Mine would likely be called Fear of Flying but not for the expected reasons. I was nine and had been confined to home for the summer since I had developed rheumatic fever, a debilitating condition when it strikes.
I missed playing outside. As a result I began developing my inner playmate. At one point I imagined I was the king of my own realm and even went so far as to draw a map of it. I also pretended I was on an ocean liner as I looked out the windows, watching the world go by.
So it was no surprise to me that when in the fall I was finally able to get outside I had a good deal of stored imagination. All the neighbor kids were glad to see me again.
However during those three or four months I developed not only a sense of self but a comfort in being alone.
One day I was out in the autumn wind with falling leaves and pretended I was a big bird, an eagle, hawk, vulture. I don’t know.
I was flapping my wings as I was running, imagining myself soaring over the land (grass as trees) below. One of the neighbor kids came out to play but, as he later told me, thought better of it after watching me.
It wasn’t until later that I found out he and others he told were convinced that my disease had somehow changed my personality, that I had transformed into someone ‘girly’. Naturally I felt ostracized and was confirmed in my view when I was regularly ridiculed and kept out of activities which, in turn, only led to more alone time.
To make a long story more crumpled this outer attitude towards me started infiltrating my fourth grade classmates so that by the following year I was constantly reminded of my otherness by not only them but by my teacher who seemed to enjoy bullying me. This resulted in a number of after school fights where people I once thought were friends would instead show up to watch me get beat up by three or four guys. I got the best of one of them but the rest took offense and made sure I left with bruises.
The only good things I learned from all of this was a strong sense of independence and enjoyment being by myself and, years later, the knowledge that, yes, I was gay and proud of it.
Oh Thomas, what a heartbreaking story. The bullying that happens at schools just hurts me so much, as a parent. My middle son got similarly crushed for being self-expressive, too "girly" by the standards of the patriarchy, from 10 to 13. At that point, home education became the only viable option, but the damage was done. I'm really glad you got through it into adulthood and were able to be true to yourself rather than clamping down on it for self-protection, but oh boy, I wish society would hurry up and get civilised enough that these things wouldn't happen. I like your title. It's perfect. I would love to see you do a post of that title on this subject.
Fascinating that you have spent so much of your adult life contributing enormously on the authorship question, asking, "Who did it?" "Which one of you did it?". "Why would the author deny doing it?" " "What punishment would the author have, unjustly, have endured? " "Who, of those he loved, would have killed him for what he put on the boards? " " Why was so much covered up, why did he become, anonymous, not owning up to his amazing talent? ". I think your recent post on "Where is the evidence" sums it up. When a group, or peers, or a parental or power figure goes off the rails with impunity, you learn, as an adult, to rely on evidence to reply. Fascinating to see how bullying, intimidation, and injustice can birth a warrior. Thank you for you bravery! Elizabeth Rodgers, J. D.
Thank you. What an interesting link you have made between my childhood experiences and my adult passions! I never even considered this but it makes complete sense.
Life can really be traumatizing for those of us with different sensitivities and neurodivergences. I have learned this just the same as you have, by brutal experience. Excellently written and a great read. Thank you for sharing.
As a fellow eggshell walker, this one hits. Though my situations were different, the tiptoeing lasted for years. It's hard on a kid when nothing makes sense and outburst could be caused by any little thing. Hopefully all that ends in our time. I don't know that I will ever write it out. If feels embarrassing.
Why not write it out for yourself, at least, and see if it still feels embarrassing. I wonder why embarrassment is the emotion. I wonder how it has become your shame when it wasn't in any way your fault? Eggshell walking is so painful. There were still, until recently, close people I had to do that with, and I don't want it in my life. Even if I love them. I would so much prefer if people deal with their stuff rather than expect me to tiptoe around it :-). As a child, though, it is just so confusing.
This story brought back so many feelings of childhood confusion. So many incidents, at home and at school, were incomprehensible and randomly terrifying.
I don't have a title for the most defining moment of my childhood, but it is vivid in my memory. I've had several EMDR sessions to deal with it. Maybe one day I will be ready to tell the tale. Or maybe I never will. Thank you for sharing this story, Ros.
