3 Chapter 2: Years of Innocence
After catapulting out of my Mother's vagina on February 2nd, 1988, I decided to explode a stream of pee that rainbowed into the sky and then came crashing down on my dear Mother's sock. Perhaps, this was a warning sign from the heavens, an omen of coming degradation and struggle. "Put me back in doc, I'm not sure why the quickest sperm was a defective alcoholic, but let's give it another go". No dice. My parents were stuck with me. Hmmm. Maybe I'm being a bit hard on myself, after all, my behavior was quite manageable up until my first meet and greet with alcohol, however, looking back from a place of recovery and self-awareness I can see the void, I can see the desperate attempts to feel like my peers, to fit in, to reach and claw at outside validation and negative attention to try and top up a black hole of self-worth.
I was always a deeply sensitive child. I'd remain by my Mother's side as often as possible because it is where I felt safe and loved. Attention was not lacking in our household growing up. Both of my parents were loving and caring, and both did their absolute best to raise children who were competent and capable. Despite the attention and the unconditional love present within our home, it never seemed to be enough. Everything had to be about me, self-centeredness ruled my waking consciousness; it wasn't that I thought highly of myself, parading around like some narcissistic buffoon, it was that I thought only of myself.
—Introspection—
Okay so, I felt a hole in my soul, I was self-centered to the core, and I sought outside validation at every turn. If you are at all familiar with the recovery world these attributes are not unique in any way. Alcoholics and addicts seem to share these same character attributes and subsequently self-medicate to abhor the mental torment. As much as addicts and alcoholics are alike in the way that we pursue hedonism and escape, we are also highly unique as individuals, with that being said I sincerely hope you hold onto the commonalities you find throughout this novel, so that you may feel less alone; if that is in fact how you feel, I also hope that you'll remain "teachable" or at least open-minded because we cannot change if we remain open to our own ideas only. Although I didn't know it, and wouldn't know it for some time, I was tragically closed-minded. My way was the only way, unfortunately it was a really shitty way, but you'll see that soon enough. So, do your best to find common ground to connect and look for ways to expand upon the way you interpret and react to the world.
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Growing up my Dad was a Youth Worker and my Mom was a Nurse. Together they did pretty well for themselves and during the summer vacation our family went on various trips across Eastern, Canada. I would get the most excited when we would head out to Russell, Ontario to visit my Maternal Grandfather and his Wife Betty. My Grandfather had since gotten divorced from my Maternal Grandmother and remarried and was now living a fairly contented, retired life. Prior to his retirement he had lived with passion and in abundance. He was always someone I looked up to. My Grandfather's name was Major Cleve Conlon and he was a tank commander in the Second World War. Whenever I think of his escapades in World War 2, I can recall a story he once told me when I visited him as a high school student. My grandfather commanded a large group of sixteen Sherman tanks and on one particular occasion in Normandy he found himself surrounded by the Germans with nowhere to turn. Several tanks from his battalion had already been destroyed and so he sunk into a begrudged acceptance that he and his crew would soon die. With no options available and no hope in sight he began to pray. He did not pray to god, or to a creator of the Universe, but instead to his sister who had died when she was still very young. Almost seconds after he finished his prayer it began to snow; not lightly, but heavily, to the point where his tank was now out of sight and impossible to spot by the enemy. Due to the cover of snow he along with his comrades were able to find cover behind an old barn where they escaped unharmed. He would tell this story with a sparkle in his eye, I was transfixed and in awe. An afterlife must exist, hope conquered all and this story offered me a twinkling of absolution. The story also cast my Grandfather as a shining light of bravery for me, I have a tremendous level of admiration for this man and am honored to have his name. He was known as a gentleman and treated those around him with the utmost courtesy and dignity... provided they were being respectful in return.
Although Major Cleve Conlon was a great man, God knows he had his flaws as we all do. Perhaps his decision to send his former wife and my Mom's Mother to the cottage was a mistake. My Mother told me about an incident during her childhood where after being sent to the cottage in Martin's Point my Grandmother called their home in a state of pure oblivion, and asked for help. She ended up having alcohol poisoning, but was rescued because of her willingness to call for a helping hand. Considering her level of intoxication, it was noted that for her to have even been able to pick up the phone was a miracle unto itself. Now, I'm not blaming my Grandfather for this escapade. Addiction had such a stigma attached to it back then, and one must make desperate decisions at desperate times. Something also needs to be said about an individual still being accountable for their own actions, despite their illness or lack of insight. The point of highlighting this particular story amongst a host of others is to give light to the fact that "miracles" do happen, no matter how we choose to interpret them.
