I had a very fearful childhood in quite a number of ways, so facing and overcoming many fears has been an ongoing struggle for me...but one that has been rewarding nonetheless.
When I was quite young, my parents didn't get along and they had a very volatile, "on again/off again" relationship. One day they'd be screaming at each other all night across the kitchen table--and the next they'd be overly affectionate and trying to make up. I was a pretty sensitive soul and spent many a night crying myself to sleep while they shouted at each other and argued. As I look back on things now, it's abundantly clear how messed up they and their relationship were. I've since learned that when you grow up in an unstable environment like that, you have a very hard time trusting people and are in almost continual fear of the next "blow-up"--because you never know
when it's coming, you just know it's coming and that some little thing (anything) will spark it. Even though I didn't have anything to compare my family to at the time, I somehow intuitively knew that wasn't the way things should be--and I knew I'd never let myself act that way with my own future family. Fortunately, I never have.
When I got a little older, around 6 or so, I had another really difficult experience when my mom left. At the time, she was a Girl Scout Leader and went off to a camp for the entire summer. I wasn't old enough to really understand that concept of time however, and to me it seemed as if she had gone forever. It actually felt to me like she had died. I remember having nightmares for weeks after, where she would leave me over and over again. I spent that summer feeling as if it was my fault and wondering what I had done wrong to make her go away. I eventually found out, many years later, that a big part of her leaving was the relationship with my dad. She felt she needed to "escape" for awhile in order to get herself together. I didn't know that early on however, so for many years I felt I was somehow responsible for her departure. I now understand that both my parents were doing the best they could under difficult circumstances--and that they were only repeating the patterns they had learned from their parents. I'm very grateful that, in my later teenage years, I had a number of friends who had more normal families. I was able to see how they were able to live in relative respect and harmony with one another. Because of their positive influence, I was able to establish a vision for my own family one day. I'll never forget them and will always greatly appreciate their example.
Finally, I was a victim of bullying as well. We moved from the city to the suburbs when I was 8. Being the small, new kid who was young for his grade and a little "husky" (overweight) at the time, I was
constantly picked on. I'd have my books knocked out of my hands, my lunch taken, or receive an occasional black eye or fat lip from being someone's punching bag. I
hated going to school then. If it wasn't my hair (which my mom cut herself to save money) or my clothes (she made me wear "Brady Bunch" style clothes even though everyone else wore blue jeans, tennis shoes, and t-shirts), it was my voice, my laugh, or my glasses. I think the toughest part though, especially as I got older, was being teased or victimized in front of the girls. For many years, as much as I wanted to have a girlfriend, my low self-esteem always seemed to stand solidly in my way.
I don't think it helped either, that my dad was a strict disciplinarian. He'd give me difficult work to do around the house and go off to work himself. In those days, he worked very late hours. Sometimes, when he'd come home late at night (10 or 11:00 even), he'd check the work I had done weeding, or digging, or raking the lawn. If I didn't do a good enough job, he'd wake me up, get me out of bed, and make me finish the job to his satisfaction--even if I had to use a flashlight to do it (and I often did). And I very rarely did a good enough job. Other times, if I misbehaved, or "talked back", I'd get what he called a "size 12" (basically a boot in the a$$). It was either that or a 2x4 across the backside. While he would spank me at times, I'm grateful that he never "beat" me like my uncle did to my cousins. My uncle had a 3" wide leather belt that he had folded in half and taped as a type of handle. I had spent an afternoon at their house one day, saw him beat one of my cousins for some mild "infraction" (for they were really good kids), and I left--at 10 years old, I ran the entire 5 miles home from their house.
In retrospect, I'm amazed at the many abuses kids had to endure...and it saddens and amazes me even more that
far worse things still go on today.
I think the main thing that changed for me was one day when my mom got really angry. She tried to spank me for something really stupid. Whatever it was I had done, she was in the wrong and this time,
I knew it. I was probably about 13 years old by then, I had finally started growing, and I'd had enough. When she grabbed me and hit me across my backside with a hardback book, I blew up. She hit me so hard, she broke the binding of the book! I spun around, snatched the book from her hands, and threw it hard across the kitchen. I pointed my finger directly at her and growled (and yes, I think I literally growled)
"Don't you ever touch me again!" When I saw the fearful look in her eyes, I suddenly knew I would never be bullied, beat up, or punished again.
By anyone!
In fact, I was shocked to find that even my dad had a newfound respect for me. When he came home that evening, I fully expected to have my butt whipped. As it turns out, he and I had a "man-to-man" talk in his workshop, and he never touched me again either. My newfound confidence even translated into school as well. I had finally found my own inner strength and I wasn't afraid to use it. I recall that a few weeks later, a group of about eight football players were prowling the halls looking for a hapless victim. As usual, they "homed in" on and circled around me. The first one to touch me however, got a fist in his eye as his reward. I don't recall much about the next few minutes except that I was a blur of fists, feet, and elbows. I almost feel like I kind of "blacked out" a bit as I fought them off of me! At one point they all scattered and I remember one of them saying something to the effect of, "Let's go find somebody else. This guy's going to be too hard to take."
I didn't realize the full impact of what I had done until I was in our school auditorium for our school pep rally, some 15 or 20 minutes later. As we sat on the bleachers, there in front of our entire school, the football players came out as a group carrying another student. He was trussed up in some kind of bindings (probably duct tape). They chanted and cheered, then left him in the middle of the basketball court for the cheerleaders to untie. At that moment, I looked at my friends in amazement...because I realized that had almost been me. The poor guy left in the middle of that basketball court
would have been me--if I hadn't stood up for myself and fought those bullies off.
From that day on, win or lose, I knew I would never again allow myself to become a victim. I also made a promise that I would do whatever I could to stand up for those who couldn't stand up for themselves. And I've been grateful for these challenging experiences ever since!
