Ryduce
02-11-2008, 10:26 PM
Please,any thoughts,criticisms,etc would be appreciated.
I once read that all childhoods are particularly bleak in their own way. I would have to agree. However it seems to me inevitable that some are considerably bleaker than others. Though the agonizing memories often associated with youth are looked upon with a necessary amount of distaste, it must be remembered that those events are ephemeral, the wound fleeting, and the scar essential to life. Or at least this is what I tell myself. In reality, one particular event emotionally ****ed me up for some time after.
I was not what you would call a happy child. No, I was socially awkward, overweight, and routinely picked on. Becoming accustomed to this is a painfully tedious process. I was, however, a proud child, and blows to my ego often went unretaliated for long durations until like a giant caldera I would explode in tremendous fits of violence towards myself or others. Yet, somehow, I was resigned to being the fat guy in my group. This was youth. Public humiliation and bottled pain. This is not uncommon though, and looking back it does not seem nearly as horrifying as it did then. Even still, I did not expect it to escalate to the levels that it did.
I was eleven or twelve when it happened. I distinctly remember a moderate spring sun on the back of my neck. We were preparing to go to a friend’s house.There was a breeze,amiable,and soothing. The neighbor’s had been too lazy to rake their leaves during the winter,and I watched as the wind carried them, suspended, across my driveway and
eventually out of view. There was that organic smell that only spring can emanate, but on the right morning you could still feel that smoky sting indicating that winter could make its last stand.This time of the year is usually associated with rebirth or renewal, but very soon it would become, to me, the death of any positive self- perception in myself.
Charles and Ryan were situated to the left of me as we set off that evening. Ryan was an extremely twitchy character, whose skin and bone build was only diminished by his drained and pale skin complexion. Charles, short, and somewhat of a braggart, was exceedingly arrogant and profoundly effeminate. I particularly could not stand him, but a friend of a friend is always expected company. We continued towards Kristen’s house with little trouble. Once we arrived we began to knock on her door.
“Where the hell is she?” Charles asked, with a considerable degree of impatience. It did seem that we had been knocking on her door for several minutes.
“I don’t know man.” I responded.
“Let’s get out of here.” I concluded.
By the time we left the edge of the sun was barely visible over the tree tops, making the sky burn pink and purple. Earlier, there had been little girls drawing with chalk on the sidewalk. Now there was no activity whatsoever. The streets seemed
spookily deserted, with the exception of three figures in the distance. As we continued to walk our shadows grew longer,and the figures enlarged until they were within view. I recognized them immediately. They were some of my most frequent tormenters. My 5’6 190 pound frame was a favorite target of theirs. I knew very little about them except that they were much older than I, and were repeat criminal offenders .I was often the brunt of their viscous verbal attacks.
“Let’s go back to Kristen’s.” I quickly said.
I knew that if they caught up with us I would quickly and efficiently be their whipping boy until I was near the verge of tears. But I wanted to keep my fears silent from my friends. Amongst our group I fashioned myself as somewhat of a stoic and to show fear in front of them was unacceptable to me.
Then it began.
“Hey fatass.” And a chorus of laughter ensued.
His eyes seemed too small for their sockets, and his nose, thin and protruding, flared as he exhaled a dark grey plume of smoke. It encircled his head before quickly dissipating to nothingness.He had an unmistakable smirk, his lips curving upwards
towards his eyes precisely enough to create and air of devilishness, reminiscent of some sort of Savannah creature that stalks and kills on the darkest African evenings.I’m not sure how tall he was,he could have been four feet tall for all it mattered,to me he was the most imposing figure in the world.
He was accompanied by two equally insidious men. One, shorter, with an astonishingly square jaw. The other, taller, bald, with a pallid complexion and cigarette behind one ear.
Walking away was not in my character.I made a bee line straight for them.I’m not sure why.I wanted to appear proud and strong, but in reality I burned with embarrassment and my legs moved unconsciously towards the source of my turmoil. Every part of me wanted to run away, disappear, take my abuse and swallow it. For some reason, I had made the conscious choice to face my fear head on. Admirable, but it proved to be a terrible mistake.
By this point my friends had disappeared. I did not count on them to become involved in such altercations anyway.There was no doubt in my mind that they were probably more scared than I was.
“What’s up titty boy?” and his friends nodded approvingly.
“Can you guys please just leave me alone?” I asked.
This was desperation.I was trying to appeal to some level of decency in them.Or perhaps I was trying to delay further abuse to myself.Either way the attempt was in vain.They smelled blood,and they were not going to stop until they had a meal.
“You know they would love your fatass in prison.”And that lifeless smirk returned.