Thank you, Emma. It's strange, but I've found 'finding a title' quite helpful. It's one of the things Gary Craig used to teach to those learning EFT - it was "imagine this was a movie, what would you call it?" In some ways it's a helpful distancing tool when you're clearing the energy of it. My daughter had a trauma she couldn't talk about that she called simply "4am". I hope you find your way through to the peaceful side of your traumatic event. When it becomes just a story and not a thing carrying emotional charge anymore.
I can't top this for unjustified punishments, my two brothers and I were hauled in front of my parents on a regular basis for stuff we had done around the block, in concert with other kids.* Mostly balls being hit or thrown negligently into neighboring yards - it was an entire "dead end" block, around the corner.
Relay races that ended up with running racers flying into hedges. Bike races which had to be begun at least across the boulevard into a starting line at the adjacent block, and only THEN into the dead end block, with the theoretical terminus / finish line being mere feet short of a yard filled with Catholic religious statues. "Peccavi et mea culpa," etc.
*The closest anyone got to "childish porn" was the usual games of doctor and nurse, pretty harmless stuff. But for sure no kid ever admitted he or she had been part of it. I think the oldest kid was twelve!
Unfair punishment is such a powerful, universal themeVictor Hugo essentially based Les Miserables on it.
Nice point - yes, unfair punishment is behind a few other books and films I can think of as well (Shawshank Redemption etc). Obviously we had nothing on that scale, but even a minor incident inflicted by people who are supposed to love you can have serious effects. It sounds like you had a whole heap of fun earning your punishments; I would definitely have preferred that!
Maybe I should clarify there was a sizeable treehouse in the backyard of a house at the end of the dead end, so the goofier "games" that went on inside it in good weather, were in no danger of adult intervention. And those were among kids all of whom knew each other, who all lived either on that street or in surrounding blocks, yet somehow as far as I could tell hours later it was as if none of it even happened and life went on. I.e., curiosities were duly answered and no harm done.
The stunts we got REALLY got punished for we essentially needed to be warned off, since some of those bouncing, spinning footballs and even (I can't believe we did this) golf balls teed up and smashed down the block could definitely have done more property damage, and even injured someone. So getting "grounded" for a few days was fair enough, in retrospect.
I did get spanked very occasionally but it seemed to make little impression, whereas being grounded was a real drag.
I should navigate to other posts to comment on what I am reluctant (if not exactly fearful) to write about but pending that - in brief it's a reluctance to write about highly abstract topics that need to be "shown, rather than described." I am afraid I would lose the reader's interest, so there is indeed a kind of "rational fear." Fortunately there are plenty of other things to write about.
I remember drawing on the kitchen wall with a biro and blaming it on my younger sister. She got told off for it. Because surely it had to be her! I was far too sensible. I never did own up. (Sorry, Caz.)
Poor Caz! I feel the injustice. Being told off for what we've done seems fine. Being told off for what we haven't done, or for something accidental, definitely not. And the larger punishments? It probably depends. Again, I think justice/injustice -- or fairness -- is key to how we receive it and whether it creates trauma.
I had wall-drawers too (thanks kids, more painting for mummy to do). Also wallpaper tearers. Also fiver-flushed-down-the-loo-ers and furniture cutters.
I'm sorry you had it too. It must be extremely common. There's usually little chance to work through them without getting into a significant relationship and noticing all the parallels playing out. I guess those marriages serve a valuable purpose for us, even though they are very hard to live through.
A carrot on the piano. How dare you? As a parent, you begin to understand how these little things build up until something like that just makes you lose your mind.
Things were tense in my Brady Bunch family growing up too, so can relate to the situation.
Thanks, Shoni. Yes, I suspect mum had just suffered her husband's fury (we wouldn't know, the house had many floors and his fury was quiet) and was venting on us. Plus I also, when my kids were small, shouted at them for reasons that were not really down to them at all. But unlike my mother, I always (when I had calmed down) apologised and explained... remembering how much that would have meant to me when I was little.
I’ll never look at a carrot the same again still it be worse if it was a banana. Loved your writing so lively and fresh and reminding me of how confusing I remember my childhood. You retell the fear of getting told off and peer pressure so well thankyou
I posted an earlier comment here that was meant for another of your posts. I apologize. How clever to put us in your shoes at the beginning of this post. I, too, was afraid of doing something wrong and developed a perfectionist personality. My father may have triggered this in me. He was well-meaning when he criticized my efforts, but in my desire to please him, I felt shame. Maybe it was because he was not demonstrative in his love for me. I don't remember very many hugs or arms around the shoulders. He did express pride in my achievements which only made me more of a perfectionist. Yeah, it's the process that is the punishment.
