So, doing all this over analyzing that I continually do to myself, I find all kinds of things to beat myself up about. On the other hand, especially lately, there have been a few things that make me wonder if there might be a thing or two about me that that I should look into. My friends have always made me feel liked but that, and I don’t mean to downplay these relationships in any way, is what friends are for. Granted, I’ve attained a whole bunch more friends than I ever thought I’d have, and it’s wonderful just knowing they’re around.
The thing that’s been messing with my constant attempts at self-loathing is coming from total strangers. I work with the public. I see and speak to, on average, 200 people or so a day. Many of these are customers that come in to the store two or three times a week and when you see someone that often, well, you develop a relationship with them. I’ve been doing the customer service thing for years and, dare I say this, I’m really, really good at it. I’ll put my ability to deal with people up against anyone. Wait a minute, did I just admit to something good about me? Hmmm, feels a little odd. Anyway…
The other day, as I was running a register, a couple women came through and I just started playing with them. We were all three making comments about being up so early and how much we’d rather be on a beach somewhere. I said a few things that made them laugh, nothing unusual as I usually can make customers smile and laugh in a situation that doesn’t normally foster that kind of behavior. Anyway, as they were leaving and I was thanking them for their business and the two of them were laughing about something I said, one of them turned back towards me and said, “ Thanks for making our day”. I gave my standard response of, “I’m here all week, try the Veal” and they laughed some more and went along their way as I started playing with the next in line. On my way home I started thinking about what she said and other instances came to mind of total strangers, usually customers, saying that kind of thing to me. It turns out, it happens quite a bit.
Thinking about it has made me think that maybe, just maybe, I’ve been mistaken about myself. I might be a little more likable and worthwhile than I’ve ever given myself credit for. Boy, that’s kinda scary isn’t it? I’ve never paid attention to the comments from customers before. I mean, I’m just playing with them, they know that, surely they’re just playing with me too. They most certainly couldn’t be serious when they say things that are complimentary towards me, could they? Well, could they? I’m constantly being asked, by these total strangers, if I’m up to being fixed up with a friend of theirs. I, of course, just laugh it off to them and get past the question as quickly as possible. I had a woman I slightly recognized come in the store the other day with a few of her friends. As she saw me she told the group, “This is the guy I was telling you about”. I made that kind of impression on this person? That’s pretty cool. Again, maybe I’ve been wrong.
I’ve actually been feeling kind of good about myself for the last few days. Actually having a little self-confidence. I still have my demons but, seriously, the last few days I’ve been actually contemplating accepting one of these offers of being fixed up with someone. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not foolish enough to think I’ll be jumping into this overnight, it’ll take a little time, but I actually feel a little closer to breaking down a wall that’s been around for almost five decades than I’ve ever felt.
Maybe I’ve been wrong, that’s something to think about.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Trying To Deal
Since my last post, I’ve kind of found myself in an almost funk, if that’s the right way to say it. I’ve always known the story but have always set it up as just an incident in my life that really didn’t matter. Something like a schoolyard fight that would be forgotten or placed so far back in my memories that I’d only cruise by it in my thoughts every once in a while.
I’m not sure what, in the last few months, has brought it back into the forefront of my thoughts. Sometime before Christmas I started hearing his voice. I’ve heard it a number of times over the years but this was different. It was much louder, much closer and much more consistent. I started waking up in the morning hearing it. I’d hear it throughout the day. I was always able to shove it aside in the past but this time, I just couldn’t shake it. I knew that he couldn’t harm me, or anyone else for that matter, yet still felt a fear. I keep finding myself right back where I was all those years ago.
Writing about it had to happen. It’s how I deal with everything in my life and this was quickly becoming something major. I’ve talked to a few people about the feelings that enveloped me while writing it and how I was able to finally admit to myself how much of an impact on my life this incident had. This is the first time I can remember placing blame on someone else for something so wrong with me. What I’m finding a bit difficult is that I actually find myself feeling guilty about pushing the blame onto someone else. Questioning how I’ve been unable to “get over” something that took place almost four decades ago. I know that there are so many others that have been through much worse and I truly marvel at their abilities to have gotten past it. They are much stronger than I, that’s for sure.
The problem I’m having now is the fight within myself over whether I was right in bringing it up at all. Since bringing it out into the open, I’m finding myself much closer to it than I’ve been in years. It’s a major topic of conversation in my head. I’m finding the smallest things in my everyday life have a way of reminding me of it. I just hear the voice on a regular basis lately. I know I’ll be seeing someone to talk to about it soon, my benefits just came through from work, and hopefully that’ll help me keep things in perspective. Until then though, all I can do is do all I can, if you know what I mean.