—Introspection—
It's easy for a person in active addiction to believe that they are destined to end up exactly like their Mom, Dad or relatives. I've seen it a million times having worked in a group home setting. It seems that people either feel powerless in the face of genetics or they hold fast to the idea that they will never become anything like their addicted family member. First hand experiences with addiction were not a part of my childhood, so I wasn't a witness to the horror that addiction can bring. Not like my Father or my Mother. Certainly, my Mother and father benefited in some backward kind of way to witnessing this destruction, as both of them for the most part are excellent at controlling their liquor. With that being said I just wanted to highlight the power of perspective. Our beliefs about ourselves and our lives shape who we are. The fragility of such beliefs cannot be overstated. This doesn't necessarily have to be a bad thing. Beliefs can change. Whether it is our intention to reinforce a belief or to change it, I think persistent action is the most important component of manipulating our belief system.
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My first memory of Kindergarten was playing blocks with my fellow classmates. Blocks were a past time I was totally entranced with. This activity gave me such ecstasy and joy and I simply couldn't have imagined anything sweeter, but not everything was sunshine and rainbows. A darker memory from my Kindergarten experience was when my Teacher was asking our class to line up to go to the library. I refused to go because it was "block time" and sat at the back corner of the classroom in a stubborn stupor. The teacher raised her voice and that was enough to set me over the edge. I cried like I imagine Moses would have cried when he shaved off his beard (Not sure if this actually happened), but soon I calmed down and went on my way. Even as far back as Kindergarten I was easily triggered, which, naturally, worked its way into the sporting scene.
Around age five, I started to play soccer. During my second or third game ever playing the sport I was assigned the task of protecting the net (goalie). Someone basically passed the ball to me and I watched it roll through my legs in slow motion into the net, needless to say, there were tears involved. The coach got me to switch positions at halftime, I'm sure he saw how mortified I was. The coach then inserted me into the game as a "striker" where I scored my first goal; I lifted my hands with elation and excitement! "You were in the crease, disallowed" said the ref, excitement immediately followed by absolute devastation. The only thing that distracted me after that was a young boy on my team who said he had signed up to watch the game up close and to pick dandelions in the middle of the field. I was in wonder of his objective, but hey, he was happy.
It was Grade Three when I got my first female crush. Actually, my best friend (Roger) and I shared the same obsession. I was adamant that he would get the robot version and she would possess a metal dinky AKA penis. Whenever we discussed the subject, he was reminded of his certain fate.
The Third Grade was also the same year I had Miss Viola Swamp as a teacher. Of course, Miss Viola Swamp was not her actual name, but rather it was the antagonist of a children's story embodying this horribly mean teacher who punished her students relentlessly. My teacher liked to take on this identity when she got upset. Roger and I got into a fit of laughter in Math class during a late Summer afternoon after the teacher asked me to come to the front of the room to answer a math question. My usual antics were put on display (I'd write outrageously wrong answers on the board, talk in a shrill high-pitched voice and would continue to stare back at Roger looking for a reaction), which caused this laughing insanity to escalate. After bringing us out to the hallway the teacher said she was going to turn into Miss Viola Swamp! She thought it would scare us; it didn't. Roger and I looked at one another with dubious stares and were left rolling on the ground in a fit of hilarity. She left us in the hallway because we literally could not control ourselves while she was present.
Miss Viola Swamp was also deeply religious and had us recite the Lord's Prayer first thing in the morning followed by a Bible story. I thoroughly enjoyed the Bible stories and looked forward to them each morning. However; I'm not entirely sure if this was legal.
It was Grade Three in particular that I was a bit of a mess behavior wise. If it was at all sensed that a teacher didn't like me, it seemed to fuel my antics even further (sensitivity on high alert once again). My Grade Three teacher definitely did not hide her distaste for my shenanigans, and even if she did, her energy often spoke volumes. These antics caused the teacher to tell my parents that it was a good idea to test me for "Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder" (ADHD). I was then tested by a professional physician during school hours, whereby it was professed that I did indeed have ADHD.
After the diagnosis my Mom and Dad were contacted and told that they were required to meet with my homeroom teacher. When the time came for them to meet, all three of them sat down and had a conversation about my behavior in the classroom. The teacher came to the conclusion that I needed to be put on Ritalin immediately. She said that I would not make it through the school system if I was not medicated. My parents did not respond in kind and my Dad told her to "go to hell". The idea of having his child on drugs at age seven was not on my Dad's to-do list.
