From my ramblings in other posts, one might think my childhood was all bad. Not so. There were a few bright spots, and these are what pull me through and validate my shabby life. Sometimes though, it’s painful to think about these positive experiences, because now in middle age I realize the loss from my inability to capitalize on them.

To me, these memories are enigmas when I’m in the shit and trying to cope with an (at best) neutral or (at worst) hostile world. I’ll explain. The overall strand running through my life, from childhood till today, is that I serve others. Obey and comply, or give orders. As a teenager I almost can’t remember ever being asked what I wanted to do, or anyone caring about my fate. From my family to school, the world was an indifferent place that often showed its contempt of me.

This fact was somehow true even for friends. It seemed I just hung out with people in the same situation, who shared a common understanding of it. I invited my “best friend” in high school to spend the summer with my family in France, yet he never reciprocated, seemingly keeping his own family out of our interactions. Another friend had an abusive side and put me down sometimes. We nearly came to blows a few times (situations he seemed to enjoy). Today he is stricken with multiple sclerosis and said he was concerned about losing contact with me over the years, even acknowledging that he gave me a hard time but also remembering when I tried to help him.

This is what I feel like telling him:

Sorry friend, but why weren’t you supportive then? You’re part of the reason my own life is devastated with no prospects. I’m sorry for your illness today, but in my past I struggled to understand why the fuck people like you, whom I liked and even tried to help, inexplicably acted against me at critical turns.

A bright spot

A “bright spot” in my life is any occasion when I felt accepted by adults and peers, and where I felt good about myself. In the summers of ‘81 and ‘82, I attended a summer camp with a strong Christian bent. The first days were hard for me, partly because of homesickness, and partly because my peers didn’t accept me immediately. While summer camp in the first year went well, I remember the start of the second year as inauspicious… my dad dropped me off and as soon as he left I was completely alone with strangers in the cabin where we all slept.

As I was unpacking my suitcase on the bunk, one kid said out loud “He looks like a dork,” and walked out. While this was no different to peers’ reactions to me in any setting, having to hear it expressed in such a way was nearly unbearable.

Kids were like this in the South where I grew up. There were fistfights nearly every day after school, somewhere off campus. I didn’t understand the prevailing aggression and didn’t want to be a part of it, yet it came looking for me.

(When I think about it, the world isn’t much different today as an adult. Do people really care that much about me? Perhaps my wife and daughter. Maybe the world doesn’t show its agression quite so nakedly, but in the end it does want me to just die off.)

I didn’t run away from camp but stuck with it. Our cabin had a “counselor,” a young adult who was very inclusive and made sure to talk with each boy to understand their problems and issues. The camp was located in a peaceful setting in the woods and eventually I could tell him about myself. I don’t remember our conversation but know that he mostly listened, rather than gave advice or prescriptions. Later our cabin did group bible reading exercises and other group activities, such as acting in skits.

It’s easy for me today to see the deep role of Christianity in American social life. It’s the glue that brings communities together, and that was just as true then as today. Christianity preaches tolerance and inclusion of the weak, and for this reason I was included in the group despite my shyness. It seemed people just accepted me (and I accepted them), and the phenomenon was as inexplicable as it was wonderful. I felt good for the first time in a very long time, and ended up loving the whole experience and engaging in many different activities.

Paradise lost

I went home in a glow, which took the summer to wear off. As I re-entered middle school and confronted my peers again, most of whom ignored me, I struggled to reconcile the self-image gained at summer camp with the present, drab experience. Somehow I came to the conclusion that the summer camp, while being a bright spot that I wished to go back to, was a fluke. My real self was this worthless body that just took up space (akin to standing against the wrong wall in a prison communal area).

From there, my only wish and conclusion was to leave this world and run away, even if to a military school, where we could all hide behind uniforms and a regimented life. I wanted desperately to become someone better: an ambition many boys have, and succeed at. In my case though it was clear that this entire exercise - four years in a military school - could only be a diversion from my own personal sad realities, from which there is no escape.

My fantasy world is a closet full of personas I’ve developed over the years - personas of a better me, both stronger and more likeable. One persona is the strong self I gained from graduating from military school after having left the pit of childhood far behind. According to this persona, the only reason I am not successful today despite all my hard work is because of bad luck; it has nothing to do with the fact I’m still that scared, depressed middle school student.