I’m not sure what, in the last few months, has brought it back into the forefront of my thoughts. Sometime before Christmas I started hearing his voice. I’ve heard it a number of times over the years but this was different. It was much louder, much closer and much more consistent. I started waking up in the morning hearing it. I’d hear it throughout the day. I was always able to shove it aside in the past but this time, I just couldn’t shake it. I knew that he couldn’t harm me, or anyone else for that matter, yet still felt a fear. I keep finding myself right back where I was all those years ago.
Writing about it had to happen. It’s how I deal with everything in my life and this was quickly becoming something major. I’ve talked to a few people about the feelings that enveloped me while writing it and how I was able to finally admit to myself how much of an impact on my life this incident had. This is the first time I can remember placing blame on someone else for something so wrong with me. What I’m finding a bit difficult is that I actually find myself feeling guilty about pushing the blame onto someone else. Questioning how I’ve been unable to “get over” something that took place almost four decades ago. I know that there are so many others that have been through much worse and I truly marvel at their abilities to have gotten past it. They are much stronger than I, that’s for sure.
The problem I’m having now is the fight within myself over whether I was right in bringing it up at all. Since bringing it out into the open, I’m finding myself much closer to it than I’ve been in years. It’s a major topic of conversation in my head. I’m finding the smallest things in my everyday life have a way of reminding me of it. I just hear the voice on a regular basis lately. I know I’ll be seeing someone to talk to about it soon, my benefits just came through from work, and hopefully that’ll help me keep things in perspective. Until then though, all I can do is do all I can, if you know what I mean.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
I Was 12
A 12 year old boy is put on a Greyhound bus to go visit a relative less than 100 miles away. While on this bus, events happen that, looking back some 38 years, seem to have had a major influence on this boys life. What happened on that bus has happened to thousands upon thousands of kids throughout time. The issue with this particular time is that this boy is me.
To say a sexual molestation took place would, to most people, be an untruth. To a 12-year-old child, it certainly wasn’t something he’d admit to even if it were. To a 50-year-old adult, looking back over all that time, I still have trouble figuring out how to label it. Nothing physically happened, aside from a hand consistently being placed on my knee. It was the words being spoken that still echo inside my head to this very day. If there’s such a thing as verbal molestation, well, I guess this might be the definition.
Being asked if I’d like this done to me, or how about that? Me, in a voice weakened by fear and drowning in tears, saying no to each query. “You’re so beautiful,” he’d say, over and over again. “Why don’t you let me just…?” Me, again unable to get the words out, for a complete lack of air in my lungs. I was 12 years old, you Bastard, 12 years old.
Over the years I’ve told a few people this story and I’m always reassured that it wasn’t my fault. Logically I know that. I also know that I didn’t have to sit in the window seat on a nearly empty bus, but that’s what 12 year olds do. I could have screamed and yelled. Maybe not. I don’t think my voice could have been heard by anyone, outside of my head.
I remember his face. I remember every line, every bump. I remember how his mustache had a bit more color on one side than the other. I remember how one eyelid was a little more closed than the other. I remember his dirty fingernails as his hand kept finding my knee as the verbal assault went on for what seemed like months to a 12 year old child.
I was chatting with a friend the other day about this and she asked if I still look for him. I couldn’t really answer. I’m absolutely convinced, even after all these years, that I’d recognize him. I’d like to think that I’d find him and hurt him somehow but we all know that I wouldn’t confront him in any way. He scared me like nothing has ever scared me before or since. After 38 years, he still has a hold on me on some level. He won. I fear intimacy. Every Shrink I’ve talked to about this has put a direct link to the two. Is it any wonder that holding hands is probably my favorite thing in the world? That’s what 12 year olds do. I was 12 years old once and because of this man, in many parts of my life, I still am. I was only 12 years old.
To say a sexual molestation took place would, to most people, be an untruth. To a 12-year-old child, it certainly wasn’t something he’d admit to even if it were. To a 50-year-old adult, looking back over all that time, I still have trouble figuring out how to label it. Nothing physically happened, aside from a hand consistently being placed on my knee. It was the words being spoken that still echo inside my head to this very day. If there’s such a thing as verbal molestation, well, I guess this might be the definition.