Thanks, K.C. I struggled a lot to work out to tell this story which I have told verbally so many times! I published a longer version which didn’t start here, but had the ‘in my shoes’ part some way in. Then realised after a day or two it might be better to jump right in. I am not used to the short editing schedule that weekly posting demands, but it is good to develop the skill set!
Ah, a fellow perfectionist! The fear of making mistakes has actually led to me making mistakes I would never have otherwise made; I don’t know if you have some similar experiences there too? We who did not feel loved have a lot of self-loving to do.
My childhood was a duller versio n of yours, I think, and for some similar reasons. I started to tell my story here but I can't do it. Which at 70 is pretty pathetic. I did manage, though, as an adult, to have a mostly loving relationship with my mother, though it required me to be the adult in the relationship.
I'm very glad for you that you've achieved some understanding of what was happening - it's taken me a long time, and too late to achieve any real peace of mind.
Not pathetic, Jodie. These things are very hard to tell. It has taken me decades to write this one down, and I have had millions of words of practice!
As to your managing to have a mostly loving relationship with your mother, that is a huge testament to your character. I was determined to get there too, with mine. And I certainly gained an understanding of her, and developed a close bond with her, in time.
I don't think I would have much if any peace of mind if I hadn't stumbled on EFT tapping in 2007. Seventeen years of working through stuff with tapping (almost daily) had brought peace on a whole range of issues and made the writing of this piece possible. I wish you peace even though you think it might be too late. I don't think any emotional shift is too late, until we actually leave our bodies.
A perfect encapsulation of the absurdity that often marks our formative years! I can practically hear the dramatic mum voice and see the anguished sibling faces. My defining tale could be titled "The Great Ice Cream Incident." I got in a tub of forbidden ice cream into the house only to have it discovered, resulting in a dramatic family showdown over my 'criminal' act of indulgence. Spoiler: the ice cream was worth every ounce of trouble! I still can’t quite figure out why ice cream was considered contraband. My mother sure had strict snack policies!
no haha! I exaggerated that sentence. It felt "criminal" to me and my mother was probably simply "annoyed" at me for not listening to her and demolishing her efforts of keeping me and my sister healthy haha!
My own defining childhood story could be 'The day my mother taped my violin practice...and made me sit and listen to it back'. My mum was a bit of a tyrant on piano and violin practice. I always hated doing the latter, lone violin and all that, yet once I got in, I lived for playing in our borough youth orchestras. One day when I was probably about 11 she wasn't happy with the amount and quality of my practice and she recorded it - on my cassette player! - then made me sit and listen to it. I could see what she was getting at but couldn't forgive her for it.
Later, once I found out more about her own father, I could understand why she had her tyrannical moments. She grew up in Belfast, and won a place at Queen's to study classics - but her small business-owning tyrannical protestant father refused to give her any funding and she had to turn it down, so took the civil service exams and got a posting to London where she met my easy-going dad in the Customs & Excise Operatic Society. Being very musical herself, she really wanted that for me too, but always nagging about practice. I discovered the trick, on days I got home before her, of saying I'd done a lot more practice than I actually did - but I did do a bit, I was that guilty, until I got to the level when even I knew that more was needed.
My brother, on the other hand, (conveniently?!) knocked his front teeth out being knocked off his bike and, embouchure spoiled, the neighbours were forever after spared his trumpet practice.
Interesting get out by your brother! It's hard having a mother who wants you to fulfil her unfulfilled potential. And in your case visits upon you a watered-down (but still poisonous) version of the tyranny that caused her regrets. Becoming conscious of this kind of thing prevents it travelling down to another generation. Thank you for sharing your story.
Mine would likely be called Fear of Flying but not for the expected reasons. I was nine and had been confined to home for the summer since I had developed rheumatic fever, a debilitating condition when it strikes.
I missed playing outside. As a result I began developing my inner playmate. At one point I imagined I was the king of my own realm and even went so far as to draw a map of it. I also pretended I was on an ocean liner as I looked out the windows, watching the world go by.