“You would know wouldn’t you?” I said.
I was trying to stand up for myself verbally, but there were no words in the English language that could wound them the way that I was wounded.They knew that they were hurting me,and this amused them.The more pain I was in, the more excited and viscous they became.This is the nature of the mob.
It was at this moment that the event turned form normal adolescent bullying to something more.
“Hey man that’s a nice shirt.” The tallest one said.
He then grabbed my collar and yanked downwards with a considerable amount of force.I heard the shredding of fabric, and felt the disunion of masculinity within myself.
My head began to throb.I could feel my heart beating inside of me.My pulse raced.Every ounce of me was shaking.Shaking from fear.Shaking from humiliation.These acts of degredation were unbearable.
“Is titty boy gonna cry?” He asked.
I wanted to,but there was no chance in hell that I was going to give those sons of *****es the satisfaction.
“**** you.” I screamed.
Even in my anger I was in a state of immobility. I wanted to act out, but to me these men were mountains; immovable, impassibile, colossal, and commanding. I was
Sisyphus, condemned to the inevitability of being broken by the mountain.There was no point in acting.There could be no victory. Only humiliation.
“Fatboy is getting a little touchy.” The square jawed boy chimed in.
“Maybe we should show him what happens to *****y little fatasses in prison.”The lead boy responded.
I’m not sure what happened next,but I was on the ground and I was being hit.I then began to feel the crushing blows and everything moved slower like I was in some sort of dream sequence.My brain could not comprehend the reality of the situation.It’s funny how in these moments of horror my thoughts suddenly became precise and crystal clear.Why me?What sins had I commited to provoke such terror?How long could I endure this?I could not breathe.Was it from fear,pride,or the fact that they were incessantly kicking me in the ribs?Where was that primal urge to survive?I wanted to fight back, but every part of me was paralyzed.I was helpless. I assure you there is no worse feeling in the world than that of helplessness.The worst part though was the reality within myself. I realized that I had deluded myself for so long. I wanted to believe that I was so strong, so tough, so impressively indifferent to pain, but here I was now just a scared little boy wanting to be saved,but there was nobody there to save me.
How much time passed? I do not know. Minutes? Seconds? Days? It seemed an interminable lifetime.Somewhere along the line I lost consciousness.I assume they grew tired of beating me, much as a cat grows tired of playing with a lifeless mouse.Once I found my bearings I noticed that it was pretty much night time.Bloodied,beaten,and shirtless I began a long, lonely journey home.
It was a moonless evening.Too cloudy for stars.That evening winter did make a brief resurgence.There was an unmistakable chill in the air that contrasted beautifully with the desolate population of the streets and my physical condition.The streetlight
above me flickered as I passed under it.I don’t think I had a single coherent thought the whole walk home.I was numbed,shocked,emasculated to a terrifying degree.
There was nobody home.
I was alone. Retreating into my bedroom I closed the door behind me.Then in one overwhelming moment I did something I haven’t done since.I cried.More than that.I wept.I wept like some damned baby,and I hated myself for it.All the pain that I ever felt in my life seemed to rush through me in a single instant, and I could no longer be immune to it.I cursed God.Something I’m not proud of now.But I needed someone, something to assuage me. To make me whole again.They took something from me that evening,and I’m not sure if I ever recovered it.
I didn’t heal for awhile.At least not psychologically. I spent a lot of time in self-seclusion. Scared of the world, scared of the feelings I had that night.Those feelings of degredation,humiliation,and nothingness.There is something about the mind of a child that internalizes everything, and keeps himself hidded from the world.I only spoke of the incident to three or four other people, but I thought about it everyday.
There is still pain behind those memories that is hard to understand, but in the grander aspect of things it all seems rather insignificant now. What happened was in excusable,but by allowing it to consume all these years I consciously accepted defeat. I
wallowed in my own self-pity for too long,and I understand that now. The adage says, “Time heals all wounds.” This is true,but the calcifying remnant is with me everyday.
I actually encountered one of my attackers recently.Turns out he was one of my friend’s cousins.He had no idea who I was,which is particularly frightening to me considering the brutal nature of the event, I figured it would merit some sort of memory,but it didn’t.I remembered him though.His face was branded into my mind forever. We struck up a conversation and it soon became so pleasant that I forgot the occurrence of our other encounter.At the end of the conversation I was left with one resounding thought:How imposing he seemed then and how small and ordinary he seemed now.
What would life be without the pain of the past constantly in the back of our thoughts? Back then I said “Why me?” Now I say “Look what I endured.” “Look what I rose above.” If all childhoods share a common bleakness, then all adulthoods share a common hope in that no circumstances are beyond our capabilities. A child’s heart is like that of a sponge,and an adults like stone..
