Early Childhood

Woodkid – Iron

I was born to a sociopathic druggie whore, and a petty criminal rumored of committing minor atrocities – though I may be his brother’s child. Thankfully, my mother’s robust genes were mostly untainted by her rampant drug abuse, and my father supposedly kept her clean during pregnancy.

Until age three, few memories occurred, nearly all caused by fear. At three, I was shipped to the tropics, to live with my father’s family. Mostly fond memories of happiness and wonder, which I don’t feel it necessary to elaborate on. Perhaps best saved for pillow-talk.

Of special note is that I was born and raised in a temperate climate, the tropics obviously being quite different. At age five, I was shipped to an arctic climate, to my mother. If I recall, the stop before my final destination was a frozen blue-white, with blades of ice in the wind. My step-father, a good but simple man, met me there with a warm presence.

We flew to the island onwhich they lived, arriving to a dark storm. The rain came hard and cold, the wind too. If I recall correctly, my newly met step-father shielded me as we walked the wood-plank streets to our shack-like home. Where the scrawny abomination, that was my mother, resided.

When asked of my mother, I often have severely unpleasant things to say. Upon hearing this, many will childishly tell me that I shouldn’t – that she’s my mother, I should love her. I confess to amusement when these fools share her company, watching their pathetic notions of human nature crumble in the face of her atrocity.

To say my mother is a bad person, is to say the sun is hot. This woman, whom I “should love”, repeatedly made a five year old boy eat his own vomit. I also suspect that she tried to get me killed repeatedly, as there was a consistent pattern of leaving me to my own devices in dangerous situations – even sending me out in blizzards.

She also never punished me for my reckless activities, but when I was caught by other adults. It would reflect poorly on her, if anyone imagined her a bad parent. She slapped me around some, to be sure, though not enough to leave marks. But again, she may have beaten me to death were there no penalty for the activity.

No, she preferred psychological abuse, and was quite talented. Though she did starve me for a day or so, once. To stop the vomiting, you see; I inconvenienced her so. Thankfully, my step-father caught wind of her general abuse, and curbed it to some degree. Again, he was merely a simple man, and couldn’t do as much as needed – a perfect husband for a sociopath.

Aiding my mother’s abuse, was my lack of English skills, preventing me from communicating the occurrences. The island onwhich she resided spoke English, and my previous residence did not. Also my general lack of social skills, caused by chance preventing me from developing relationships. Also the lack of law-enforcement on the island, aswellas most of the residents being drunks and druggies.

Thankfully, being denied meaningful social interaction up to that point, prevented me from being heavily influenced by the behaviors of others. Less damage was done than could have been, as people were merely another force of nature to me. Though I do recall playing “she-loves-me, she-loves-me-not”, thinking of my mother, and crying when it resulted in “not”.

She was not the only problem. The transition from tropical to arctic climates blessed me with persistent pain, though I got used to it. And of course, there was the other children, whom presented a far larger problem. Amusingly, shortly before I arrived on this island, a murder had occurred; I sometimes become superstitious when observing the coincidences in my life.

This island, in the middle of no where, with a town of no more than.. maybe 60 people, coincidentally had a processing plant a couple miles away. There, people of my race, which was different from the townfolks’, often worked. One night, four of those workers had murdered a member of the town – the townsfolk were all related.

Due to this, and perhaps also due to their being the offspring of incestuous drunks and druggies, I was regularly beaten by the children. My nose is still crooked from regularly being broken and bleeding. I fought back, and some learned to leave me alone, but there were always others who were too large and numerous to manage.

All in all, Alaska was an unpleasant experience, though there was certainly some fun and wonder mixed in with the constant bullshit. I’m sure, hearing all this, many would imagine myself having become a very mentally unhealthy child. Not so. Thankfully, it ended when I was seven, when my grandmother visited and knew she had to get me out.

But, before moving onto that, it’s important to mention the positive influences of my life, up to leaving that accursed island. First, the climate changes throughout made me physically attuned – if not scrawny. I’ve always been relatively stronger and faster than most, though cigarettes have strangled my endurance.

Second, the massive changes in culture, language, having no stable guardian or social group, and constantly being bombarded with new and varied problems, in combination with the climate influences and my healthy genes, fostered extremely advanced self-awareness, self-control, and reasoning.

I needed the strength to survive, and so it developed: I was oddly.. emotionally uninfluenced by my surroundings, eventually; I was.. happy. I remember once, in a snow-storm, happily hiding under a wheel-barrel, preferring it to going home or seeking aid. I suspect my preference for bad weather originated in Alaska, as other people stayed indoors, while I was safe from them outside. Also of note is the development of body-language skills that form in abuse victims.

So, rather than becoming a weaker person, I became a stronger one; I essentially had metacognitive expertise forced on me. Though certainly, issues were created – such as a fear of general socialization, women and intimacy, and for being singled out and abused by my peers. I’ve overcome and mastered these issues, since then.

All in all, it was a gargantuanly beneficial experience. Would I, at the time, have preferred a loving, nurturing family, in a safe and stable environment? Absofuckinglutely. Would I prefer that “ideal” childhood, looking back? Absofuckinglutely not.

I am a strong person because of that experience. I would never give it up, even if it meant that, at this moment, I were rich and happily married, and surrounded by loved ones.

That person would be sheltered and foolish, ignorant and thus unprepared, for when hard times come for myself and loved ones. I’m genuinely disgusted at the thought, given that I’ve consistently seen those types of people act with little depth of concern for others, and less integrity.

My early-childhood was pain, terror, isolation, wonder, and even still, childish joy. Reflecting on it, these are some the components necessary for maturity. I’m happy about how it worked out. I only wish people like me were more common, so that I weren’t alone now.

In the next installment, I’ll discuss my late childhood, wherein my grandmother lovingly and carefully nurtured me.

Crazy bitch


Autobiography [+] Hub

Homepage

Advertisements

~ by Louis Naughtic on August 27, 2016.

4 Responses to “Early Childhood”

  1. There is something called “family systems theory” which suggests that we as humans are connected to our family–not just our parents, but grandparents and their parents before them. Patterns emerge, and they continue on down through the generations. It is said that we will see echoes of our parents in our own children, even if we resist their abuse and addictions and dysfunction. Parents of alcoholics, despite being strictly dry, can see their own children become the alcoholics they swore to shield them from. In your opinion, does this sounds like bullshit, or do you think there may be some consideration given to this system theory? If the latter, what thoughts arise within you about this?

  2. I’d say that genetics play a powerful role in our natures. Also that, though an abuse victim may not abuse their own children, does not mean they are capable parents. Raising children into strong adults requires far more than the absence of abuse, especially in this era.

  3. Some of that sounds terrible. But it also sounds a little familiar. It’s a strange and difficult world we live in.

  4. Frankly, I enjoy telling the story. People’s responses are very revealing. And those with a drop of humility often begin to realize they are dealing with a person who is stronger and wiser than themselves, thus expediting my usual rise to social dominance – which, once established, allows me to drop the harmless idiot act.

    Plus, it wasn’t that bad for me; I was full of fire and fury at the time, so the pains were tempered by my strength and ignorance of how very bad the situation was – I’d known no other existence, and thus could not be permanently dispirited. I merely continued, propelled by the fire of youth.

    Unlike now, inwhich I am dispirited by the realization that the majority of humanity is shit, and thus my dreams of happiness derived from love and community are unlikely to occur. So, interestingly enough, I remember those days fondly – I had hope, then.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s