So it was no surprise to me that when in the fall I was finally able to get outside I had a good deal of stored imagination. All the neighbor kids were glad to see me again.
However during those three or four months I developed not only a sense of self but a comfort in being alone.
One day I was out in the autumn wind with falling leaves and pretended I was a big bird, an eagle, hawk, vulture. I don’t know.
I was flapping my wings as I was running, imagining myself soaring over the land (grass as trees) below. One of the neighbor kids came out to play but, as he later told me, thought better of it after watching me.
It wasn’t until later that I found out he and others he told were convinced that my disease had somehow changed my personality, that I had transformed into someone ‘girly’. Naturally I felt ostracized and was confirmed in my view when I was regularly ridiculed and kept out of activities which, in turn, only led to more alone time.
To make a long story more crumpled this outer attitude towards me started infiltrating my fourth grade classmates so that by the following year I was constantly reminded of my otherness by not only them but by my teacher who seemed to enjoy bullying me. This resulted in a number of after school fights where people I once thought were friends would instead show up to watch me get beat up by three or four guys. I got the best of one of them but the rest took offense and made sure I left with bruises.
The only good things I learned from all of this was a strong sense of independence and enjoyment being by myself and, years later, the knowledge that, yes, I was gay and proud of it.
Oh Thomas, what a heartbreaking story. The bullying that happens at schools just hurts me so much, as a parent. My middle son got similarly crushed for being self-expressive, too "girly" by the standards of the patriarchy, from 10 to 13. At that point, home education became the only viable option, but the damage was done. I'm really glad you got through it into adulthood and were able to be true to yourself rather than clamping down on it for self-protection, but oh boy, I wish society would hurry up and get civilised enough that these things wouldn't happen. I like your title. It's perfect. I would love to see you do a post of that title on this subject.
Fascinating that you have spent so much of your adult life contributing enormously on the authorship question, asking, "Who did it?" "Which one of you did it?". "Why would the author deny doing it?" " "What punishment would the author have, unjustly, have endured? " "Who, of those he loved, would have killed him for what he put on the boards? " " Why was so much covered up, why did he become, anonymous, not owning up to his amazing talent? ". I think your recent post on "Where is the evidence" sums it up. When a group, or peers, or a parental or power figure goes off the rails with impunity, you learn, as an adult, to rely on evidence to reply. Fascinating to see how bullying, intimidation, and injustice can birth a warrior. Thank you for you bravery! Elizabeth Rodgers, J. D.
Thank you. What an interesting link you have made between my childhood experiences and my adult passions! I never even considered this but it makes complete sense.
Life can really be traumatizing for those of us with different sensitivities and neurodivergences. I have learned this just the same as you have, by brutal experience. Excellently written and a great read. Thank you for sharing.
Pleasure, blue.
As a fellow eggshell walker, this one hits. Though my situations were different, the tiptoeing lasted for years. It's hard on a kid when nothing makes sense and outburst could be caused by any little thing. Hopefully all that ends in our time. I don't know that I will ever write it out. If feels embarrassing.
Why not write it out for yourself, at least, and see if it still feels embarrassing. I wonder why embarrassment is the emotion. I wonder how it has become your shame when it wasn't in any way your fault? Eggshell walking is so painful. There were still, until recently, close people I had to do that with, and I don't want it in my life. Even if I love them. I would so much prefer if people deal with their stuff rather than expect me to tiptoe around it :-). As a child, though, it is just so confusing.
This story brought back so many feelings of childhood confusion. So many incidents, at home and at school, were incomprehensible and randomly terrifying.
I don't have a title for the most defining moment of my childhood, but it is vivid in my memory. I've had several EMDR sessions to deal with it. Maybe one day I will be ready to tell the tale. Or maybe I never will. Thank you for sharing this story, Ros.
Thank you, Emma. It's strange, but I've found 'finding a title' quite helpful. It's one of the things Gary Craig used to teach to those learning EFT - it was "imagine this was a movie, what would you call it?" In some ways it's a helpful distancing tool when you're clearing the energy of it. My daughter had a trauma she couldn't talk about that she called simply "4am". I hope you find your way through to the peaceful side of your traumatic event. When it becomes just a story and not a thing carrying emotional charge anymore.
