arts and educating herself about nutrition. She taught me that what I considered a healthy diet (meat fried in butter, potatoes with butter, cheese, and sour cream, fried chicken-- staples of a Southern diet.) was actually pretty high in fat and calories.
I know, right? Butter is high in fat? Who would have ever thought?
So now my diet is pretty healthy, except for one thing. I still have a food addiction, and when we hit rough times, I lose control and eat an entire bag of chips every day. Healthy meals don't do much good when you're snacking on high fat and sugar snacks constantly.
Like I said, I've tried twice before to control this. I do good for a while, and then every crashes at once. This time, though, I've got a secret weapon. Somewhere along the way, I have developed a taste for sugar free candy and soda. I know, I know, sugar free doesn't actually help you lose weight. But the thing is, it does help me.
See, I still have those days where I drink nothing but soda and eat candy all day. Having sugar free around means I can get through those days without beating myself up over it. Although, re-reading that article, I had forgotten about the increased risk of diabetes. I may have to rethink this plan.
But I can do that now because I have the most important thing that someone in my position can have-- support. I am not alone. I do not have people telling me to just eat less and have some self control. Now, I'm the only person telling me that I'm bad and lazy for being fat, and Girlfriend has a much louder voice and is happy to help me drown those thoughts out.
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