Oh boy, this is scary. I am not a writer, I’m a reader. I read about 200 plus books a year. My mind needs to be occupied at all times or I fear where it might go I guess. Or reading others stories and fantasies keeps me from dwelling on my mental dilemma.
Along with the trepidation’s I have about writing, there are the worries about revealing and admitting to portions of my life that are embarrassing and hurtful.
As I ponder what my feelings are about sharing my story, what my feelings were at particular times as I journeyed through this life and how they affected me in my teen years and my adult life.
In the first portion of my life, as I have been told I was put in the orphanage at about nine months of age, probably around spring of 1948. This means that I was what is referred to as a “crib baby”. It also means I was in the crib until someone fed or changed me. There was no cuddling and minimal human contact. Also I was not potty trained. I wet and messed my pants right up to just prior to my teen years. The effect this had on a young child was devastating to my sense of self and still lingers today.
Recently, through retrospection and introspection. I remember that the act of wetting my pants, and the warmth associated with this act gave me comfort.
The lack of human contact has left my with touching issues. With just the act of shaking hands my brain sends an alert “TOUCHING” and there is a hesitation when I reach out to shake. I force myself to follow through. Hugging is another one. I feel like I don’t know what to do or should I be doing this.
All the rejections and abandonment throughout my youth
[two orphanages, school in four different States, separation from my siblings]
left me without the ability to feel bonds with friends. As my youth progressed and I constantly left behind all that I grew to know. I learned to forget what came before and only try to cope with what came next. Suffice to say my mind has blocked names and faces from my “past lives”. I find my sense of “who” and “when” is gone. But my sense of “where” is intact.
Also I lacked and still do to a degree, the feeling of self. Which means I had no focus on personal hygiene. Would dress haphazardly , would not take baths or even put a brush or comb through my hair. In my sophomore year, in English class the teacher singled me out during class and mentioned about my untidy dress and hair. I told her if she would concentrate more on teaching and not about my appearance, she might get better results in class. She told me to go sit in the back of the class.
And I move on from seemingly devastating occurrences almost instantly. Ones that would incapacitate others for a duration of time. I find I don’t panic where others do.
I lack focus, especially when it comes to writing this expos’e. My mind is so full of different things it is hard to keep on track. Being familiar with A.D.D. as my grandsons have this anomaly, I notice I experienced the same similarities. Always loosing focus to other goings on. My mind does not want to stay with this subject and I find myself needing to read a bit from my latest book.
Half way through the ninth grade I was tested and was told my reading and math levels were equivalent with sophomore college. My I.Q. level was 140, yet my grades were close to failing. Looking back I don’t remember ever doing homework or paying any particular attention in class. I believe my mind was just focused on analyzing my surroundings and staying sane. I believe passing my next older sibling in the second grade made me have the need to stay with my graduating class in the year I would normally graduate. I had the need to finish high school. Education and information are always foremost in my mind.
When I could get myself to do it, I loved just picking out an encyclopedia and reading. The reason it took so much for me to get to it was I knew that once I started my need to be thorough would be a burden. This also projected it self to projects around the house. I wouldn’t start cleaning because I knew I couldn’t do it superficially.
Not having parental bonding or guidance, made me sort of not a good father. Questioning not only my ability, but also my right to be one.
To say I lack confidence is smack dab “right on”. But that has never stopped me from trying. And I found that most things I tried, I accomplished.
I have a very hard time asking for help. I spent all my life depending just on me. I counted on no one else. So asking for help would almost bring me to tears.
Lets touch on the touchy subject of religion. I rate my self agnostic. I am not lacking in bible study. I did do Sunday school in the years during my adoption and attended a private school in Pennsylvania for a year that was Episcopal oriented. I’m not familiar with the whole bible but the stories from this book did influence my life. My take on it is that is a great compilation of uplifting stories from multitudes of people with good intentions. I live my life with these parables in mind. The idea of an outside entity controlling my actions alludes me. I long ago took to believe that I myself am accountable for my actions. I do not admonish or degrade those who believe. I have what I need and that is my belief or lack of belief in myself. I do understand that the mind is a fickle thing. And others may need something beyond themselves to mentally cope with life’s challenges. That is their prerogative and not mine to admonish.
I have a few sayings which I tend to live by;
Of course there is the “do unto others” cliche
“to thine own self be true”
Wow that has a lot of meaning for me. First don’t lie to yourself. Meaning don’t lie to others or embellish. Because often it means you are trying to convince yourself of things that are just wrong.
“don’t cry for yourself, someone else is worse off than you”
Being in all the places I was in my youth, I saw others who had been tossed away. Like the young fella I met in the juvenile orphanage who ran away from home in the winter, got frostbite and lost all his toes. Or another who was so smart, he taught himself the inner workings of transistor radios, taught himself to play the drums, and had the most amazing imagination for story writing. But here he was orphaned with us. I never asked any of the kids what their story was but I always felt they must have had it worse than me.
Once when I was in my forties I suppose, I went to a shrink. After telling him of my youth, he said “I only have one Question for you”.
“Why aren’t you crying?”
Well I came to the conclusion that because I didn’t know any other way of life, this was normal for me.
I always felt different from the other kids in school. They had parents and siblings, and led a routine sort of life in the same town and knew each other and the families. Feeling different was in itself a road block to bonding.
Love is not something I knew about or felt. I don’t remember ever being hugged or cuddled. Because of all the moving, rejections and displacements that were forced. I never came to enjoy or feel attached to any place I lived or any of the people I met and interacted with. As soon as I was relocated I forgot about the people. I can’t for the life of me remember names of most of the people I grew up with or interacted with. There are a few, one from my times in Greenbelt Md. I lived in this town at least three different times. In between once being sent to a private school in Pennsylvania for the sixth grade. It was called Church Farm School. It was an 1800 acre episcopal farm. we worked the farm half day and went to school the second half. The plan was for me go there forever maybe but being messed up as I was I got into too much trouble and they didn’t invite me back. When the things we got into doing were bad enough, they singled us out in front of an all inclusive assembly, to be embarrassed in front of everyone. Then we were told to go back to our cottage and await further punishment. This punishment meant being whipped with a strap on our bare bottoms. There were three of us who got in trouble together so we each got 10 lashes, so to speak. I was third in line so I got to listen to the others wail and cry. I was so embarrassed for their screaming that I vowed I would not cry. And that’s what I did, no matter how much it hurt I was not going to cry. I am not saying there weren’t a few silent tears but I took it without a whimper