I once read that all childhoods are particularly bleak in their own way. I would have to agree. However it seems to me inevitable that some are considerably bleaker than others. Though the agonizing memories often associated with youth are looked upon with a necessary amount of distaste, it must be remembered that those events are ephemeral, the wound fleeting, and the scar essential to life. Or at least this is what I tell myself. In reality, one particular event emotionally ****ed me up for some time after.
I was not what you would call a happy child. No, I was socially awkward, overweight, and routinely picked on. Becoming accustomed to this is a painfully tedious process. I was, however, a proud child, and blows to my ego often went unretaliated for long durations until like a giant caldera I would explode in tremendous fits of violence towards myself or others. Yet, somehow, I was resigned to being the fat guy in my group. This was youth. Public humiliation and bottled pain. This is not uncommon though, and looking back it does not seem nearly as horrifying as it did then. Even still, I did not expect it to escalate to the levels that it did.
I was eleven or twelve when it happened. I distinctly remember a moderate spring sun on the back of my neck. We were preparing to go to a friend’s house.There was a breeze,amiable,and soothing. The neighbor’s had been too lazy to rake their leaves during the winter,and I watched as the wind carried them, suspended, across my driveway and
eventually out of view. There was that organic smell that only spring can emanate, but on the right morning you could still feel that smoky sting indicating that winter could make its last stand.This time of the year is usually associated with rebirth or renewal, but very soon it would become, to me, the death of any positive self- perception in myself.
Charles and Ryan were situated to the left of me as we set off that evening. Ryan was an extremely twitchy character, whose skin and bone build was only diminished by his drained and pale skin complexion. Charles, short, and somewhat of a braggart, was exceedingly arrogant and profoundly effeminate. I particularly could not stand him, but a friend of a friend is always expected company. We continued towards Kristen’s house with little trouble. Once we arrived we began to knock on her door.
“Where the hell is she?” Charles asked, with a considerable degree of impatience. It did seem that we had been knocking on her door for several minutes.
“I don’t know man.” I responded.
“Let’s get out of here.” I concluded.
By the time we left the edge of the sun was barely visible over the tree tops, making the sky burn pink and purple. Earlier, there had been little girls drawing with chalk on the sidewalk. Now there was no activity whatsoever. The streets seemed
spookily deserted, with the exception of three figures in the distance. As we continued to walk our shadows grew longer,and the figures enlarged until they were within view. I recognized them immediately. They were some of my most frequent tormenters. My 5’6 190 pound frame was a favorite target of theirs. I knew very little about them except that they were much older than I, and were repeat criminal offenders .I was often the brunt of their viscous verbal attacks.
“Let’s go back to Kristen’s.” I quickly said.
I knew that if they caught up with us I would quickly and efficiently be their whipping boy until I was near the verge of tears. But I wanted to keep my fears silent from my friends. Amongst our group I fashioned myself as somewhat of a stoic and to show fear in front of them was unacceptable to me.
Then it began.
“Hey fatass.” And a chorus of laughter ensued.
His eyes seemed too small for their sockets, and his nose, thin and protruding, flared as he exhaled a dark grey plume of smoke. It encircled his head before quickly dissipating to nothingness.He had an unmistakable smirk, his lips curving upwards
towards his eyes precisely enough to create and air of devilishness, reminiscent of some sort of Savannah creature that stalks and kills on the darkest African evenings.I’m not sure how tall he was,he could have been four feet tall for all it mattered,to me he was the most imposing figure in the world.
He was accompanied by two equally insidious men. One, shorter, with an astonishingly square jaw. The other, taller, bald, with a pallid complexion and cigarette behind one ear.
Walking away was not in my character.I made a bee line straight for them.I’m not sure why.I wanted to appear proud and strong, but in reality I burned with embarrassment and my legs moved unconsciously towards the source of my turmoil. Every part of me wanted to run away, disappear, take my abuse and swallow it. For some reason, I had made the conscious choice to face my fear head on. Admirable, but it proved to be a terrible mistake.
By this point my friends had disappeared. I did not count on them to become involved in such altercations anyway.There was no doubt in my mind that they were probably more scared than I was.
“What’s up titty boy?” and his friends nodded approvingly.
“Can you guys please just leave me alone?” I asked.
This was desperation.I was trying to appeal to some level of decency in them.Or perhaps I was trying to delay further abuse to myself.Either way the attempt was in vain.They smelled blood,and they were not going to stop until they had a meal.
“You know they would love your fatass in prison.”And that lifeless smirk returned.
“You would know wouldn’t you?” I said.