I can't top this for unjustified punishments, my two brothers and I were hauled in front of my parents on a regular basis for stuff we had done around the block, in concert with other kids.* Mostly balls being hit or thrown negligently into neighboring yards - it was an entire "dead end" block, around the corner.
Relay races that ended up with running racers flying into hedges. Bike races which had to be begun at least across the boulevard into a starting line at the adjacent block, and only THEN into the dead end block, with the theoretical terminus / finish line being mere feet short of a yard filled with Catholic religious statues. "Peccavi et mea culpa," etc.
*The closest anyone got to "childish porn" was the usual games of doctor and nurse, pretty harmless stuff. But for sure no kid ever admitted he or she had been part of it. I think the oldest kid was twelve!
Unfair punishment is such a powerful, universal themeVictor Hugo essentially based Les Miserables on it.
Nice point - yes, unfair punishment is behind a few other books and films I can think of as well (Shawshank Redemption etc). Obviously we had nothing on that scale, but even a minor incident inflicted by people who are supposed to love you can have serious effects. It sounds like you had a whole heap of fun earning your punishments; I would definitely have preferred that!
Maybe I should clarify there was a sizeable treehouse in the backyard of a house at the end of the dead end, so the goofier "games" that went on inside it in good weather, were in no danger of adult intervention. And those were among kids all of whom knew each other, who all lived either on that street or in surrounding blocks, yet somehow as far as I could tell hours later it was as if none of it even happened and life went on. I.e., curiosities were duly answered and no harm done.
The stunts we got REALLY got punished for we essentially needed to be warned off, since some of those bouncing, spinning footballs and even (I can't believe we did this) golf balls teed up and smashed down the block could definitely have done more property damage, and even injured someone. So getting "grounded" for a few days was fair enough, in retrospect.
I did get spanked very occasionally but it seemed to make little impression, whereas being grounded was a real drag.
I should navigate to other posts to comment on what I am reluctant (if not exactly fearful) to write about but pending that - in brief it's a reluctance to write about highly abstract topics that need to be "shown, rather than described." I am afraid I would lose the reader's interest, so there is indeed a kind of "rational fear." Fortunately there are plenty of other things to write about.
What a weird thing to be punished for!
I remember drawing on the kitchen wall with a biro and blaming it on my younger sister. She got told off for it. Because surely it had to be her! I was far too sensible. I never did own up. (Sorry, Caz.)
Poor Caz! I feel the injustice. Being told off for what we've done seems fine. Being told off for what we haven't done, or for something accidental, definitely not. And the larger punishments? It probably depends. Again, I think justice/injustice -- or fairness -- is key to how we receive it and whether it creates trauma.
I had wall-drawers too (thanks kids, more painting for mummy to do). Also wallpaper tearers. Also fiver-flushed-down-the-loo-ers and furniture cutters.
‘a lifelong fear of getting things wrong—were the punishments‘
Whew, yes, that working through our childhood traumas via marriage. Boy do I know that sucky experience.
I'm sorry you had it too. It must be extremely common. There's usually little chance to work through them without getting into a significant relationship and noticing all the parallels playing out. I guess those marriages serve a valuable purpose for us, even though they are very hard to live through.
Mine would be called, “crying in the playground”.
Have you ever written about it, Janet?
No, I haven’t, but I feel like it’s a little well of inspiration waiting for me to pull up.
A carrot on the piano. How dare you? As a parent, you begin to understand how these little things build up until something like that just makes you lose your mind.
Things were tense in my Brady Bunch family growing up too, so can relate to the situation.
Beautifully written, as usual!
Thanks, Shoni. Yes, I suspect mum had just suffered her husband's fury (we wouldn't know, the house had many floors and his fury was quiet) and was venting on us. Plus I also, when my kids were small, shouted at them for reasons that were not really down to them at all. But unlike my mother, I always (when I had calmed down) apologised and explained... remembering how much that would have meant to me when I was little.
I’ll never look at a carrot the same again still it be worse if it was a banana. Loved your writing so lively and fresh and reminding me of how confusing I remember my childhood. You retell the fear of getting told off and peer pressure so well thankyou
Thank you, Kerrie!
