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The beginning of my life was unusual. I grew up in a household where spirituality was eminant. Things that "other kids" did I didn't do. Insted of watching telelvision I read books, hundreds of books. Instead of playing computer games I made things, out of organic wool and tissue paper, such as little Stiener-style angels. Instead of playing out with the nieghbours, I stayed inside our little terrace. My mum sheltered me from things that most children experianced daily, and accepted as normal life. Instead I engaged in activities that even some adults never take time to do. Before my thirteenth birthday I had already stayed at a peace organisation, making fruit salads outside for the workers. I watched my mother meditate for what felt like huge periods of time, and followed unwillingly to Buddhist teachings, where I developed the sincere belief that on some level nothing really existed. I knew who Avalokiteshvara was before I knew what sex was.
This sensitivity -this quintessential innocence- that has always been prominent within me, meant that I couldn't handle basic child play conflict, and as such I had a misreable primary school life. The other children knew (in the way that children just KNOW things) that I was different, I was vulnerable, I was wierd. It often took upto two hours to get me out of bed in the mornings, and for some unknown reason I had a phobia of socks. All my socks felt coarse and grating to me, touching them made my skin crawl, like when the teachers at school scraped the chalk on the board. I cried when I had to put them on, begging with my mum until she relented to put them on for me. I put that woman through hell. I probably still am.
Ironically, this sensitivity was juxtaposed against this core of anger I had inside myself. There didn't have to be a cause, a trigger, or a reason for this anger, it would just explode out of my minature body in uncontrollable waves, over and over again. I even frightened myself with it's sheer enormity, my tantrums would last for hours, until I'd screamed until my throught felt like it was bleeding, trashed the house until my arms ached, and sobbed until my chest hurt. In time I learnt to channel this anger onto myself, instead of my mum and our belongings, but that's another story.
My childhood is blurred in my memories, only certain things I can remember. I remember happy times, and bad times, and fucking awful times. I remember how blessed I was to have a mum that dedicated and forgiving and that full of unconditional love for me, although I resented her then. I remember how angry I was at everything, and at nothing, and I wonder where all that rage came from. I remember how promising I was academically, and in gymnastics, and in all my little clubs. I remember the sadness I felt at school, and how much it affected my high school life afterwards. It is profound, that the things you felt in your childhood are so familiar and yet so alien. Reminiscing, I can see the tiny details that somehow affected my entire life.
Well...my entire life thus far.
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Posted by hayleyjohnson on 2008-07-08 13:51:03 | Rating: | Views: 32
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There is nothing to say that normal is better.Our childhood is really what makes us the person we grow into.We need to learn how to channel the good things we learnt from it into useful things in our life and to discard the bad
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Posted by Tinkerbelle
on 2008-07-08 15:14:43
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