Recently a friend of mine blogged about his "bucket list," things he'd like to experience in his lifetime.
He divided them into realistic and unrealistic objectives, but as I read, I also noticed that some of them were within his power -- "Visit all 50 states," "run a marathon" -- while others were things he'd like to see happen in the world -- "true equality," for instance. (There were only three things on the "unrealistic" list, though, so he's got a pretty good shot at checking things off his list.)
I like how John writes, and his blog post got me thinking too. I came up with a few things immediately, while others occurred to me gradually.
My initial thoughts fall into two categories too, but mine are more like
1. Have a lot of money
2. Change my personality
Immediately, I thought, boy, I'd like to own a home someday. For years I've dreamed of getting braces on my teeth. Wouldn't it be nice to live somewhere with a dishwasher? If only we could travel. I wish I could get a midlife crisis sports car. Get those dental implants my husband needs. I wish I wish I wish ... these aren't things I haven't made time for or have to practice for; they're things I wish I had money for.
And secondly, I wish being shy and introverted and socially awkward to the point of borderline Asperger's didn't hold me back. Any time I'm invited to anything, every single time an online friend wants to meet, whenever there's a tweetup, anytime anyone asks us to dinner, my mind immediately starts racing, instinctively trying to think of an excuse to get me out of it. Mind you, these are things I WANT to do. These are fun things! These are going to the local ball park and having a few beers, dropping by for an afternoon cookout, meeting another couple for dinner, arranging to donate blood at the same time as a friend as a pretext for hanging out -- things I simultaneously want to do and dread. I love hanging out with people, talking, laughing, having fun. And I dread it! It gives me crazy anxiety, and I habitually weasel out of fun things I'd really enjoy.
Some of you will see yourselves -- your events -- reflected in that last paragraph. I'm being very honest. I want to hang out with you. I'm horrified at the idea at the same time. It's all true.
So I want wealth, and to be a totally different person.
These things have always been true.
The other thing I started thinking because of John's blog is that I'm really, really, REALLY bad at Goals. As in, I've never had them and I don't really know how.
I never knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I dreaded the question. I still don't know! I'm not sure what my strengths are. All I see are weaknesses. I don't really know what I want out of life, and I don't know how I'd get it if I did know. (see 1. and 2. above.)
I've been taking an exercise class, a small group led by a personal trainer. I'm still fat and weak by any standard, but I've come a really long way. My trainer keeps encouraging me to set goals. What do I want out of the class? What are my fitness goals?
I have no idea. I don't know HOW to set a goal. For me, a goal is more like scoring great tickets to an upcoming concert.
What do I want out of exercise class? I want to be less humiliated by my appearance and fitness level. I want to be able to keep up. I want to feel less old and obese. I want my feet to not hurt all the time. I want to lose 80 pounds! Become a runner! Buy a bicycle! I want to have the kind of body that nobody in my family has ever had and that I could never have without serious surgery! Then I will wear wonderful things! I will have clothes that fit me and look great and are easy to find in stores! They will take up a lot less space in my home and luggage, too!
Wealth.
And to be totally different.
Those are pretty shitty goals, man.
So even though "goals" have always been synonymous with "pipe dreams" to me, I guess I'll come up with better ones.
Showing posts with label narcissism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label narcissism. Show all posts
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
Childhood sucks
I feel guilty for many, many things in my life. I have a lot of regrets, times I should have taken a stand, times I gave up too easily.
You see, I was brought up to obey unquestioningly. When I was a kid, adults weren't on your side, and they weren't supposed to be. They weren't there to help with your problems, and they didn't really want to hear about them. You were supposed to do what they said and, insofar as you didn't do so, or didn't think what they thought, you were supposed to stay under the radar.
When my school started a gifted program when I was in fifth grade, we were pulled out of regular class to go to Gifted. We couldn't miss math or history, obviously, so the classes we had to skip were music and art.
I didn't mind missing music so much - it was pretty much just singing without having been taught to sing, and I was in band anyway. But I loved art. I wanted to be a visual artist of some kind when I grew up, although I knew better than to share that particular gem with my parents. (Once when I was drawing - this is a gem! - Mom complained that I was "wasting ink.")
No art in fifth or sixth grade. When we started junior high, we still went down to the Gifted classroom in the elementary building for a period. Which period? Art. In high school, there weren't any more gifted classes, so I signed up for art every semester. Every semester, I wasn't allowed to take art, because you only needed one arts credit, and - again - I was in band, so I'd end up with at least four of them.
My point is, I didn't think to formulate an argument and take it to my parents or to the principal. They weren't on my side. In the same way, I had to take an advanced math class (based on the track I was in, based on my grades in other classes) when I really needed the basic math class. My individual needs weren't a concern. In fact, adults didn't really think we had individual needs, as far as I could tell.
They finally let me take Art I when I was a senior, but by that time I was performing at about a third grade level, and it was really too late.
