Sep 25

Health is shit. When isn't it. I've been on a low for quite some time now. Not going out. Not able to do much. It is what it is. Somedays the aches and pains are wicked. Others they dial down. I don't know. To be honest I am beyond tired even keeping track of it. I just float on the stormy seas. And go where it wills. Sometimes someone tells me I should go to the doc. Get this checked. That looked at. Eh. Meh. 5 years in has taught me a lot of things about the standard of healthcare and what it does and doesn't do. There is nothing there for me. Or at least. The healthcare *I have access to* does nothing for me.

I have been meaning to go out for a month now to get some potting soil. One of my plants outgrew its pot. Its roots literally pushing it one inch above the pot. I have. Pulled it out. Used a bigger pot I had. But. It has languished. On the side. Waiting for me to have energy and the right sleep schedule and everything else to pop out, get some soil, and properly plant it. It will end up dying waiting for me. A shame. I like it.

No therapy this week. The therapist bailed out last minute, same day. Covid in their household. Bad timing. I didnt see their message until I was outside their office. Because. Sleep. The perhaps uncharitable thought crossed my mind that it was ok for them to cancel last minute - no penalty. But when I had done so. I got to pay up for it. I get it. That's how it works. But also. It seems. Uneven to me. Their time is clearly more important than mine. Again. I understand why its like that. But still. The number of little assumptive social agreements we have for that kind of thing. It's ok. Because. That's the way it's done. Oh yeah. Says who. In reality. I am not fussed. But as ever. The places where things don't match. I pick up on. Discrepancy says the bug tracker. Hilariously. What would be the solution anyway ? They pay you ? No. But. We could imagine. If someone was taking time off work. Or something else. It's not just a time issue. It's a cost issue beyond that. Shit happens. Mistakes occur. Things outside of our control interject into the world. Which. Is fine. But then. It rather depends what you do with the consequences of that. Obey the letter of the law. Or go with the spirit. Strict for me. Lax for them.

As always.

I am never allowed to make mistakes. Everyone else is just fine making them.

But don't get me wrong here. Storms in teacups. Not even that. I am not sitting here stewing on it at all.

This week. I can't remember why. I remembered something from my childhood. And then. Applied some different insight into it.

Once upon a time I used to go to Boys Brigade. A social group malarkey for boys, backed by a strong christian ideology.

This. Was not my bag. Ever. Not then. Not now. Absolutely not me.

Nevertheless. My parents forced me to go. Why ?

Lets wind back a bit.

8 years old or so. Perhaps 7. I made a good friend. And he chatted on about how great Scouts were. Cubs. He hadn't been in a while. But it was great. And they did this. And that. And I really liked my friend. And enjoyed his telling. He said I should go. Which seemed cool. Time to hang out with my friend doing something that sounded cool.

I made the mistake of telling my parents. They phoned his parents. There was doubt. And it never happened. Disappointing.

From this however. My parents then thought I should go to Boys Brigade.

Why ?

Because my mom had a work colleague. And their son went to Boys Brigade. I knew the son. Barely. Met him a couple of times. We were different people.

But this was a brilliant idea to my parents.

I should go.

I don't want to go.

You should go you will like it.

I really don't want to.

You will go. And you will like it.

There was no arguing about it. I was powerless. What I thought didn't matter. That I didn't really know the person I was supposed to go with didn't matter. It made sense to my parents. I was not part of the conversation. I was just a thing.

So I went. For 2 years.

And regularly I would ask if I could stop going.

No.

I remember my dad giving me a lift there and back again.

Silence.

I wasn't excited about going. I wasn't talking about what I was looking forward to.

I endured it.

And learned to be silent about it.

No complaints. No whines. No opinions. Just fucking do it. And occasionally. Test the boundary. Can I stop ? No.

I made the best of it. Played some football which was... half bearable. I enjoyed one thing there. Playing pirates. Which I had never played before. It was cool. I played it twice in 2 years.

I even went on a trip, where I stayed somewhere for a week.

It had such a massive impact on me that I cannot remember anyone there, or where it was, or anything of what we did.

In fact.

