Procrasti...

Ah, procrastination. How I hate that ever-so-human trend. My classes, exams, and jury are all finished by April 13th. In that 2.5 week time though (ouch, only 2.5 weeks) I have about 1600 pages to read for an essay, my 30 minute jury to prep for, 28 essay questions to prepare in prep for my history exam and 3000 words to write for that final history essay (worth 40% of my grade). To say that this is stressful is an understatement, and so far I am not moving nearly as quickly as I would like to on things. I guess it's because the weekends have turned into 'do-nothing' festivals. Last night I intended to read at least 100 pages, and ended up reading not even one sentence. I guess the only positive to that was that I did a journal activity that I had been meaning to do-and needing to do-for a long time. I sat down and through writing about 20 pages, I expressed and listed what my mom did in my life that was good, and what things caused me pain, and may still be causing me pain. Writing down the good things was easy. But writing down the things that weren't so good was hard. Once again, it was feeling disloyal, but I needed to write them down, along with some acknowledgements-saying that certain actions were not helpful, perhaps wrong, but ending with other affirmations. It got pretty hard when I remembered a particularly disturbing incident from when I was seven years old that really encapsilated all the issues that had developed. What I've come to realize and talk about in my counselling is that although my parents did many things very well, their disciplinary style didn't really work in terms of emotional health, and as a young child, I learned that I couldn't feel free to express my emotions around them, or to look for them for support in anything that involved emotions. And that's the truth. What I remember is only pure terror and emotion, things were never really explained. In my mind, for any discipline to be effective, the reason for it needs to be explained, it needs to make sense in terms of the action, and it must not be done when out of control, or all the child remembers is fear. This feeling that I couldn't reach out to my parents for any sort of support continued throughout my childhood and teenage years. Not being able to explain what was going on when my sister and I were fighting as a child may seem like a small thing, but that small action of not being listened to or support in the emotions really seems to have made me terrified not to be always pleasing them (especially during childhood, my mom). The type of school-child that seems too good to be true, yeah that was me. Dedicated, always on time, work always done to perfected specifications. And so when things did go wrong that really DID need adult support, such as bullying in grades three-four, all sorts of other things...well, I couldn't reach out to them. I don't want to be like that with my children-if I have children someday. Probably the most painful memory from childhood isn't even the spanking-terror memories or my mom's sometimes explosive (without warning) yell, but that day when I was seven. I remember things VERY clearly. It was summer, and my sister and I had a friend over each (my mom was babysitting them-they are sisters about the same age as my sister and I). We were playing downstairs, going to make a playhouse. One of the little tables needed to be moved, and I wanted to move it by myself. My friend wanted to help, but I felt like I needed to prove myself given how I was always being told how little I was (and yes, I was tiny at less than 35 pounds but I was strong), so I started moving it myself. My mom seemed to think that that wasn't acceptable, so she sent me to my room without letting me explain, and without talking about what was wrong (my guess is that if the friends hadn't been there, I would have been spanked first).To me, in this situation looking retrospectively, it would have been appropriate to let me finish moving the table, then take me aside and talk about the situation, first letting me explain why I was so insistent on moving it myself, and then explaining that my friend wanted to help move things too, and that we should both do it. Perhaps even an affirmation that she understood that it was hard being small, and it was obvious that I was strong. Instead, there I am, in my room, full of emotions. I take refuge in my closet because I'm not allowed to express anything to anyone. I'm very frustrated, angry, and feeling that things are 'just not fair'. For some reason, the old peg-board and hammer are still in my closet although they probably haven't been used for at least two or three years. Because I haven't been allowed to express myself, I'm needing to let things out somehow, so I start banging (not very hard against the walls). That brings her in in a rage, so I stop. A couple of minutes later, everything still churning, I start banging on myself again-VERY hard. I'm not sure how many minutes it was before my mom looked in again, but there I was, in my closet banging away on myself with a wooden hammer. And she seems to find it somewhat amusing, at the very least confusing. It was a cry for help from a little seven year old, physically abusing herself because she isn't able to express her emotions in any other way, and there my mom is, looking amused, not at all concerned. Yes, at seven, I began physically abusing myself...and my mom didn't do a thing, except walk out. And that is why that memory hurts so much, a small situation is taken way too seriously, and something huge is taken as a joke. If I were to ever see a child hitting themselves like that, I'd definitely be very concerned. But I guess that is where experience walks in. That morning is one that I wish could be wiped out of history.