I posted an earlier comment here that was meant for another of your posts. I apologize. How clever to put us in your shoes at the beginning of this post. I, too, was afraid of doing something wrong and developed a perfectionist personality. My father may have triggered this in me. He was well-meaning when he criticized my efforts, but in my desire to please him, I felt shame. Maybe it was because he was not demonstrative in his love for me. I don't remember very many hugs or arms around the shoulders. He did express pride in my achievements which only made me more of a perfectionist. Yeah, it's the process that is the punishment.
Thanks, K.C. I struggled a lot to work out to tell this story which I have told verbally so many times! I published a longer version which didn’t start here, but had the ‘in my shoes’ part some way in. Then realised after a day or two it might be better to jump right in. I am not used to the short editing schedule that weekly posting demands, but it is good to develop the skill set!
Ah, a fellow perfectionist! The fear of making mistakes has actually led to me making mistakes I would never have otherwise made; I don’t know if you have some similar experiences there too? We who did not feel loved have a lot of self-loving to do.
A great read, Rod. Rod? Ros!
Thank you! I know, I always get 'Rod' on autocorrect too; you'd think my own devices would know what my name is!
My childhood was a duller versio n of yours, I think, and for some similar reasons. I started to tell my story here but I can't do it. Which at 70 is pretty pathetic. I did manage, though, as an adult, to have a mostly loving relationship with my mother, though it required me to be the adult in the relationship.
I'm very glad for you that you've achieved some understanding of what was happening - it's taken me a long time, and too late to achieve any real peace of mind.
Not pathetic, Jodie. These things are very hard to tell. It has taken me decades to write this one down, and I have had millions of words of practice!
As to your managing to have a mostly loving relationship with your mother, that is a huge testament to your character. I was determined to get there too, with mine. And I certainly gained an understanding of her, and developed a close bond with her, in time.
I don't think I would have much if any peace of mind if I hadn't stumbled on EFT tapping in 2007. Seventeen years of working through stuff with tapping (almost daily) had brought peace on a whole range of issues and made the writing of this piece possible. I wish you peace even though you think it might be too late. I don't think any emotional shift is too late, until we actually leave our bodies.
A perfect encapsulation of the absurdity that often marks our formative years! I can practically hear the dramatic mum voice and see the anguished sibling faces. My defining tale could be titled "The Great Ice Cream Incident." I got in a tub of forbidden ice cream into the house only to have it discovered, resulting in a dramatic family showdown over my 'criminal' act of indulgence. Spoiler: the ice cream was worth every ounce of trouble! I still can’t quite figure out why ice cream was considered contraband. My mother sure had strict snack policies!
Thanks, Mohika! Ah, strict snack policies blight so many childhoods. I liked your use of 'criminal' and wonder if that was the word used at the time.
no haha! I exaggerated that sentence. It felt "criminal" to me and my mother was probably simply "annoyed" at me for not listening to her and demolishing her efforts of keeping me and my sister healthy haha!
That is a story and a half.
My own defining childhood story could be 'The day my mother taped my violin practice...and made me sit and listen to it back'. My mum was a bit of a tyrant on piano and violin practice. I always hated doing the latter, lone violin and all that, yet once I got in, I lived for playing in our borough youth orchestras. One day when I was probably about 11 she wasn't happy with the amount and quality of my practice and she recorded it - on my cassette player! - then made me sit and listen to it. I could see what she was getting at but couldn't forgive her for it.
Later, once I found out more about her own father, I could understand why she had her tyrannical moments. She grew up in Belfast, and won a place at Queen's to study classics - but her small business-owning tyrannical protestant father refused to give her any funding and she had to turn it down, so took the civil service exams and got a posting to London where she met my easy-going dad in the Customs & Excise Operatic Society. Being very musical herself, she really wanted that for me too, but always nagging about practice. I discovered the trick, on days I got home before her, of saying I'd done a lot more practice than I actually did - but I did do a bit, I was that guilty, until I got to the level when even I knew that more was needed.
My brother, on the other hand, (conveniently?!) knocked his front teeth out being knocked off his bike and, embouchure spoiled, the neighbours were forever after spared his trumpet practice.
Interesting get out by your brother! It's hard having a mother who wants you to fulfil her unfulfilled potential. And in your case visits upon you a watered-down (but still poisonous) version of the tyranny that caused her regrets. Becoming conscious of this kind of thing prevents it travelling down to another generation. Thank you for sharing your story.