Well this is new. This is different, uncomfortable and procrastination-inducing, but I guess, like everything, this too, shall pass.
The title was inspired by a comment on one of my posts as a reply to @xrayman.
I think this is the start of the most difficult writing project I've ever done.
I began by thinking this would start at the beginning of the symptoms that led to the diagnosis, but I think I have to go further back than that.
This all started before 2016 if I think about it.
And now that I am thinking about it, it's going even further back than that - sorry (not sorry).
I have always worked.
Sometimes, I've worked hard at getting out of 'work'.
As a kid, I'd avoid chores - cleaning/tidying my room, helping around the house etc - I would rather be off down the fields, climbing trees, riding wild, unbroken ponies, exploring storm drains. Yet I had a paper-round and I worked as Dishwasher at a restaurant / nightclub from the age of 13. I work hard at things that pique my interest - everything else is a chore (and you remember what I said about chores).
I was always a Tom-boy.
"You should be more lady-like," my grandmother used to say.
I can remember my confusion. "What for?"
I don't remember her exact reply, but it was probably along the lines of, "So you can get yourself a 'Good Husband'."
And that sums up the crux of my childhood - the very best I could hope or wish for, the pinnacle of my ambition in life, the entire goal I should put all my effort toward was to snag a 'Good Husband'.
Wedding day
Yeah? Well I got one anyway! Despite my efforts to not bother about being lady-like, despite advice from aunts to make the best of myself (what does that even mean?) and going against all advice in teen-magazines with articles on 'How to win a boyfriend' etc, I went for the 'Bad Lad', a relationship with the one boy who I thought had the best chance of really pissing off my parents, grandmother, over-bearing aunts, and anyone else who voiced strong opinions on what I should do with my life.
I went out with a teenage biker - motorcycle, long hair, leather jacket, the full shebang! Not to mention he'd just come out of a relationship with one of my best friends - and even my great-grandmother knew that fact - I'm calling it a complete success on pissing-off as many people in one fell swoop. The only thing he had going against him was that he had a good job…
Oh wait... that's me!
This is late summer 1981
A big win for me!
April 1981 - A lot happened in that first year. I not only started seeing the baddest, coolest, most attractive guy I’d ever gone out with, I also left school, needed to find a job, went to Europe on the back of a motorcycle…
16 years old, off on an adventure around Europe on the back of a motorcycle - the wildest thing I'd done to that point... maybe...
I was 16 years old, still at school and I really didn’t look or act my age. I was exceptionally naive and inexperienced - basically, I’d not had many boyfriends and the few I’d ‘allowed’ (not always) to ‘cop a feel’ could be counted on one hand. If I’m being truthful, and that’s the whole point of this exercise, I was also stupid, easily-led and simple to take advantage of. I am not going to share the experiences of shameful fumblings behind the garages, or even deeply embarrassing encounters in school - I shall take those stories to the grave (or put them into another book as fictional episodes).
Looking back, I was a bit of a nightmare. I had no idea of etiquette, no clue about how I should behave in most situations. I was more wild than worldly and always looking for an adventure.
I was invited to The Queen's Garden Party in 2010 - I was 'lady-like' enough for that event.
I had two older cousins on my mother’s side, but they were quite a bit older than me and so I was essentially the oldest of the grandchildren - on both sides. On my mother’s side, I was the essence of blame. If something went wrong, someone misbehaved, broke something, went into something that wasn’t supposed to be gone into, explored somewhere forbidden, then it was always “MICHELLE!”
I conducted an experiment once, just to prove to myself that no matter what, the blame for EVERYTHING would always, automatically be laid squarely on my shoulders.
My brother and three male cousins were separated by no more than a year - maybe 18 months - and I persuaded one of my young cousins to whistle at my grandmother’s table. I was expressly forbidden to whistle, it got under my grandmother’s skin and she hated the sound. He sat at the opposite end of the table to me, perhaps 5 or 6 feet from my seat and he whistled.
“Michelle, stop that whistling!” she shouted, and slapped me (face, head, can’t recall).
“I knew you’d blame me,” I said as I rubbed the slap-site. “I just wanted to prove it.”
