Working it out

I get it, life is tough for millions around the world. My Mum's stock response to us kids when we complained,  'It's not fair!' was always, 'Life's not fair'.  A valuable lesson for sure. However as that's the case, the responsibility of us all is to do our utmost to make it fairer before we exit the planet. So calling out past wrongdoing falls within that brief since it's come to my attention.

How so? 

Looking back, I can now see a pattern. Things I rationalised at the time as normal behaviours or just 'bad days' I now know were symptoms of being abused.

Speaking of symptoms, l'll start there. The trouble with GP's is they only look at what's immediately presenting. They don't normally look back at your medical history and join the dots. To be fair, neither did I. Now then, a list: I don't have anxiety problems because I went to the doc about that in my 20's. She gave me breathing exercises. Nor depression because we don't have that in the family, do we. It must have been those antimalarials except one day it was so bad, I gave in and accepted some prozac. Instantly better! Depression gone. Kind of. Maybe. Almost forgot- that high blood pressure. Oh yeah, and the sleep disorder. And the things I haven't bothered getting seen to like the shaking to stay calm and the fear of being late. And this. And that. And something else. 

And one heart op and cancer radiotherapy later ... yay, he's fine! Alive enough to write another paragraph anyway.

Oh and the dissociative behaviour. Huh? Oh and did I mention the same but more severe inexplicable major panic attack during a family gathering when everyone started talking about how great my Dad was? What the hell was that about?  My Dad being talked about so reverently flipped me out somehow so badly for about 48 hours the entire family must have been ready to call the psychiatric unit. I now realise that deep down, he hadn't been able to protect me from __ because __ had made sure to weedle his way into Dad's social circle, much to my complete and utter horror. Now I had no safe place and began rebelling, refusing to go to school.*

Rewinding now to a time in my 20's when I'd just got my first job. I'd stopped the excessive boozing after breaking off a long-term relationship (she'd hinted I had issues). Everything was hunky-dory at last. On my own, happily drawing or something with the telly on in the background when Anglia news comes on. There's an interview with some Cambridge examination board bloke who begins speaking. I look up and instantly fly into an uncontrollable rage. It's my old second year form teacher from St Joseph's. What the hell is happening here? I want to throw a brick at the TV screen. I manage to switch it off and know something is deeply wrong. Why am I in such a panic? I never liked him but it wasn't him was it? Was it?? 

Now I was really confused. This wasn't __. What if they'd both been up to no good?  I never liked this guy because he accused me of cheating my homework by copying.  In fact I'd asked my (now hard-working) older brother to explain the lesson again which he did, helping me work out the ten problems without giving the answers. I confidently handed in ten correct answers next day and was soon hauled up in front of class by this caustic weasel (no offence to weasels) who simply refused to believe I was capable of understanding anything.  More likely, he either couldn't teach or there was zero respect in the room.  Anyway, this mere unfortunate incident was the norm for St. Joseph's and by no means severe enough to cause me to want to pulverise the TV about ten years later.  So what was my problem? Was it because he had been the year leader under whose watch I should have been safe? Maybe but that was one hell of a shock to me.

I remember one time in the mid to early 90's I felt compelled to drive to St Joseph's to try and discover what was eating at me inside. Perhaps a wander round would jog my memory. I went into the chapel. I knew I had to forgive __ for something but all I could remember apart from the frequent, almost ritual humiliation in class and living in utter fear and hatred of of the guy, was that I and two others were detained after class for not doing our homework and given three sharp whacks on the palm of the hand with a steel ruler as punishment.  That, I could understand. It was NFSJ, normal for St Joseph's. There was something else much more disturbing I couldn't fathom at that point. I said a prayer out loud and walked away feeling a bit lighter that I'd done what I could.  But now it was becoming harder to ignore the fact something had happened. Still though, I refused to fully acknowledge that dark something without 'evidence' or rather memory, so it remained pushed down.

One therapist I saw said I was carrying some heavy burdens I needed to put down. Great, Thanks for telling me what I know already. (By the way St Joseph's, who do I send the bill to for counselling?)  The next attempt, I told my story and she started crying. Thanks but no thanks! 

I'm damn well going to get through this crap one way or another and if it helps someone else through theirs, so much the better.

Next up.

"If you don't work hard for your o-levels, you'll not be able to stay on to sixth form" hissed Brother P in Mr K's "art"** class one day. Aha, so THAT'S how I get out of this hell-hole, I remember thinking. Plan! 

*I often wondered why there was such animosity between day boys and boarders. Were you guys just jealous of us being able to 'escape' at night? 

**"You one chap, you draw straight line one third up paper while I make slide guitar" Art education complete! How on earth did I get a B in what was now the only subject I was still engaged with by the time o-levels came round? ;)