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.
Showing posts with label lessons learned. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lessons learned. Show all posts
Sunday, July 6, 2014
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.
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