“Well, you deserve that slap for getting him to do it then,” she said.
And so it went on. My childhood was a series of physical punishments that taught me just one lesson - how to take a beating.
Getting a slap doesn’t hurt for more than a few seconds. It stings and throbs for a little while, but the sensations fade and are soon gone. What hurts, what causes the most damage is that little voice inside your own mind telling you that there’s no one to have your back. None of the adults in your life will ever raise a finger or even a voice to say, “Don’t hit the child,” “Keep your hands off her,” or even “There are other ways to punish her for bad behaviour.”
My Grandad might have done. He might have said something, but I knew that if I told him and he said something, I’d have worse to face when he wasn’t there.
That was the way of the world, or so I thought. It was certainly the way of my world and I took the lesson and I learned how to take a beating, whether that was a slap, a punch, a hefty arm across the back of my neck, or being jerked face-first into a wall by my mother for ‘back-talking her’. I learned that lesson so well that I took it out into the world with me and I became even more dangerous - probably dangerous to myself as much as anyone else, I seem to have lost the art of self-preservation. Basically this: That’s the worst they can do, I’ll survive anything they can throw at me - and probably anything anyone can throw at me.
That's an understatement 😀. Just kidding! I think it was part of being yourself. The rebellious you was just your way of dealing with your circumstances and making the most of it. Maybe even your way of living life by your own terms. I'm sorry you were "taught lessons" in such manners and you felt there was no one to put a hand on your shoulder...but you found yourself to be your greatest supporter. And more importantly, it made you strong. So strong! Tbf, you experienced so many things, both good and bad, that many cannot even imagine experiencing. Plus, you did turn out just fine, right? At least you were lady-like for the Queens Garden party 😉
Hi @blind-spot, thank you for your insight.
I am the first to admit it, I was a bit of a nightmare and I do still have my moments...
You're right, it was my way of dealing with my situation. I don't recall my younger siblings receiving beatings - maybe they don't remember mine.
It taught me one other valuable lesson - how NOT to parent. My own children were never hit. I found other ways of making them see they'd done something wrong.
I did turn out just fine - actually, more than fine :)
As we say where I'm from: I don't scrub-up bad ;)
The part of me that was wild and adventurous is still here. My advice to anyone that asks is this: If you are offered an opportunity to do something, the answer is always 'YES PLEASE!'
I've been on loads of adventures on the back of that advice - and here's to more to come!
A lot of "greener on the other side" from your experience. But that is exactly what's important, right? Learning from the experience. Analysing and understanding what happened, what could be done differently, and then applying them to personal practice. I'm glad you have broken the chain, and it takes a lot of strength to do that.
I have also learned from experience not to say no to opportunities. Even if it doesn't seem fruitful in the short term, in the long run it always carries a lot of value. In the recent past I gave up on an opportunity and it still haunts me to this day 😆
There's another saying: You regret far more, the things you didn't do, than those you did.
In other words, you may do some stupid stuff and when you look back, you think, I did that and I: turned out ok / survived the embarrassment / lived to tell the tale
Or you don't do the stupid stuff and always remember the lost opportunity with regret: I wonder how it would have turned out if I'd done that?
By the way, I read your blog on graffiti in Milan - you have good insight and a detective's mind, I think :)
Hey @michelle.gent, I am shocked reading your story, that is so very cruel!
You are a survivor for sure, but what an awful way to 'learn life lessons', especially from those who should have been there to protect you when you were growing up.
I don't think many could have survived that kind of abuse, there's no other word for it!
Hi @lizelle, thank you, I did survive my childhood - not without scars of course, but I also took a lot of wisdom from it all and I used it to break the cycle.
I knew no better because I knew no other way of life, unfortunately. It wasn't until I met my husband and his family that I realised it didn't have to be like that and it wasn't like that everywhere.
I'm so glad that you now are surrounded by a loving husband and in-laws.
I've really been blessed to have been saved that kind of hurt, it's always a big celebration with a lot of laughter when our extended family get together. So, even though my hubby won't be here for Christmas this year, I'll be surrounded by my special loving crazy family.