Oklahoma City, Oklahoma 2021-11-27 00:47:33 –
Polar Sophia Shonauer, LCSW, continues to make continuous memoirs. If you haven’t read the first half of this series yet, follow the links at the bottom of this page.
I hold so many things, strain my memory for understanding, and a piece of insight into why I am me. While I’m writing, I’m connecting my life like a puzzle, and sometimes when my memory doesn’t provide details, I re-do things to help them make sense Build. It’s like telling someone about a vibrant dream. One of those dreams has many images and emotions, but lacks continuity. By telling, our brains try to understand chaos and order what looks chaotic to others when expressed faithfully.
Our survival as humans depends on our ability to discriminate order in otherwise chaotic environments. Be aware of the details, explore vague nuances, and build a framework of understanding in the quest for meaning where there is no direct memory.
To say the least, my childhood was chaotic and nothing I could trust. It wasn’t love, security, religion, or my identity. I always sought affirmation and wanted to be able to decipher the code of conduct that guarantees at least one blow of unconditional love. If you couldn’t have unconditional love, you settled on qualified love.
As I continued my primary education at the Redeemer Christian School, I began to have some success in understanding the code of conduct, the right words, and the right actions. I could speak like a Christian and behave like a Christian in general, but I never felt completely accepted as a Christian. My second-hand clothes were a little dingy and not as sharp as the clothes most of my classmates wore. I wasn’t as beautiful physically and mentally as my peers. Like Esau, I felt part of the chosen pedigree, but was denied as the heir to God’s covenant.
I was fit for the type of Christian boy expectations, but I was trying to please my dad by being the boy he wanted, and of course, his expectations were Christian upbringing, all pornography, Desecration, and fighting, violence. Dad dressed me like himself, but I didn’t seem to please him. For one thing, I wasn’t good at math and it wasn’t the way he wanted to be me. He wanted a genius while I struggled to learn fractions and long division like many kids of my age. But when it comes to language and writing, I was good – it was a problem for him and not industrial enough. When I defend my gradebook with average grades in math, but extraordinary grades in spelling and writing, he will say, “You never make things in words.”
I’ve become better at batting and catching, starting with streetball, to be more accepted by the boys in my neighborhood. From time to time, a friend of a donut neighbor, Jeff, invited me to shoot a basket with him on the driveway behind his house. He told me to give me a $ 5 bill for each basket I scored against him in a one-on-one game. He was stingy, and I was awkward and not a big, natural athlete for my age. We played many times for weeks before finally scoring with him, the forward of the Kaiyahoga Falls High School junior national team, because he was as good as his words. He gave me a clear $ 5 bill.
“Why don’t you try something else?”
And I played over and over again. As I improved my abilities, Jeff increased his efforts: shoot, dribble, rebound, and drive. Through these games, I learned how to adjust my emotions and how to build endurance and determination. It took me a few more weeks for me to score again and win another $ 5 bill.
When I told my dad that I liked playing basketball and baseball, he frowned and shook his head. “I don’t want you to be the brain of another joke.”
At one point I applied for a school basketball clinic. It was a challenge for the school team, and they scored points with a variety of drills, including dribbling, passing, rebounding, and shooting baskets on the cone course. Of the 12 or more boys, I was fourth without a medal when they counted points, but I was doing much better than I expected.
“Thank you for your hard work at the basketball clinic,” Mr. House tweeted to me next Monday morning when I went out for a break.
Mr. House frowned upon me, who had been a severe disciplinary action. A fog drifted from his mouth. It was cold that day. He wore a fur hat and a black “scarf” around his neck. He refused to call it a scarf. The scarf was for girls.
Mr. House grinned when I first saw him do so, and it was directed at me. I felt proud.
One day, while shopping at Sparkle Mart for Mom, a community bulletin board displayed an ad for children interested in baseball from the Kaiyahoga Falls Amateur Baseball Association (CFABA). I wrote down the time and place to sign up and vowed to be there. But the problem was getting permission from my parents.
When I got home, I was excited, but I became cautious.
“What are you so happy about?” Mom said, her voice is monotonous and aloof. She didn’t have a good day. A few years later, I learned to associate that voice tone with her being stoned with painkillers.
“They are looking for kids to play on the baseball team,” I tweeted.
“I want to play baseball.”
Mom dragged a cigarette and smoke gathered in the clouds around her hair curlers. She was still wearing bathrobes and slippers at home, and the TV was tuned to the general hospital.
“They are applying at the city hall.”
“No,” Mom said.
“But other kids come to play and don’t have the money to sign up.”
“You are not another child.”
She was right. I wasn’t like other kids, but I wanted to play baseball. I shouldn’t have asked her when I realized her mood, but I was too excited and too hopeful.
We insisted that mom should be in the house doing the housework, yelling at me about how ungrateful I am, telling me how selfish and lazy I am. She yelled at me for doing chores when I went to Sparkle Mart, but she accused me of playing and not being focused. Otherwise I wouldn’t have seen the CFABA ad.
She grounded me for two weeks and sent me to my room. Before learning how to box, she stomped upstairs, shouting unfair about her advice to “behave like a boy,” but now she sits and stares. I was restrained from wanting to meet the needs of. on TV.
When the time came, I looked up my mom’s papers to find a birth certificate and forged a note from her telling the CFABA people that she had permission to play baseball. My handwriting was very similar to her, except that she was good at spelling. I sneaked out of my house and went downtown to sign up. After that, I waited for a call from the coach of the team in charge.
I still remember a lot, but I don’t know if it’s good or bad. Some people suffer from trauma and cannot remember their childhood. Some are obsessed with childhood and can’t go any further. As an adult, the combination of treatment and life knowledge reminds me of what happened like yesterday when I lost access to other things. I tried to summarize things, but the math doesn’t work. Again, I wasn’t good at math.
Last updated: November 26, 2021 11:57 pm Brett Dickerson-Editor
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