On the last day of school Miss Viola Swamp made our class continue to line up even after the final bell had gone to symbolize the freedom of summer vacation. My mother was waiting with our class on this late June afternoon, she was incredibly annoyed by the teachers continued control issues, even on the last day of school, Miss Viola Swamp would not release us until my peers and I formulated a straight line... Mom took my hand and said "come on Ben, it's summer vacation" and we cruised out the door into the blazing sunshine; I was free.
Introspection
For me, pain is inevitable, but suffering to an extent can be minimized. This is entirely dependent on how I deal with my own state of mind, not that I can recall much from the first years of my life, however, I can postulate how my state of mind was partially formed through my home environment. Surely, there were experiential effects on my cognitive development based on my Dad's negative outlook on life he adopted from his own experiences (He could also be a fabulously positive person, not saying my Dad was a tragically negative person all the time, just that he had a habitual way of spinning a scenario in a negative way) and the high level of anxiety that was often present in the home, but using these as a form of "self-victimization" is futile; plus, my parents did the best they could with the tools they had been given, and they did a pretty damn good job at that. "Self-victimization" meaning that the individual believes that "the world" is out to get them and the person ends up adopting the mindset that events and human interactions will generally turn out to be bad experiences..... so self-victimization in its totality is destructive and can be a form of self-sabotage adding suffering to any situation. This belief feeds into itself, where you end up getting exactly what you project. Whenever I leave my house feeling angry and bitter towards the world, people and situations end up feeding that emotional frequency. For example; say I enter a lineup at the supermarket and my overall energy is emanating a state of anxiety, impatience and anger. My face is contorted in such a way where the cashier can read my emotions instantly. The cashier may try to interact in a kind way, but more often than not they will meet their perceived impression of me with the same irritability; thus, continuing to fuel my current train of thought. This is also a self- fulfilling prophecy so to speak. I expect things to go wrong or for people to treat me in an unkindly way... and in turn I am met with what I project. People are far better conductors of energetic transmission than they might think, they pick up on what a person is omitting and respond in conjunction with what they are receiving. There are all kinds of ways to ease suffering, it's all in how we interpret our past, deal with our present and let the future unfold as it will.
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There was a French teacher in Grade Four who I remember annoying incessantly. God bless his soul, he seemed to have the patience of a saint. It was evident that getting under his skin was fairly easy for me. Although he never raised his voice, I could tell by his body language and tone of voice that I wasn't his favorite student. On an early weekday morning after I had just come back from a sick day and started in on my usual shenanigans, the French teacher said "Oh, isn't it nice to have you back in the classroom". It was quite obvious that he was being sarcastic... and I said something snarky in return because my feelings could be hurt so easily. He proceeded to bet me that I couldn't be quiet for the rest of the class. So, I was silent for the rest of the period, I showed him.... stupid French teacher.... actually, I had done exactly what he wanted me to do, clever move really, can't say I haven't played the "quiet game" in my day, mmmm "The Quiet Game", just a beauty of an invention. If you're a parent or a teacher, you see what I'm saying. Moral of the story, I was not a quiet kid, the reliable laughter of my classmates continued to power my outrageousness, the "class clown" became a persona I wore proudly, and while the third-party reaction of the class can seem harmless enough, it can also be seen as a form of bullying, as their laughter only fuels the clowns unhealthy coping mechanism that often covers-up a looming sense of inadequacy.
To accent these comedic antics, I was also a master manipulator, and I accented these manipulative capabilities during an incident in Grade Four where I was the ringleader of a group that consistently bullied one of our peers. The victim was slightly awkward, he walked pigeon footed and had some learning disabilities. We made fun of him for all these qualities; and on an autumn morning when my peers were lining up for class, the victim of our mental torment (just by a fluke) told me that he was going to tell the teacher what we had been doing. After five minutes of talking with him I had convinced this poor soul that I had nothing to do with the injustice that had occurred, and that it was the others who were entirely at fault. My friends were subsequently punished and my name was never mentioned. Later my friends and I would joke about the fact that I was the person who was bullying this individual the most, yet somehow, I managed to get away with it.
Despite my bad behavior my front was that I was kind to others (for the most part) and certain self-centered thought processes and manipulative behaviors simply went unnoticed; not necessarily to others, but definitely to myself... as I was just a kid. Nonetheless; we all have to live with ourselves on a day to day basis and many negative attributes we possess and things we've done that we regret are justified through our own inner dialogue. We justify them by blaming others, our circumstances, life itself, or a higher power of some sort. Freedom and liberation are only possible when we can honestly look at ourselves in an objective way and ask "where was I at fault and how can I control and fix what I have power over". Generally, we only have control over how we deal with our own thoughts, life's trials and tribulations happen as they will... what we have to decide is what course of action to take. Once these facts are fully realized and applied the results can be profound.