Being asked if I’d like this done to me, or how about that? Me, in a voice weakened by fear and drowning in tears, saying no to each query. “You’re so beautiful,” he’d say, over and over again. “Why don’t you let me just…?” Me, again unable to get the words out, for a complete lack of air in my lungs. I was 12 years old, you Bastard, 12 years old.
Over the years I’ve told a few people this story and I’m always reassured that it wasn’t my fault. Logically I know that. I also know that I didn’t have to sit in the window seat on a nearly empty bus, but that’s what 12 year olds do. I could have screamed and yelled. Maybe not. I don’t think my voice could have been heard by anyone, outside of my head.
I remember his face. I remember every line, every bump. I remember how his mustache had a bit more color on one side than the other. I remember how one eyelid was a little more closed than the other. I remember his dirty fingernails as his hand kept finding my knee as the verbal assault went on for what seemed like months to a 12 year old child.
I was chatting with a friend the other day about this and she asked if I still look for him. I couldn’t really answer. I’m absolutely convinced, even after all these years, that I’d recognize him. I’d like to think that I’d find him and hurt him somehow but we all know that I wouldn’t confront him in any way. He scared me like nothing has ever scared me before or since. After 38 years, he still has a hold on me on some level. He won. I fear intimacy. Every Shrink I’ve talked to about this has put a direct link to the two. Is it any wonder that holding hands is probably my favorite thing in the world? That’s what 12 year olds do. I was 12 years old once and because of this man, in many parts of my life, I still am. I was only 12 years old.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
I Get Letters
Doing this writing thing has, to say the least, allowed both friends and total strangers to see a part of me that they would never show others. In writing I’m not afraid to show the face we all hide from others. It also helps me while out in public. I can be alone in my thoughts and most people know that I’m fine. In most instances folks are concerned when someone is very quiet or detached in a group. There was a time in my life when I was always being asked if I was “ok” or if everything was alright. If there was something wrong, those that knew me best would know what was going on and I always found that remarkably comforting.
Another positive side of my writing is the allowance of trust that friends along with total strangers have bestowed upon me. This side effect is probably the one thing I’m most proud of when it comes to this. I couldn’t even count the number of emails I receive, mostly from people I don’t know, telling me their deepest, darkest secrets mostly relating to whatever my latest post was. I sometimes feel as though my email box has become some type of a confessional to many. I almost feel like a voyeur while reading these notes admitting the darkest secrets of ones life.
The subject matter ranges from petty crimes to things much more serious. I’ve had notes telling me of a transgression against a sibling over 30 years in the past. Most of these are just a way for the writer to get something off their chest. I never respond to these notes, I have no intention of becoming a “Dear Abby” or anything like that. I have, in some instances, sent a note asking if I could include their tale in a blog and if they agree, I sometimes have.
I will say this though: I have never written anything about anyone’s issues told to me in confidence. I think most of the writers of these notes understand that and that’s a good feeling to have. It’s one thing to be believed in by those that know me, and I value that dearly. It’s something totally different to have that same trust placed by total strangers. Total strangers to me at least. I sometimes get the feeling that these strangers know me a little better than I’m willing to admit.
Another positive side of my writing is the allowance of trust that friends along with total strangers have bestowed upon me. This side effect is probably the one thing I’m most proud of when it comes to this. I couldn’t even count the number of emails I receive, mostly from people I don’t know, telling me their deepest, darkest secrets mostly relating to whatever my latest post was. I sometimes feel as though my email box has become some type of a confessional to many. I almost feel like a voyeur while reading these notes admitting the darkest secrets of ones life.
The subject matter ranges from petty crimes to things much more serious. I’ve had notes telling me of a transgression against a sibling over 30 years in the past. Most of these are just a way for the writer to get something off their chest. I never respond to these notes, I have no intention of becoming a “Dear Abby” or anything like that. I have, in some instances, sent a note asking if I could include their tale in a blog and if they agree, I sometimes have.
I will say this though: I have never written anything about anyone’s issues told to me in confidence. I think most of the writers of these notes understand that and that’s a good feeling to have. It’s one thing to be believed in by those that know me, and I value that dearly. It’s something totally different to have that same trust placed by total strangers. Total strangers to me at least. I sometimes get the feeling that these strangers know me a little better than I’m willing to admit.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Hey Nineteen
I went to a local haircutting place to get the old noggin shaved. Seriously, I must be the easiest haircut they get in a day. I just walk in and ask for a number one blade all the way around. Anyway, I go in and some little Pixie that couldn’t have weighed more than 17 lbs. with 13 shades of hair has me sit in her chair and starts to wrap my neck with that tissue they use.
