WASP News

Making some progress towards accepting myself will require a degree of separation from my past. In my last session with Justin, my therapist, the idea of a declaration of independence was suggested. It appears to be a great idea. An opportunity to carry out an actual act of separation from the ideas and concepts that have been a part of my life since they were installed there by regime of bullying and manipulation.

In order to build on that concept, I figured it would make sense to articulate some of my childhood experiences that I believe have shaped my low self esteem.

I’d like to imagine that my Father really didn’t understand the gravity of the threat “you aint seen nothing yet.” Delivered at the climax of yet another foul mouthed high intensity session of domestic violence,  it was a favourite way for him to signal the end of a “session” before he moved onto a more normal pastime.  I suspect he knew exactly how much fear he was instilling, I think it gave him a sense of control, in a mostly out of control existence.

For me this casual phrase was a reminder, this will happen again, and it maybe worse next time, he probably should have added “have a nice day” for invariably, there would be an instant switch to a more personable human being. He would revert to the  jocular, one of the lads type of bloke, that was always popular at the Pub, and always seemed to have a superabundance of people willing to run around after him and clean up his mess.

As a rule there were two kinds of visitors to my childhood home. The first were family friends, they visited often, and frequently these visits involved alcohol. Parties were common and frequently very  drunken affairs. The second variety of visitors were people demanding money. These were always less welcome, and we would often be compelled to retreat to the back of the house until they stopped knocking at the front, and vice versa. Such visits did not put the Old Man into a good mood. If escape was possible, I would bail out to one of the many “dens” I had dotted around the lane where we lived. Their was invariably devastating trauma that followed  the debt collectors visits. Sometimes I would see the Old Man teeter on the brink of emotional collapse. He would appear to be close to tears, broken and pathetic. It never lasted, the rage would take over and normal service was resumed.

Of course the last thing my parents needed amongst all of this chaos, was a Problem Child. It is likely I was viewed as the source of their numerous woes and this earned me the rather unpleasant title of “Problem Child” a title of which I was constantly reminded.  I was also enlightened with the rather charming knowledge that my continued existence was a surprise, especially since my ever loving father had hurled his patient and remarkably loyal wife down some stairs whilst pregnant with me in an attempt to extinguish at least one of us.

The symptoms that rendered me a Problem Child, apart from the lack of talent with footballs, cricket balls and brass instruments were numerous. I would rather read a book than go out to play, I would rather wear a dress than pair of hand me down trousers and work boots, my room was desperately untidy and, of course I frequently lied to my Parents.

As a self defence mechanism the lies had mixed results, at best it delayed the onset of rage, but there were times this delay was beneficial, so I practiced it as often as I could.  After a particularly bad school report I knew the school would be calling up to find out why they hadn’t had seen the return slip. With the Old Man in an evil rage following the loss of yet another job I resorted to desperate measures. Necessity is the mother of invention and I needed a solution. Carefully dismantling the old fashioned electrical junction box where the phone line joined the property I was able to render the home phone line inert. Disconnecting before I left for school, and remaking the connection when I knew the school office was closed in the late afternoon.  It gave me a couple of days grace and I was grateful.

The school report was principally focused on my constant lack of homework. It seems it was not enough to simply turn up at school everyday and do well in the end of year exams. The teachers seemed hell bent on getting me to work at home too. I don’t think they ever really comprehended the nature of my domestic environment even when turning up for school with a bruise on my face that was an almost perfect hand print, or the occasional black eye.
Summer Holidays offered a welcome break. A chance to receive verbal abuse for a whole load of different reasons.  I was taunted for not wanting to play on the beach. Teased because I refused to remove my shirt or wear shorts and then teased about my spindly frame and sunken chest when I did. Poofter became a common moniker, replacing his usual label for me of “Boy” On the way home there was usually the lecture about how much the holiday just cost and did I realise how lucky I was.

My Mother loved visiting the Drs. and I was frequently trundled in front of them for diagnosis of my wayward behaviour. I don’t know what the outcomes were, but the environment at home remained turbulent so I am guessing that was never diagnosed as the root cause of my troubling behaviour.  One occasion where treatment was forthcoming was after a fall from some step ladders whilst on decorating duties at home. Unable to stand I resorted to shuffling round on my bottom in agony.  Frequent kicks and verbal jibes about being a sissy was their chosen method of dealing with my trauma, however it didn’t seem to help my leg. The vicious bastards eventually relented after two days, and took me to the X-ray department, revealing a nasty fracture, that saw me in plaster for a a month or so.

My relationship with my Mother confused me long into my teens. There was a constant and unpredictable oscillation between concerned parent and spiteful, manipulative, and cunning adversary. She was frequently complicit in the violent outbursts of my Father and equally capable of extreme malice. In my adult years her capability for scheming and manipulation of my emotions to satisfy her selfish financial needs removed what little fondness that remained.

I often came under pressure to allow my children to travel to Doncaster and  spend time with “Their Favourite Grandparents” I never relented, and I have no regrets. Not long before we left the UK I caved in under pressure and flew my parents to Italy for a family holiday. Despite their assurances that their old ways of behaving were behind them, just one day into the break and I witnessed them exchanging their usual vile language just outside their hotel room door. Clearly unperturbed by my unexpected arrival into their demonstration of wedded bliss, the old man dragged my Mother into their room, presumably so he could remind her “She ain’t seen nothing yet.”