I'd still love to learn to draw someday.
By the same token, I quit piano lessons after the new male teacher persisted in sitting too close on the bench, leaning from behind with both arms to show me things on the keyboard, etc. I didn't tell anyone why I quit; my parents wouldn't have cared. I didn't confront the teacher. Nothing in my experience had given me the impression that I even had the right to say "Hey, you're making me uncomfortable; think you could back off? I'm trying to play piano here." That would be akin to challenging an adult's authority over me, and I didn't have the right to do that. In fact, a couple of years later, an adult male my mother was having an affair with, did put the moves on me in a very real and potentially scary sense. I told my mom. She said that I must have misunderstood.
I had a lousy education. I feel like I should have advocated for myself - asked to take that basic math course, for instance. My school didn't have AP classes. We didn't have final exams. There was one English class called "college prep English." that was the only class we had to write an essay in.
The thing is, this is the kind of stuff that really haunts me. My failures and losses. I can't get over how stupid I was to quit piano. What a passive loser I was. What a loss music and art were to me. I honestly get tears in my eyes in the art section of crafts stores. When I think about being able to draw, or paint, I honestly get depressed and have a crying jag because I'm such a failure at something I wanted so much.
But the other thing is -- I was a kid. A KID. I shouldn't have had all the responsibility here. Someone should have been looking out FOR me. My parents. Teachers. School administrators. For gods' sake, there were less than 50 people in my high school graduating class. It's not like they had to keep track of hundreds and hundreds of us. Someone might have realized I ALWAYS tried to take art. Someone might have noticed that my math scores were way below my other classes. The closest I got to individual attention was when the superintendent, who could see the playground out her window, called me into her office in elementary school and told me not to play with the boys any more. (In retrospect, she probably thought I was going to be a lesbian if not for her intervention.)
We were all fools.
The other thing is how passive I was with my father. He got sick when I was about ten (although he lived another 20 years), and from then on he didn't join the family for meals but instead ate by himself in the living room.
One might wonder why I didn't sometimes take my plate in there and eat with him. That probably would have made him pretty happy. I can't stand to think about how it really didn't even occur to me. Part of it was the "no eating anywhere but the kitchen table" rule, but most of it was that I was a fucking idiot.
But sometimes I think maybe I should try to forgive myself. I only really realized lately that the stuff I feel the worst about - the stuff that really makes me want to punch myself in the face - is stuff I never should have had sole responsibility for in the first place.
I mean, I won't forgive myself. I'm pretty sure I'm constitutionally incapable of forgiving myself. For anything, ever.
But sometimes I think maybe I should try.
You see, I was brought up to obey unquestioningly. When I was a kid, adults weren't on your side, and they weren't supposed to be. They weren't there to help with your problems, and they didn't really want to hear about them. You were supposed to do what they said and, insofar as you didn't do so, or didn't think what they thought, you were supposed to stay under the radar.
When my school started a gifted program when I was in fifth grade, we were pulled out of regular class to go to Gifted. We couldn't miss math or history, obviously, so the classes we had to skip were music and art.
I didn't mind missing music so much - it was pretty much just singing without having been taught to sing, and I was in band anyway. But I loved art. I wanted to be a visual artist of some kind when I grew up, although I knew better than to share that particular gem with my parents. (Once when I was drawing - this is a gem! - Mom complained that I was "wasting ink.")
No art in fifth or sixth grade. When we started junior high, we still went down to the Gifted classroom in the elementary building for a period. Which period? Art. In high school, there weren't any more gifted classes, so I signed up for art every semester. Every semester, I wasn't allowed to take art, because you only needed one arts credit, and - again - I was in band, so I'd end up with at least four of them.
My point is, I didn't think to formulate an argument and take it to my parents or to the principal. They weren't on my side. In the same way, I had to take an advanced math class (based on the track I was in, based on my grades in other classes) when I really needed the basic math class. My individual needs weren't a concern. In fact, adults didn't really think we had individual needs, as far as I could tell.
They finally let me take Art I when I was a senior, but by that time I was performing at about a third grade level, and it was really too late.
I'd still love to learn to draw someday.
By the same token, I quit piano lessons after the new male teacher persisted in sitting too close on the bench, leaning from behind with both arms to show me things on the keyboard, etc. I didn't tell anyone why I quit; my parents wouldn't have cared. I didn't confront the teacher. Nothing in my experience had given me the impression that I even had the right to say "Hey, you're making me uncomfortable; think you could back off? I'm trying to play piano here." That would be akin to challenging an adult's authority over me, and I didn't have the right to do that. In fact, a couple of years later, an adult male my mother was having an affair with, did put the moves on me in a very real and potentially scary sense. I told my mom. She said that I must have misunderstood.
I had a lousy education. I feel like I should have advocated for myself - asked to take that basic math course, for instance. My school didn't have AP classes. We didn't have final exams. There was one English class called "college prep English." that was the only class we had to write an essay in.
