Blog 6 I am lucky.

I fully recognize how lucky I am compared to other people who have experienced trauma. So many have responded with some sort of social anxiety disorder, or the desire to live alone, or just afraid,/embarrassed to talk about it. This is evident from all the comments and feedback I am getting for sharing. The truth is it isn't courage. Unlike some I have a stunted sense of shame, and the heart of a performer. So talking about it is more of a compulsion. Ask anyone who knows me. Sometimes I won't STFU about it.

My personal belief is that I again experienced trauma differently than most. Most people say they thought their homelife was normal. Frankly, I never did. I heard enough comments from friends and cousins to bolster my feeling that something didn't seem right. I always doubted her love, and what normal was. It wasn't just actual actions, but often times her rules and regulations made no sense to me at all. Nap time and bed time are a perfect examples. A lot of people had a bed time. Myself and my sister had extremely early bedtimes, and it lasted well into school. I am old enough to remember when my bed time was set at 6:30 AM. It was my fifth birthday. Every year, on my birthday, I remember my bed time being moved up 1 half hour. My sister's bed time was 30 minutes after mine, because she was two years older, but I remember her bed time moving up on my birthday, or else we would have had the same bed time and I wasn't old enough to stay up and extra 30 minutes. . Mom's reasoning for this is without 30 extra minutes I was way too ornery because I was tired. Nap time was another head scratcher. Every weekday afternoon my mom said she needed a 2 hour nap. She would put us in our beds to nap, and she'd lay on the family room couch to nap. We weren't allowed to make noise, or even sit together in silence. We were supposed to be napping. The too ornery excuse was used for naps, too. Then, after a 2 hour afternoon nap, and going to bed when it was still light out, she wonder why most morning I was up early enough to watch the Star Spangled Banner on TV for the start of their day's scheduling. It appeared to be a mystery to her why that was happening. I strongly suspect that is why I am such a night owl. I don't know if I was quicker than most young children, or as I didn't ever feel love from my mother, I challenged every statement, edict and order. Regardless, in my little head, I knew something didn't add up. I didn't have the vocabulary to describe confirmation bias growing up, but I learned at a very early age that illogic was her best friend. One year she moved my bed time back down because I was too ornery all the time. This continued well into my school years. In 4th grade I remember everybody raving about this new cool show called Happy Days, and another called Barney Miller. I was still going to bed after Bowling for Dollars, hosted by the voice of the Lakers, Chick Hearn. With naps, we apparently only needed them on weekdays. Never on weekends, and when we started school, we didn't appear to be too ornery, but on summer break we were ornery again. Being an adult, I now realize she just didn't want to deal with us. When she was home alone, taking care of us was such a strain, she needed to isolate herself from us 2 hours a day. Same thing at night. She's worked her ass off mothering all day and she needed a break. It was a lot like being objectified. We aren't individuals with our own desires and motivations. We were strictly there so she could go about and finish her responsibility of being a mother. We should only need attention when she had time. If she didn't we should be like dolls put away until the next play date. So, I never thought my situation was normal. And I fussed and fought every single stupid order because I knew it wasn't right, or fair, or whatever you want to hang on it. I just lacked the temperament and vocabulary to explain why. I realize it wouldn't have mattered anyway, because as soon as I backed her into a logical corner came the violence. I think knowing something, but not being able to explain it to anyone, is a big reason I am the way I am. People have accused me of loving being right. The truth is, I loathe being wrong. To the center of my being. Especially if I can't explain it, or someone just up and denies it. People used to think I argued just to argue, and there were some instances that was the truth. But just as many times I knew I was fucking right, and I have issues letting it go. Mind you, I am not just a mindless know-it-all. I am a well researched know-it-all. If the internet was available while I was in school we wouldn't have been reading my blogs because I would have gotten much better grades, and I'd be able to afford more and nicer things to placate the mighty demons. The internet didn't make me a know-it-all, but it sure made me a more accurate know-it-all. It had its benefits. I think it is one reason why I am known as the guy with perfect answers, and why I can explain it so even I'm Eric Trump could understand. Tl;dr. Having your voice and spirit squashed as a child will have long lasting affects.