I was trying to stand up for myself verbally, but there were no words in the English language that could wound them the way that I was wounded.They knew that they were hurting me,and this amused them.The more pain I was in, the more excited and viscous they became.This is the nature of the mob.
It was at this moment that the event turned form normal adolescent bullying to something more.
“Hey man that’s a nice shirt.” The tallest one said.
He then grabbed my collar and yanked downwards with a considerable amount of force.I heard the shredding of fabric, and felt the disunion of masculinity within myself.
My head began to throb.I could feel my heart beating inside of me.My pulse raced.Every ounce of me was shaking.Shaking from fear.Shaking from humiliation.These acts of degredation were unbearable.
“Is titty boy gonna cry?” He asked.
I wanted to,but there was no chance in hell that I was going to give those sons of *****es the satisfaction.
“**** you.” I screamed.
Even in my anger I was in a state of immobility. I wanted to act out, but to me these men were mountains; immovable, impassibile, colossal, and commanding. I was
Sisyphus, condemned to the inevitability of being broken by the mountain.There was no point in acting.There could be no victory. Only humiliation.
“Fatboy is getting a little touchy.” The square jawed boy chimed in.
“Maybe we should show him what happens to *****y little fatasses in prison.”The lead boy responded.
I’m not sure what happened next,but I was on the ground and I was being hit.I then began to feel the crushing blows and everything moved slower like I was in some sort of dream sequence.My brain could not comprehend the reality of the situation.It’s funny how in these moments of horror my thoughts suddenly became precise and crystal clear.Why me?What sins had I commited to provoke such terror?How long could I endure this?I could not breathe.Was it from fear,pride,or the fact that they were incessantly kicking me in the ribs?Where was that primal urge to survive?I wanted to fight back, but every part of me was paralyzed.I was helpless. I assure you there is no worse feeling in the world than that of helplessness.The worst part though was the reality within myself. I realized that I had deluded myself for so long. I wanted to believe that I was so strong, so tough, so impressively indifferent to pain, but here I was now just a scared little boy wanting to be saved,but there was nobody there to save me.
How much time passed? I do not know. Minutes? Seconds? Days? It seemed an interminable lifetime.Somewhere along the line I lost consciousness.I assume they grew tired of beating me, much as a cat grows tired of playing with a lifeless mouse.Once I found my bearings I noticed that it was pretty much night time.Bloodied,beaten,and shirtless I began a long, lonely journey home.
It was a moonless evening.Too cloudy for stars.That evening winter did make a brief resurgence.There was an unmistakable chill in the air that contrasted beautifully with the desolate population of the streets and my physical condition.The streetlight
above me flickered as I passed under it.I don’t think I had a single coherent thought the whole walk home.I was numbed,shocked,emasculated to a terrifying degree.
There was nobody home.
I was alone. Retreating into my bedroom I closed the door behind me.Then in one overwhelming moment I did something I haven’t done since.I cried.More than that.I wept.I wept like some damned baby,and I hated myself for it.All the pain that I ever felt in my life seemed to rush through me in a single instant, and I could no longer be immune to it.I cursed God.Something I’m not proud of now.But I needed someone, something to assuage me. To make me whole again.They took something from me that evening,and I’m not sure if I ever recovered it.
I didn’t heal for awhile.At least not psychologically. I spent a lot of time in self-seclusion. Scared of the world, scared of the feelings I had that night.Those feelings of degredation,humiliation,and nothingness.There is something about the mind of a child that internalizes everything, and keeps himself hidded from the world.I only spoke of the incident to three or four other people, but I thought about it everyday.
There is still pain behind those memories that is hard to understand, but in the grander aspect of things it all seems rather insignificant now. What happened was in excusable,but by allowing it to consume all these years I consciously accepted defeat. I
wallowed in my own self-pity for too long,and I understand that now. The adage says, “Time heals all wounds.” This is true,but the calcifying remnant is with me everyday.
I actually encountered one of my attackers recently.Turns out he was one of my friend’s cousins.He had no idea who I was,which is particularly frightening to me considering the brutal nature of the event, I figured it would merit some sort of memory,but it didn’t.I remembered him though.His face was branded into my mind forever. We struck up a conversation and it soon became so pleasant that I forgot the occurrence of our other encounter.At the end of the conversation I was left with one resounding thought:How imposing he seemed then and how small and ordinary he seemed now.
What would life be without the pain of the past constantly in the back of our thoughts? Back then I said “Why me?” Now I say “Look what I endured.” “Look what I rose above.” If all childhoods share a common bleakness, then all adulthoods share a common hope in that no circumstances are beyond our capabilities. A child’s heart is like that of a sponge,and an adults like stone..