The thing is, this is the kind of stuff that really haunts me. My failures and losses. I can't get over how stupid I was to quit piano. What a passive loser I was. What a loss music and art were to me. I honestly get tears in my eyes in the art section of crafts stores. When I think about being able to draw, or paint, I honestly get depressed and have a crying jag because I'm such a failure at something I wanted so much.
But the other thing is -- I was a kid. A KID. I shouldn't have had all the responsibility here. Someone should have been looking out FOR me. My parents. Teachers. School administrators. For gods' sake, there were less than 50 people in my high school graduating class. It's not like they had to keep track of hundreds and hundreds of us. Someone might have realized I ALWAYS tried to take art. Someone might have noticed that my math scores were way below my other classes. The closest I got to individual attention was when the superintendent, who could see the playground out her window, called me into her office in elementary school and told me not to play with the boys any more. (In retrospect, she probably thought I was going to be a lesbian if not for her intervention.)
We were all fools.
The other thing is how passive I was with my father. He got sick when I was about ten (although he lived another 20 years), and from then on he didn't join the family for meals but instead ate by himself in the living room.
One might wonder why I didn't sometimes take my plate in there and eat with him. That probably would have made him pretty happy. I can't stand to think about how it really didn't even occur to me. Part of it was the "no eating anywhere but the kitchen table" rule, but most of it was that I was a fucking idiot.
But sometimes I think maybe I should try to forgive myself. I only really realized lately that the stuff I feel the worst about - the stuff that really makes me want to punch myself in the face - is stuff I never should have had sole responsibility for in the first place.
I mean, I won't forgive myself. I'm pretty sure I'm constitutionally incapable of forgiving myself. For anything, ever.
But sometimes I think maybe I should try.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Weird childhood memories
For some reason I was just thinking about the time I sprained my ankle.
I know, totally mundane. I was lucky enough to live a largely injury-free childhood apart from the usual skinned knees and elbows, so this event was pretty significant to me. I’m not sure how old I was, but I’m thinking probably fourth or fifth grade. We were called in from recess and I was running to get in line, and wham! Got up, hopped to the line, realized my foot wasn’t working, got sent to the nurse’s office.
I remember that a man was in the nurse’s office chatting with her – not a teacher, who I would have recognized, so maybe a janitor or something? The nurse moved my foot around, and it hurt like hell, and I made little “ow” sounds, and the guy mocked me. Um, thanks a lot, why are you even in here? (Remember how kids didn’t have rights? It wasn’t any use to complain, no matter how much injustice you felt.)
Anyway, the nurse thought nothing was broken and wrapped it up, and I remember for a few days I couldn’t put any weight on it. My big brother carried me between the school bus and house, and my teacher assigned a couple of other kids to help me – I had to lean on someone while hopping to, you know, music class or whatever, and a couple of helpers and I got to leave for lunch a couple of minutes early because I was slow. I remember waking up every morning trying to flex it a little, or tentatively putting my foot to the floor to see if it could bear any weight yet.
In retrospect, I can’t help but wonder why my parents didn’t take me to the doctor or something. Crutches would have made my life SO much easier for those days. Jesus Christ, people. I’m hopping around on one foot for the greater part of a week! A little help here? Thanks for nothin’!
Which is the general feeling I have when I think about being a kid, really – thanks for nothin’, you know?
Seriously. You gotta laugh.
I know, totally mundane. I was lucky enough to live a largely injury-free childhood apart from the usual skinned knees and elbows, so this event was pretty significant to me. I’m not sure how old I was, but I’m thinking probably fourth or fifth grade. We were called in from recess and I was running to get in line, and wham! Got up, hopped to the line, realized my foot wasn’t working, got sent to the nurse’s office.
I remember that a man was in the nurse’s office chatting with her – not a teacher, who I would have recognized, so maybe a janitor or something? The nurse moved my foot around, and it hurt like hell, and I made little “ow” sounds, and the guy mocked me. Um, thanks a lot, why are you even in here? (Remember how kids didn’t have rights? It wasn’t any use to complain, no matter how much injustice you felt.)
Anyway, the nurse thought nothing was broken and wrapped it up, and I remember for a few days I couldn’t put any weight on it. My big brother carried me between the school bus and house, and my teacher assigned a couple of other kids to help me – I had to lean on someone while hopping to, you know, music class or whatever, and a couple of helpers and I got to leave for lunch a couple of minutes early because I was slow. I remember waking up every morning trying to flex it a little, or tentatively putting my foot to the floor to see if it could bear any weight yet.
In retrospect, I can’t help but wonder why my parents didn’t take me to the doctor or something. Crutches would have made my life SO much easier for those days. Jesus Christ, people. I’m hopping around on one foot for the greater part of a week! A little help here? Thanks for nothin’!
Which is the general feeling I have when I think about being a kid, really – thanks for nothin’, you know?
Seriously. You gotta laugh.
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