I have no fond memories of it at all. Apart from pirates. The memories I do have of it. Is of it being creepy. Religious overtones. Oddly shaped adults. I didn't realise it at that age. But these were odd adults. In that kind of. Creepy religious way some adults can be. I never made friends there. Didn't talk to anyone outside of it. Don't get me wrong. I wasn't sulking in the corner. I joined in. I did things. I socially integrated. But nothing was "real".

After 2 years I was finally allowed to give it up.

I did.

And it was never spoken of again. Overall. I am just left with a feeling of creepiness from it. But. This week. I for some reason went back to it. And turned it over. And examined some of what I did remember. My actions. And I realised.

This was one of the things that taught me to behave the way I did. Not in some social widening circle. Not some horizon expanding way.

It taught me I didn't matter. It taught me there was nothing I could do against the power of my parents. It also taught me to be stoic. To be patient. To hunker down. Not to change. Not to fawn. But simply to go quiet. And watchful. And patient. And endure. And that of course, my opinion didn't count.

There were of course many similar things I encountered in my childhood. But this one. In hindsight. Is a stark example of the environment I was in.

I can see that this was yet another thing that curtailed the happy go lucky chatty me. Into the brooding quiet internal watchful me. Because to share things would be to have them weaponised against you. To complain would be to be punished. So shut up. And watch.

My brother with his 50 odd years of fearing to share anything because of that formative experience with my mom destroying his work is a similar thing. Be wary of sharing. Hide it.

We are different. Different events. Different outcomes. But still.

There is another thing this connects to for me as an adult.

When I play games. I almost pathologically have a need for *sustainability*. It needs to be stable. Forever. Given a choice between easy almost infinite resource. And difficult infinite resource. I will take the hard way. Anything in fact that is unstable. That I cannot guarantee feels like a problem.

And when you start to reduce it down. It's a safety issue. I am hardwired to crave stability. To be wary of the thing that changes. The potential for disaster. Even though. Its unlikely. Practically impossible. I have psyche scars there. That tell me the cost of that is inordinately high.

I need for there to be peace around me. That I can rely on. Even in a game. In the real world I tend this way too. I can fret about something that isn't nailed down. A potential. For issues. I am. More disciplined in the real world. And an understander of zen and letting things be. But still. The same itch is there. Just perhaps. Better masked.

But. It comes down to this I think.

My childhood was unstable. It taught me I have to do things for myself. My "help" my "nurture" is going to act *against me*. Not for me. Not with me. It taught me to be patient. Watchful. And thoughtful. It taught me to be able to catch negative vibes from people before they even know it themselves. To run simulations of *everything* before it happens so I can anticipate the danger before its too late. And. It made me deep down *hate* that instability. Hate that I have to do that. Hate being in a place I cannot trust. And when given the chance. I rebuild the world around me to be secure to within an inch of its life. Even when it makes no sense to do that. Even when it would be sensible to instead rely on the thing that already is safe. Just not. Absolutely guaranteed safe.

I have mulled that over this week. How deep those wounds go. What my parents inadvertently taught me and trained me to be. Not what they thought.

And in my adult life.

I can see. It is one of the threads of despair within me. That makes some aspects of life hard for me. I carry their baggage. The scars.

Just like my siblings.

My mom is gone. My dad is almost gone.

But I had a conversation with them. And told them off. How unfair it was. How shit they were. Angry. Fuck you.

Not that it matters. The therapist would tell me it matters. 

I am sorry for the child that I was. If I could go back. I would save myself. But then. I would grow up to be a very different person I think. But. Still. There is a large part of me. That if I could. I would go back. I would adopt me. And make sure my parents could not harm me.

Grim.

And. That damage. Is not done yet. It may, in its own fucked up way be the end of me yet. 

This. Like a host of other things. Makes me, me.

I learned endurance, emotional containment, anticipation, management, reading the room, making the best of unwanted circumstances. Formidable adult skills. In an eight year old. But eight-year-old me couldn't actually change the important variables. I couldn't say, “I've evaluated Boys Brigade and decided not to continue.” I couldn't choose where I lived, who controlled me, or what counted as a valid objection.

So I was redirected toward managing the unchangeable environment.

And that produces a very particular lesson:

My job isn't to ask what I want. My job is to understand what is happening, predict what will happen next, and manage myself through it.

Which sounds horribly familiar.