It’s at this point that I’m always asked if I really want to use a number one blade. They ask if I realize how tight to the scalp it’ll make my hair. Have you seen my hair? Do I look like I worry about how tight to the scalp it is?
Once the buzzing begins, for reasons I’ve never understood, whoever is doing the buzzing starts doing their “get personal with the customer” gig. I prefer the no questions cut but I understand that they want to give me that personal experience. Every once in a while there may be a decent conversation that ensues but yesterday I was in the chair while someone who may, on a good day, pass for 18 tried to converse with me.
This is the part that got to me. Truly, there was nothing that this young woman and I could have talked about, in the time allotted that would interest either of us. It occurred to me that I’m fully one generation older than this girl. Talking politics didn’t seem to be something that would get us anywhere and I didn’t care enough to ask her about who she was dating. We each made a feeble attempt at conversation as I just waited for the cut to end.
Something that I’m well conversed in is music. As I was sitting there I thought about bringing up the subject. How could this young woman know about the music I listened to? How could I know anything about the bands she enjoyed? I had to giggle inside as a song started playing in my head. “Hey Nineteen” by Steely Dan started ringing very true to me. I’m getting old.
“Hey nineteen, that’s Aretha Franklin.
She don’t remember the Queen of Soul”
Ahhh, to be young again…
It’s at this point that I’m always asked if I really want to use a number one blade. They ask if I realize how tight to the scalp it’ll make my hair. Have you seen my hair? Do I look like I worry about how tight to the scalp it is?
Once the buzzing begins, for reasons I’ve never understood, whoever is doing the buzzing starts doing their “get personal with the customer” gig. I prefer the no questions cut but I understand that they want to give me that personal experience. Every once in a while there may be a decent conversation that ensues but yesterday I was in the chair while someone who may, on a good day, pass for 18 tried to converse with me.
This is the part that got to me. Truly, there was nothing that this young woman and I could have talked about, in the time allotted that would interest either of us. It occurred to me that I’m fully one generation older than this girl. Talking politics didn’t seem to be something that would get us anywhere and I didn’t care enough to ask her about who she was dating. We each made a feeble attempt at conversation as I just waited for the cut to end.
Something that I’m well conversed in is music. As I was sitting there I thought about bringing up the subject. How could this young woman know about the music I listened to? How could I know anything about the bands she enjoyed? I had to giggle inside as a song started playing in my head. “Hey Nineteen” by Steely Dan started ringing very true to me. I’m getting old.
“Hey nineteen, that’s Aretha Franklin.
She don’t remember the Queen of Soul”
Ahhh, to be young again…
Monday, February 28, 2011
Part Two
I feel like I need to explain myself a bit after my last post. Not because I owe anyone an explanation but I just feel I need to clarify, you know, make things I said a little clearer.
When I say I’m afraid of being like my Father I’m only trying to compare Apples to Apples. I know there are many differences between us. Believe me, I thank my stars every day for that. What I see as so similar is our emotional retardation. His inability to accept others’ love and affection is something I don’t think anyone can say isn’t something I also suffer from. The difference is, and this is something I kind of admire about him, is his ability to at least fake it. Actually, he would know exactly what I’m talking about.
Something I’ve truly strived for and, I believe I’ve succeeded at, is in most of my relationships with people I try to let them know how important they are to me. You guys know what you mean to me. I’ve written ad-nauseum about that very subject on so many occasions that I sometimes get the feeling you’ve got to be kinda sick of it. That’s something he’s never even attempted.
Where I feel I’ve failed miserably is in allowing the reciprocation of those feelings to enter my reality. I’ve always written about how much I want to feel love and though so many of you are constantly trying to reassure me of said love, I just, I don’t know, find it hard to fathom. Yeah, I know, that all comes back to one loving themselves and that’s the real thing that I need to work on.
See, there’s another similarity between us. And, once again, I admire his ability to fake it. That’s really the one and only trait I wish I could carry on from him. I know, deep inside, that I’m not the fraud I fear so much and I truly believe you all when you tell me the same. For that, I will always be grateful to each and every one of you.
When I say I’m afraid of being like my Father I’m only trying to compare Apples to Apples. I know there are many differences between us. Believe me, I thank my stars every day for that. What I see as so similar is our emotional retardation. His inability to accept others’ love and affection is something I don’t think anyone can say isn’t something I also suffer from. The difference is, and this is something I kind of admire about him, is his ability to at least fake it. Actually, he would know exactly what I’m talking about.
