I reaped what they sowed☒

"Hammurabi's children made their house of slavery's bricks, imprimatured by some mad priest's imagined good. The good is gone, the priest stamps on...." (George Delury)

This is so important: How my parents childreared me made me hate eveything, the whole world, and everybody (starting with them), but expanding its reach to include even "the myself" they shaped me to become. Somewhere inside me must have been an observer (right) that they did not succeed in reaching to mess with, and the observer did not like what it saw, and including "the me" it saw as part of it. I reaped what they sowed.

I imagine my father was about as anhedonic and asexual as a physiologically healthy human male could be. In the military he probably tried to avoid looking at girlie magazines or hearing curse words, and if he knew about it, he probably was pleased he had been circumcised since that reduced the complications of physical lust. His childhood must have been bad. Only four things he ever mentioned about it: (1) taking his brother Charles to the hospital after Charles fell out of a tree, and (2) he worked in a lead paint factory as a teenager and (3) he served in the Army Air Corps during World War II (but no details) and (4) as an adult his father tryed to blackmail him to get part of his paycheck.

He aspired to better himself in life and so was the perfect dupe for sentimental America: he probably 💗💗💗 (i.e.: chastely, asexually) romanced my mother to no end, and he may have done her schoolwork for her (she had an attained educational level of about 5.5th grade). I cannot imagine him engaging or even tolerating listening to pubescent males-talk about "scoring" or anything else no G-rated. He was a breadwinner: Wonder bread.^[1]

Up to about age one years I was apparently a happy baby. My mother took good care of her baby-doll. It's when I started to individuate, to have agency, that things changed. I was told I was originally left-handed but they forced me to use my right hand because they thought it was not good to be left handed. I suppose they supposed they were supposed to do a lot of things they supposed they were supposed to do to make me be what they supposed I was supposed to be. How many layers of prejudices (right) can you have? The American Dream. It was my intrusive mother who did most of the damage.[2] My father seemed clueless; he let my mother do what she wanted, he? my Pontius Pilate. He just mostly didn't help. I seem to recall he said that in the war (he had been in the Army Air Corps), they would give the crewmen a ration of whisky to help them relax after each mission and he would give his away: He probably didn't feel much of anything except to conscientiously do his duty, which surely he always did as conscientiously and attentively as he could: doing his duty was apparently the sum total of he was. My mother, on the other hand, was relentless about anything that she must have got into her head, and since she had nothing else to do except clean the house, she occupied herself with fiddling with ME.

If I had only been physically abused perhaps I could have enjoyed being alone, i.e.: respite from my abusers. But my mother did worse: like a worm boring into the soft flesh of an apple, she was relentless, so I could not even enjoy being alone because of the enemy within. The observer in me, having no power to do anything except watch the show, had to put up with it.

Nothing and nobody was appealing, not even me. When alone I easily got bored / bored with myself (if masturbation was a possibility I didn't know about it; I was "innocent" – an innocent victim. Question: Could school have rescued me? They did not even try. I recall the day my parents took me to Mr. S. Atherton Middleton's pedagogical institution for boys, to be evaluated to see if I wa good enough or something or other. I was deposited into a very small room full of the bookkeeper's files adjacent to Mr. Middleton's large office that wa far too good for him, to perform on standardized tests. I was at least Choice and probably Prime: USDA.

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The upshot of a childrearig which not only completely failed me but led me to the conclusion that I would never get my needs met, will et this point be left as an exercise for the reader.

If anyone says that what I call "my needs" were/are just selfish wishes, I will point out that there is no such thing as a need except in a biological sense. A flowering plant needs sunlight or else it will die. A human being needs air to breath or else they will die. But nobody needs to wilfully breath; they want to. So my needs were and remain as good as anybody else's even though they may need to vacation in Disneyland but I may need to have a museum grade coffee cup.

