Friday, July 2, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
A real person
Usually I feel like I am not a "real person." Everyone else has money, a house, paid bills, vacations, trips, "things," clothes, enough food, and more. I don't. I don't see myself as ever having those things because those good things are for "them" and all the shit is for me.
I must have been two or three one Christmas when under the Christmas tree was the most wonderful teddy bear I had ever seen. He was on my side of the tree, but I looked at all my other presents and didn't touch the bear. My mother asked if I saw it and I answered that I knew that it was for Bryan. It turned out that it was for me. Even at that very very young age I had been trained to think that anything good must belong to someone else. I am still that way today.
I must have been two or three one Christmas when under the Christmas tree was the most wonderful teddy bear I had ever seen. He was on my side of the tree, but I looked at all my other presents and didn't touch the bear. My mother asked if I saw it and I answered that I knew that it was for Bryan. It turned out that it was for me. Even at that very very young age I had been trained to think that anything good must belong to someone else. I am still that way today.
Look how lousy this is
At times when we were very young, my brother and I would sit at the "play" table and draw or color. My brother, about 16 moths older than I, would always color within the lines and draw nicer pictures. I would be frustrated because his would be so nice and mine looked like shit. When my mother wanted to see what we were doing, I would say, "Look at how lousy this is." My mother wouldn't argue. I wish that she had explained to me that she was just as proud of my work as she was my brother's. She didn't. I wish she had helped me understand that I should be satisfied with my work if I did the best I can. She didn't.
To this day, I feel like the work I do is inadequate and shameful because it is so clearly inferior to that which others might do ot to that which I know is possible.
I want to be satisfied with knowing that I did my best. I still don't want people to see my work for fear of criticism. I want to be proud of my work. I ought to be proud of everything I do if I did it to the best of my ability.
Even now, when I am struggling to work on my own, I ought to be happy whether I have a "good" day or a "bad" day. I ought to be proud, even if I didn't earn enough because I did it and I am a real person... or am I not?
To this day, I feel like the work I do is inadequate and shameful because it is so clearly inferior to that which others might do ot to that which I know is possible.
I want to be satisfied with knowing that I did my best. I still don't want people to see my work for fear of criticism. I want to be proud of my work. I ought to be proud of everything I do if I did it to the best of my ability.
Even now, when I am struggling to work on my own, I ought to be happy whether I have a "good" day or a "bad" day. I ought to be proud, even if I didn't earn enough because I did it and I am a real person... or am I not?
The underwear problem
My mother had a horrible thing about laundry. It is hard to believe that children in the late 1900s had to live like this, especially when their parents had the means to easily do better. Her rules were:
One pair of socks per week
One pair of underpants per week
One undershirt per week
One shower per week
I may have spoken of the one shower rule before, but here I want to talk about the underwear.
I can't imagine how hideous I smelled as a boy, and then compound that stench with the body odor of a teenager. This was accentuated by my mother's refusal to allow more than one shower in a week, but also became an obvious issue with underwear.
Undershirts and drawers would become stained with sweat and stink after one day. Often I would get up in the morning only to find my underwear smelly and wet from previous wear. I don't know what else to say except that it must have been one of the many reasons the kids at school wouldn't have anything to do with me.
The underwear problem was not new to me as a developing teen. When I was in the 2nd grade, I had a problem with pooping in my pants. For some reason, I was terrified at the thought of using the bathroom at the Martin Luther King Jr. Elementary School. I'd try to hold it in, but sometimes it didn't work.
I remember one time we were lined up to go to music class and I had bowel movement in my pants. Passing by the classroom sink on the way out the door I grabbed a paper towel and stuffed it in my pants so I didn't have to feel the mushy mess on my buttocks. Doreen Eato saw me do that and she announced to the entire class that I had poop in my pants. How awful. That was just one of the many struggles with bowel movement that I had as a young boy. This had horrible implications when it came to the "one pair of underpants per week" rule. The morning after an incident, the streaks would be crusty and hard. I had to put them on anyway and they would scratch my bottom and stink. I remember one time my underpants were so bad that I hid them behind my furniture and sneaked in a clean pair out of desperation. This was the only time that I defied the rule - that goes to show how bad that poop problem was.
My mother either did not know or did not care that I had the poop problem. I have thought about it several times in my life (even now I dread taking a dump, especially in a public restroom.
My mother just didn't want to be bothered with a lot of laundry. In my own family, it seems like my wife and I are always doing the wash. It is a drag, but it's better than limiting our children to one set of underwear and socks per week.
One pair of socks per week
One pair of underpants per week
One undershirt per week
One shower per week
I may have spoken of the one shower rule before, but here I want to talk about the underwear.
I can't imagine how hideous I smelled as a boy, and then compound that stench with the body odor of a teenager. This was accentuated by my mother's refusal to allow more than one shower in a week, but also became an obvious issue with underwear.
Undershirts and drawers would become stained with sweat and stink after one day. Often I would get up in the morning only to find my underwear smelly and wet from previous wear. I don't know what else to say except that it must have been one of the many reasons the kids at school wouldn't have anything to do with me.
The underwear problem was not new to me as a developing teen. When I was in the 2nd grade, I had a problem with pooping in my pants. For some reason, I was terrified at the thought of using the bathroom at the Martin Luther King Jr. Elementary School. I'd try to hold it in, but sometimes it didn't work.
I remember one time we were lined up to go to music class and I had bowel movement in my pants. Passing by the classroom sink on the way out the door I grabbed a paper towel and stuffed it in my pants so I didn't have to feel the mushy mess on my buttocks. Doreen Eato saw me do that and she announced to the entire class that I had poop in my pants. How awful. That was just one of the many struggles with bowel movement that I had as a young boy. This had horrible implications when it came to the "one pair of underpants per week" rule. The morning after an incident, the streaks would be crusty and hard. I had to put them on anyway and they would scratch my bottom and stink. I remember one time my underpants were so bad that I hid them behind my furniture and sneaked in a clean pair out of desperation. This was the only time that I defied the rule - that goes to show how bad that poop problem was.
My mother either did not know or did not care that I had the poop problem. I have thought about it several times in my life (even now I dread taking a dump, especially in a public restroom.
My mother just didn't want to be bothered with a lot of laundry. In my own family, it seems like my wife and I are always doing the wash. It is a drag, but it's better than limiting our children to one set of underwear and socks per week.
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