Monday, June 6, 2016

The Record: Part 2

You get addicted, at some point, to self-loathing. It starts out as trying to answer a malformed question: why did this happen to me?

That's not really an appropriate question to ask. Asking 'why,' in this context, is essentially trying to fine some design to it. You believe there is a reason, maybe not knowing or understanding that what happened to you was this confluence of the past mistakes of others. Because that sought design doesn't exist, you fine only a vacuum where answers should be, so you create one: it's my fault.

I have believed for so long that my condition is my fault, that I am either being punished for something, or that I'm too weak to deal with it. Self-loathing is now my default, and whenever I get a little bit away from it, I start to cheat back to it. I discount the positives and over-weigh the negatives. I tell myself that people hate me, and it becomes real easy to slide backward.

And I really don't have anyone to keep me from sliding. And I never really did.

Mount Vernon, Washington, is where self-loathing became the norm for me. I was in Second grade, and I can't remember the name of the school any more. But I remember my teacher's name was Mr. Breda. This was the year I started to act out, and I was only ever punished for it.

I remember I got this slip that I was supposed to take home to my parent to sign, basically saying that I had done something wrong. I had zero intention of showing that to my father. The next day at class, I remember he looks at me and asked if I had brought it, pantomiming signing the slip. I meekly shook my head, and I'll never forget that look of annoyed disappointment. So I got a second one, and eventually gave it to dad, and got chewed out. Third grade wasn't much better.

In the summer after third grade, my mother had been out of rehab for some time. My sister and I had frequent visitations. She got married to a man named Bruce, which is all I'm going to say about it here. Mom was well-aware that we weren't being treated well, and if she wasn't, we made sure to let her know.

We were angry with her, in fact, that it had taken so long for her to try to get us back. I remember one visitation, where we were all at this part, and we angrily begged mom to fight for us. Thinking back, that must have been so painful for her. Of course she was trying to get us back. That's why she went to rehab in the first place, so that she could get better and get us back. I remember feeling an immense amount of relief when she was granted custody of us. I never wanted to go back to dad's again.

Fourth grade was at Brentwood Elementary in Spokane, and my teacher was Mr. Linehan. He was a kindly older man, and he never really made me feel inadequate like most of my other male authority figures. Thinking back, I imagine it was becoming increasingly obvious that I wasn't ok. I got a lot of attention from the school counselor, and while I think that helped mitigate some things, it had the unfortunate effect of making me feel separate from everyone.

I never had many friends, and that year was my first real encounters with being made fun of because of my increasing weight and poor self-esteem. My nemesis was Kyle Holmes, not a slender child himself. I would later get an inkling that his home life was pretty shitty as well.

So it goes.

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