Parable #1: One time I went with my then two coworkers to an "all you can eat" restaurant; they wanted to go there, not me, but I went along because they were pretty OK persons and I do not have the strength of charcter to be a happy hermit. One of the two was morbidly obese and had a hearty appetite. He kept ordering and every last bite of refills of the "prime rib" or whateves substitute for that it was. Each repeat serving got smaller and took longer to arrive at the tale. Finally we left the restaurant. The booth we had been sitting at was decorated with some kind of pseudo-Wild West drapery. Hungry eater, having not received what the restaurant had promised, deliberately ripped down that decorative drapery on his way out the door. The restaurant had earned it. He was Doug Schaff, my manager at work at the time, a person a have called "an ethical giant", a very tragic person, who said (and with which I immediately concurred when I heard him say it):

Parable #2: At the end of World War I, a big mess made bythe leaders of all the countries involved, the leaders of the countries on the side that lucked out to win extracted enormous reparetions from the vanquished: Germany. How pleased with themselves they must hav ebeen! And what did they acomplish by abusing Germany? Adolf Hitler. they themselves never paid for it but the people of the world suffered imensely for the fun those middle aging males with power had had!

Back to Parable #1: The person who tore down the drapery was Doug Schaff, my manager at work at the time, a person a have oftendescribed as "an ethical giant". Doug was a tragic person, who once said (and with which I immediately concurred when I heard him say it):

"They put me off at the wrong stop when I was born."

I reaped what they sowed.

Forgiveness and memory

Myriad are they who are eager to help heal you of the harm persons with power over you (especially your parents) have done to you, persons who are often holders of licenses to mess with your mind. They will counsel you to forgive the people you feel have hurt you (who are the same kind of people these "helpers" themselvves usually are). And then they tell you to "get on with your life" → "put the harm that has been done to you behind you and forget it. Let the perpetrators off the hook. You do not need to forgive these new people because, by definition they are helping you; what you do need to do is pay them.

I disagree. When I apologize to people, it they figure out wht I mean, they don't like it. I am often apologiing for them bing what they are: defective, and/or for the environmane into which I was ejected from my mother's birth canal that was defective and made me be any bad of inadequate things I am. Forget? No way: Yes, I gree that I (or one) should not keep repeating the past, but by that I mean that I (or one) should eep recursively digging ever deeper into it so that eah time I (or one) thinks abou tit again, I (or one) fins it w aever worse than the last time I (or oe) studied it. And indeed, "people" need to be studied; they do not like realizing they are specimens in a sociopolitical petri dish.

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With that prefatory material, I need to get on with forgiving myself for having been hurt by the Them. It's no my fault that they wasted my life. It's not my fault tha t Ididn't have a full and satisfying life. I did not ty hard enough, largely because they had frightened me, and taught me that if I made a mistake I would pay for it: they would make my less-than-ife even worse than they had already made it. It's not my fault.

I need to forgive myself for having been born by clueless parents and for having been stuck withmean-spirited teachers wo may actually believed that their mission: what it was right and even hoble for them to do, ws to break young persons' spirits, like horses: "Spare the rod and spoil the child", "No pain no gain", "Be a man!" etcetera trans nauseam. It's not my fault that I was subjected to Mr. S. Atherton Middleton who ideated I need to be ":socially adjusted" and Mr. Mike Rentko who threatened me and other of these creatures from hell in this world and wanted to lynch me in an Inquisitorial Proceeding for a cooked up crime of theirs without a victim. I have made a joke which expresses what they were: Mr. Middleton went to hell and I went down to visit him and he corrected me that he thought he was in heaven. IHS.

As of this writeing (+2023.10.03), the diagnosis is still uncertain. Did they waste my life, i.e.: should agency be attributed to them wilflly causing me grievous harm? Or: was my life wasted, i.e.: passive voice, indicating that they were just causal pathways like if planet earth was to be struck by a big meteor becaue instead of traveing on its own trajectory through inerstellar space it had had the accident to collide with another lum pof space rock? My parents seem to have been innocen by reason of not even being able to understand the charges to be brought againt them. The St. Paul's Day Carcel for Puescent Male Virgins except for omerta sanitary services for jocks faculty may not have ben so "clueless". Bu ta physician really needs to figure out what is ailing the patient ony to the point of selecting the best possible treatment.

℞ for me? Cry.

+2024.02.16 v088
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Unfortunate for themself, the person who lacks one; unfortunate for others, the person that is one. Don't be an a**hole like my parents and perp school teaches!