Tonight in our creative journalling class we were writing about memories, and at one point we were asked to look back at a definitive childhood memory that had a negative effect..... and then write a bit about it. This exercise taught me two things about myself.
The first thing was that I must have mastered the skill of disassociation at a very young age, because looking back at all those memories that should have been painful, I didn't feel a thing.
Except for that one memory that has never left me, and that is the memory that taught me a second thing about myself. I don't think I can explain it without describing the memory (which I wasn't sure I wanted to do here) but maybe I will anyways, lest I forget my goal of transparency.
"I'm sitting on the couch and my parents are fighting. This is nothing unusual, as it happens all the time, and as usual I have no idea what their issue is or why they're swearing so much or when they'll quiet down so I can hear the TV, but I remember turning around to look over the back of the couch at them as the fight escalated. My dad grabbed for what was nearest, a breadknife, and threw it at my mom, who ducked behind the staircase. The knife was followed by a white 5 gallon pail, neither of which made contact. I jumped up and ran between them to my room, where I threw myself on my bed, covered my head and screamed, "Leave my mom alone" and then proceeded to cry. Soon after my mom came in to comfort me and my dad stormed off."
There are a lot of things I can take away from this memory, but I don't want to get into it too much, since I'm so very ready for bed, but here's the breakdown.
Mom and dad are fighting. I spazzed, they stopped. Who's to say I can't always make them stop? Who's to say I can't always fix the relationships of the people I love?
I continued to try. I found sneaky underhanded ways to make people stop fighting. One evening as two of my friends were fighting at the playground, I hid in a hedge for well over an hour, certain that when they realized I was missing, they would forget their fight and look for me. It worked according to plan, and those friends still have no idea what I was really up to that evening..... but I got in big trouble. I had grown-ups yelling at me from every direction and my friends weren't impressed with me either..... but they were friends. They were upset with me but they weren't fighting anymore, so I bore the scorn.
As long as it continued to work, I continued to plot and scheme a million different ways to avert confrontation. Perhaps if it hadn't worked that first time, it wouldn't have become so ingrained in me. Perhaps if it hadn't worked the second time I wouldn't have taken it on as my responsibility.
But it did work. And now I'm a grown up and it's still not my responsibility.
And now I'm too tired to even consider figuring out what I'm trying to get at. So I'm just gonna go to bed.
The first thing was that I must have mastered the skill of disassociation at a very young age, because looking back at all those memories that should have been painful, I didn't feel a thing.
Except for that one memory that has never left me, and that is the memory that taught me a second thing about myself. I don't think I can explain it without describing the memory (which I wasn't sure I wanted to do here) but maybe I will anyways, lest I forget my goal of transparency.
"I'm sitting on the couch and my parents are fighting. This is nothing unusual, as it happens all the time, and as usual I have no idea what their issue is or why they're swearing so much or when they'll quiet down so I can hear the TV, but I remember turning around to look over the back of the couch at them as the fight escalated. My dad grabbed for what was nearest, a breadknife, and threw it at my mom, who ducked behind the staircase. The knife was followed by a white 5 gallon pail, neither of which made contact. I jumped up and ran between them to my room, where I threw myself on my bed, covered my head and screamed, "Leave my mom alone" and then proceeded to cry. Soon after my mom came in to comfort me and my dad stormed off."
There are a lot of things I can take away from this memory, but I don't want to get into it too much, since I'm so very ready for bed, but here's the breakdown.
Mom and dad are fighting. I spazzed, they stopped. Who's to say I can't always make them stop? Who's to say I can't always fix the relationships of the people I love?
I continued to try. I found sneaky underhanded ways to make people stop fighting. One evening as two of my friends were fighting at the playground, I hid in a hedge for well over an hour, certain that when they realized I was missing, they would forget their fight and look for me. It worked according to plan, and those friends still have no idea what I was really up to that evening..... but I got in big trouble. I had grown-ups yelling at me from every direction and my friends weren't impressed with me either..... but they were friends. They were upset with me but they weren't fighting anymore, so I bore the scorn.
As long as it continued to work, I continued to plot and scheme a million different ways to avert confrontation. Perhaps if it hadn't worked that first time, it wouldn't have become so ingrained in me. Perhaps if it hadn't worked the second time I wouldn't have taken it on as my responsibility.
But it did work. And now I'm a grown up and it's still not my responsibility.
And now I'm too tired to even consider figuring out what I'm trying to get at. So I'm just gonna go to bed.
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