Exploring the Past

Being that I still struggle - and suffer - day in and day out with my confidence, self esteem, and ability to maintain an embodied self awareness, I can sometimes get caught up in moping over the past. I'll think to myself: I'm only here because of my mother.

She got depressed at age 40, withdrew from her children, withdrew from her parental duties, and because of her, I too got depressed. I was 13 years old and needed a strong and stable household. It was bad enough I lacked a father figure in my life - my own Dad was similarly withdrawn, occupied with my mom, and consumed with his work - but in addition to that, my own mother began going out everyday. Come the school year, grade 8, for some odd reason I feel especially insecure this time around. Before it was just nerves, shyness, but beneath all that was a anticipation for the new school year. This year was different. The social problems began to accrue towards the end of grade 7. And this is also the time when my dad was demoted, and my mothers depression began. At this point, there were no dramatic suicide attempts, just your run of the mill arguments between mom and dad, withdrawal from her children, little or no positive conversation and encouragement that there used to be when I was younger. All of a sudden home life changed. It was a sadder, angrier, more irritable place. And my mom, unbeknownst to her at the time, was planting the seeds for a life long insecurity in her son.

My troubles at the end of grade 7 loomed in my mind before grade 8. I remember distinctly: I didn't go out as often as I did the summer before, and my mom reminded me. The year before, everyday, I'd be outside playing road hockey with street kids, or playing basketball with my friend Ryan at my house - or his house - or baseball, soccer, or quite often, tennis at the tennis courts. We had developed quite a rivalry. We'd also play doubles when Adam, John, Matt or others who came around. I may have been a shy kid, but I was a kid who was socially capable: I liked socializing and enjoyed playing sports, roaming the forests, and more or less, having fun. But, I wont deny, I was a sensitive kid as well.

By the time grade 8 came around my mother's depression had been growing worse. I don't recall much interaction between her and I. I remember many arguments between my parents, many nights where she slept at her friend Sylvanas apartment in downtown Toronto. Our home life was marred by this avoidance: my mom sleeping at her friends house and my dad wanting her to come home. Sometimes I'd come, but most of the time I'd be left at home. Already at this point the home problems were adding to my depression, low self esteem and increased insecurity in socializing. My brother conversely, more naturally sociable, and also younger, spared the social complexities of grade 8 - a transition to early adulthood - was effected in a different way (after watching my mother attempt suicide on a number of occasions, he developed a stutter).

My mother's actions - her disregard of her parental duties - provided the basic environmental impetus that got my biology all off kilter. More bluntly put: her depression caused my depression. It's been 13 years since her depression days. But for me, life hasnt changed. At 27, I am still feeling the effects of the ruthless emotional abuse I experienced at the hands of a bully. I realize that there were two factors involved: home life, and the presence of this bully. But I know I would have handled this kid much differently if I had been spared the emotional complexities happening in my homelife. Life became confusing for me. I became scared, anxious, and increasingly uncertain about things. All this stress no doubt contributed to my stunted growth (4'7 at 14 - 5'7 now) which in turn supplied fodder for the bully (his entire program was based around my being "a midget", and I'm sure aspects of my personality irked him too)

I suffered greatly during that year. I couldn't even finish school - be confirmed with my classmates, or attend graduation ceremonies. Something I could and did do during my earlier years, 1st communion, class pictures - something I did with no small measure of alacrity, I saw myself dreading.

Then, in grade 10, after attempting to mold my personality into someone else in grade 9, that same bully entered highschool. Terror struck my heart. I had actually hung around him in grade 9 - he was a friend of one of my friends. Towards the end of grade 9, I found people asking questions about my past, and more or less changing their demeanor towards me. Being easily riled up - I amped up my efforts. I tried even harder to "fit in". But even then, I think I did a decent job being myself, holding down the fort of my true self. But then grade 9 withered away, and on the way to grade 10, my difficulties returned, coinciding with the reappearance of Adam Mcdonald. Tall, lanky, blonde haired, pierced, sociopathic looking, with a monotone voice, he seemed to embody the notion of "I don't give a shit what you think". He thought he was badass, too cool for school. His opinions were razor sharp, acerbic and vitriolic. He spoke with a sarcastic hint to his speech - as if his effort to talk with you should be something taken as a favor. Even to this day, when I say sociopathic, I am being quite literal: he possessed all those basic criteria needed to qualify for social personal disorder. He seemed to be beyond the pale when it came to empathy. If he didn't do something, it was because he restrained himself on a cognitive level. Not because he felt guilt, or shame, or sorry, but because he didn't want to get in trouble.