Something I’ve truly strived for and, I believe I’ve succeeded at, is in most of my relationships with people I try to let them know how important they are to me. You guys know what you mean to me. I’ve written ad-nauseum about that very subject on so many occasions that I sometimes get the feeling you’ve got to be kinda sick of it. That’s something he’s never even attempted.
Where I feel I’ve failed miserably is in allowing the reciprocation of those feelings to enter my reality. I’ve always written about how much I want to feel love and though so many of you are constantly trying to reassure me of said love, I just, I don’t know, find it hard to fathom. Yeah, I know, that all comes back to one loving themselves and that’s the real thing that I need to work on.
See, there’s another similarity between us. And, once again, I admire his ability to fake it. That’s really the one and only trait I wish I could carry on from him. I know, deep inside, that I’m not the fraud I fear so much and I truly believe you all when you tell me the same. For that, I will always be grateful to each and every one of you.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
He's So Empty
I can’t believe how angry I am at him right now. I’ve never been one to blame any of my problems on anyone but me. Looking at him this weekend, at times, filled me with a rage I haven’t felt before. Actually, I really didn’t feel it until I woke up this morning and knew I needed to get in the car to leave.
I’ve written a number of times about my fears of becoming like him and I realize that nobody thinks we’re anything alike. While seeing him though, it was so obvious to me how similar we are. The purest difference between us is that I’m ashamed of these traits while throughout his life he wore them as a badge of honor.
Every single quality he believes he has are the same things I abhor about myself. He spent his marriage to my Mother basically ignoring her. I was very close to the same with Shelly. We Kids always talked about how empty he was inside. How, in reality he could never have a real relationship with anyone simply because he was incapable of loving anyone. Over the last few years I’ve overcompensated so much that I practically beg for it and when presented the opportunity shut myself down so much that it seems I have no interest. I’m so afraid of the whole thing and twice as ashamed for feeling that way.
The people that like him have no idea what he’s really like simply because he has no ability to let anyone in. I’m so afraid that what you all see in me is the same act that he’s been putting on for as long as anyone can remember. It’s always show time for him and I can’t help but wonder, obviously with different personalities, if I’m just as big of a fraud as he is. I’m always questioning if I’m just putting on this open, sensitive act to ensure that I’ll always have people around.
I know, we’re all broken in one way or another. I can’t help but think that my cracks are a direct result of him. When I first saw him yesterday, as he had no idea I was coming, his first words to me were. “Oh, I thought I was gonna have a good day”. Of course, my being as plastic as he, we both laughed. I used to call him Daddy as a small child and I’m so ashamed of that. I’ve been yelling at myself all day during the drive home and I literally feel pain and exhaustion just from the whole head game. I didn’t deserve that from him. None of us did. Excuse my language but, fuck you Dad. FUCK you Dad. FUCK YOU DAD!!!
I’ve written a number of times about my fears of becoming like him and I realize that nobody thinks we’re anything alike. While seeing him though, it was so obvious to me how similar we are. The purest difference between us is that I’m ashamed of these traits while throughout his life he wore them as a badge of honor.
Every single quality he believes he has are the same things I abhor about myself. He spent his marriage to my Mother basically ignoring her. I was very close to the same with Shelly. We Kids always talked about how empty he was inside. How, in reality he could never have a real relationship with anyone simply because he was incapable of loving anyone. Over the last few years I’ve overcompensated so much that I practically beg for it and when presented the opportunity shut myself down so much that it seems I have no interest. I’m so afraid of the whole thing and twice as ashamed for feeling that way.
The people that like him have no idea what he’s really like simply because he has no ability to let anyone in. I’m so afraid that what you all see in me is the same act that he’s been putting on for as long as anyone can remember. It’s always show time for him and I can’t help but wonder, obviously with different personalities, if I’m just as big of a fraud as he is. I’m always questioning if I’m just putting on this open, sensitive act to ensure that I’ll always have people around.
I know, we’re all broken in one way or another. I can’t help but think that my cracks are a direct result of him. When I first saw him yesterday, as he had no idea I was coming, his first words to me were. “Oh, I thought I was gonna have a good day”. Of course, my being as plastic as he, we both laughed. I used to call him Daddy as a small child and I’m so ashamed of that. I’ve been yelling at myself all day during the drive home and I literally feel pain and exhaustion just from the whole head game. I didn’t deserve that from him. None of us did. Excuse my language but, fuck you Dad. FUCK you Dad. FUCK YOU DAD!!!
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