The Corrections (and some notes on my childhood)

Shh, I'm just going to sneak this post in here.  

The above photo is a painting my mom did of my son. And a dog. Looks pretty good, huh?

Well, this painting is inspired by a photo. See below. 

Yes, this neat father-son photo was turned into a painting. And I was erased. And replaced by a dog. That's my mom for you. 

I'm pretty sure my son doesn't even like dogs. He's afraid of them. The above picture was taken about two years ago. It was taken by the river in a town I used to live in. My mom says it was taken in a different part of town in a different park. She's wrong. But that's my mom. 

I've begun to accept the fact that dear old Joshua isn't so dear to his parents, and this is just one example of how not dear he is to them. Maybe I'm just getting sentimental in my old age, but I like the photo better than the painting. My son means so much to me, I don't even have words. It would have been a nice thing to see in oil or acrylic. It would have been a sought-after keepsake after my parents pass on. As it is now, I don't want this painting. I don't care if it burns up in a house fire or ends up in a dumpster. 

I'm not bitter or anything. Looking back at my childhood, I realize it was a different time and place. People were different. But this isn't my childhood. This is now. How on earth could this not hurt? But these are my parents. We don't get to change our parents. I don't know if we can change anyone, in fact. I can guide my son and discipline him, but he is who he is. And that's about the most I can affect another human being. 

So we just let our family be who they are. But my family is becoming less and less my family because of things like this. I've always felt I was born into the wrong family; that's how much these people are not like me.

I have this recollection from my childhood: I was at a church thing at night. I was in the playroom (a separate room with a door and stuff). Apparently, I was having WAY too much fun because my mom came in and took me out with her in the dark sanctuary and watched whatever thing it was she was watching. I cried. It sucked. I was having fun, and suddenly I was not having fun. I have countless stories like that, and it may not look like much until you see just how many of them there are. Not only did I start my work career at the age of 3, but my sense of fun was squelched as much and as thoroughly as possible. I'm pretty sure my parents had childhoods, but mine was taken from me not only from the physical/sexual/psychological abuse I experienced but through their other decisions I've mentioned on this blog. 

As I've gotten older, I can see a big difference between people who have had good childhoods with extended years of play and those who grew up without that. In short, those with substantial childhoods are happier, more well-adjusted adults. This goes a long way to explain how I look at the world, sadly. 

I've also realized I tried to replace my childhood after I entered adulthood (which doesn't work very well), experiencing my wild years later on, completely derailing my life in the process, and setting myself up for some really bad circumstances. Basically, I reacted to my parents' (and older siblings') heavy hands by cutting loose later in life. Their controlling, crushing nature ensured I would issue them a big "fuck you" in my adult years, getting on with a girl they detested, and living a lifestyle they could not approve of. Destroying myself became my revenge. 

Why did I destroy myself to enact revenge on them? It doesn't make any sense. But who wants to watch their kids basically kill themselves with work, a bad relationship, and drugs/alcohol? What's ironic is I don't think they even noticed. In addition to that, there's the fact that this is what my childhood taught me. This is how I saw myself. I saw myself as a nobody, invisible, and was without the ability to care for and protect myself because no one showed care to me. We become what is modeled for us, and I was modeled abuse and neglect, which bloomed as I aged. All I did was read from the script I was handed.

Anytime I encounter someone who resembles my father (or my father, for that matter), I recoil inside. I go into defensive mode, sometimes for hours after an encounter that lasted mere minutes. It's something I can at least pinpoint when it happens, though I can't do anything about it. I've done a bit of reading about trauma-based mind control (TBMC) victims, and what I experienced growing up was similar, though not nearly as systematic. 

Around the age of 30, victims of TBMC start to unravel as the person seeks freedom. That's when my unraveling started to occur, as well. What happened to me was not deliberate, but the damage looks the same as TBMC anyway. If you think I'm crazy and think TBMC doesn't exist, I can point out my government is on the record stating it did, in fact, occur (most notably during Operation Paperclip), though they say it has ceased. No, it's merely been outsourced. 

In any case, healing is taking place. Whether what happened was deliberate or not, it doesn't matter. God knows. And God heals. But there are scars. There are marks on my soul. Those will always be there. 

Jonathan Franzen wrote a book called The Corrections. It's a super-long book. I remember buying it for my ex a long time ago, but she never read it. I read it, though. Anyway, the point of the book is that all of us are just corrections of our childhoods. We live our lives and raise our children in a way that corrects our childhoods. You may not believe that, but look around, lots of people are doing it. I'm doing it, too. I'm going to make mistakes, though I will not make the same mistakes as my parents. And my son will most likely do the same thing.

No one has a perfect childhood. No one gets a perfect life, though some get pretty close. Our early years inform what we become. I recently sat down with a young man for an interview, and at one point he told me something I already knew. He said he had "daddy issues." How did I know that? I do, too. We can spot each other. Well, maybe that is something good that came of all that childhood trauma — I am a relatively empathetic person. Hey, there's the bright side! I get to feel all the world's pain.

I know my mom isn't going to paint me anytime soon. That's okay. She gave me lots of memories. So, thanks for the memories, Mom.