deep dark high dive

“...because of a deeper grief which is peculiar to childhood and not easy to convey: a sense of desolate loneliness and helplessness, of being locked up not only in a hostile world but in a world of good and evil where the rules were such that it was actually not possible for me to keep them.”

George Orwell

I was in a meeting the other day, and the counselor asked us the following question:

“How did you find childhood? Because for me, the experience of being airdropped into life on earth is so, I still feel weird about it; I still feel the alienation. How do you all feel about yours?”

Nobody said anything.

They were either too scared, shy, embarrassed, uncomfortable, or really trying to give his question some serious consideration.

For me, I suspect, it was a combination of all those things.

No one had ever asked me a question like that before.

I wasn’t stunned by the question; I was just confused.

Not that I hadn’t given my childhood a good going over.

I’d think about it from time to time.

And I’d get pissed off at things my parents said or did or my siblings or my teachers or schoolmates or friends or cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, whoever…

Or things I did or didn’t do.

Jobs I took, settled for.

People I befriended.

Relationships I tried to get in or get out of…

My first crush, my first kiss, my first girlfriend, when I lost my virginity.

I have friends who have influenced me, whether positively or negatively, but even if the influence was negative, it was still positive.

You know what I mean?

I’d think about those things occasionally, but I don’t think I ever really took the deep, dark, high dive into the ocean of my soul.

Not that I’m going to do that now, but…

The more I thought about it, the more the counselor’s question intrigued me.

But I wasn’t ready to share my childhood experience with the group.

The question was too intimate to be discussed in that setting, at least for me.

I guess some people are just so thrilled they’ve finally found a place to talk about their problems that they blurt out all their innermost thoughts and secrets in front of everyone, eagerly and gusto, and without any self-consciousness or reluctance. 

It’s amazing.

I don’t know how they do it.

I can’t do it.

I’m way too introverted.

Too many filters.

Too many censors living in my head.

So, while several members of the group prattled on about how so-and-so abused them, or what’s-his-name was rude or sexually harassed them, whatever, they moved, they worked some s****y job, I just sat there, a quarter of me listening to them, three-quarters of me replaying the question in my mind.

How did I find my childhood?

How did I find my childhood?

My first impulse was to make a joke about it.

I didn’t know I lost it.

But maybe I had lost it.

As I lay awake that night, I knew I wouldn’t have any epiphanies if I tried to answer the question.

It would not be a cathartic experience for me.

There would be no lessons learned or conclusions drawn.

No personal investigation of my identity.

No self-portrait was constructed.

Just a total lack of structural form and an abundance of perceptual ambiguities.

I turned the radio on; that goddamn Magnavox AM/FM clock radio I bought in 1999 is still in working condition after 20 years, even though I accidentally spilled Jack Daniels into the speaker.

Tchaikovsky’s Meditation, Memory of a Dear Place, played, followed by Elgar’s Wand of Youth Suite.

I’m not kidding.