His relentless bullying, his repursuit of his victim from his elementary school days, was truly sadistic. When you think about it, PTSD caused from bullying is not a thing to be taken lightly. It is horrific what a bully can do to the personality of his victim. Any life condition - in my case, trouble at home - happened to coincide with the presence of a sociopath. Sociopathic children would more easily be held at bay if teachers and students took bullying more seriously. But back in '98, things didn't happen that way. My teacher was indolent to the extreme. A part of me wants to blame him for preferring to let the bully hurt me than to jeopardize his carefree and interactive relationship with his students. He could have, for example, suggested expulsion of Adam Mcdonald for the effects his bullying was having on one of his students (refusing to speak or lift my head from the desk should have wrung alarm bells), but no - he didn't entertain that notion. He was far too "fun" a teacher to take initiative against a problematic student. Instead, he tolerated the abuse of the bullier, which in effect enabled the suffering experienced by his victim. If he were reading this today, I would say to Mr. Kelly: you should have taken your duties as a teacher more seriously.

But, perhaps, he was just a symptom of a dysfunctional school system that under emphasized the psycho-social responsibilities of teachers - to inform children, to encourage children, to treat other kids with respect and empathy. I truly believe that this is the only moral direction we can go. It is inexcusable that someone like me - subject to unfortunate life circumstances - should have suffered so bad in school, that till this day, I am unfit for the social world. I am still re-experiencing the feelings first felt at 13 years old, despite my intellectual and spiritual maturity, I still feel like a scared little kid inside.

At a certain point in time, I remember just giving up. Not being able to process these emotions within me anymore. I was fighting for my breath after grade 8 and into grade 9. After falling again in grade 10, I began experiencing this shakiness in my voice when I spoke. I was conceptualizing myself as I spoke - observing myself to make sure I acted carefully - rightly, that I didn't make any social mistakes. I was so stricken by my social difficulties in the earlier two years that I was taking excessively self conscious measures to deal with the mechanics of socializing. By 16, after spending the summer playing basketball at a basketball camp and convincing myself of my coolness, of my new found identification with black culture, I returned to my old school after my parents moved to a different house in the same district. This year, I might as well describe as my most deluded point in my life. I changed the style of my voice - shaved my head and fancied that I could pass for a mulatto person - and pretended that I was on course to become the next Vince Carter. I just had to get through highschool. Then, I'd be playing D1 college ball on scholarship down south. A "free education" - that was the cool thing, something emphasized by the basketball instructor. Even though my real dream was merely the story - the glory - that goes along with a kid working towards becoming a professional sports star.

Throughout that year, I struggled off and on in my social relationships. Unlike the years prior, this time I made extra effort to feel cool. By being so "tuned in" on my self, I made sure that I never spoke without the appropriate accent - that I said cool things, mentioned basketball, and other things designed to make me look good in the eyes of others. Eventually, the effect wore off, and I became annoying to people. I made the junior basketball team, only to be seated on the bench for most of the games. The one game I played in, I got an elbow to the nose and broke it..

Everyday I Woke up at 6AM, and played basketball for 1-2 hours before school started in the high school gymnasium. The gym teachers themselves began to grow irritated with me playing in "their" gym without special permission. Some kids, if they're charismatic enough, can get that imprimatur. But me, being shy, reclusive, and tongue tied when spoken to, this gave a bad effect on the teachers, and eventually even they would prevent me from entering the gym.

Just remembering those days, at 16, is painful for me. I was so depressed with my life. I also grew more and more paranoid and anxious about increasingly silly things. The relationships I still had began to falter at this point. By the end of that year, I had no friends left, and I once again withdrew from the world.

I began to worry about killing myself. Being accustomed to anxious thoughts now and again, I remember feeling overwhelmed by the intensity and frequency of these emotions. I began to obsess over talking - how to do it. By obsessing so greatly, I began to conceptualize myself as I spoke. But since this was from a feeling of insecurity, of fear of social disapproval, it was tinged with a strain, with a forcefulness that could be easily heard - consciously, or unconsciously - by the person I was talking with. Also at this time, I began to worry about suicide. I would go to bed and disturbed and morbid thoughts would percolate in my head. One second it was a disease - I had it, Aids! Next second, it was suicide, my wrists became rashy, and I would take it as some sort of command from some nefarious source to cut my wrists. I would worry about taking the subway, because I had heard of someone who recently jumped in front of one. Having heard it - and feeling a pit in my stomach, I began to grow afraid that I too would - or could - jump in front of a subway. I would have the worse anxiety attacks when I had to ride the subway. These thoughts just weighed on me and oppressed me throughout that year. By the end of it all, we had moved again, this time way up north to Barrie, Ontario. My life had taken on a sordid consistency - my days were now filled with anguish about my voice. My ability to relate with my brother was weakening, and my sister having gone off to college 2 years earlier had only strengthened my feelings of seclusion and depression.

Since then, since 18, it has been the same thing day in and day out. At around 19, I began to grow interested in reading - something I never really did before. At 20, I was absorbed in spiritual subjects. By 21, I had a horrible experience with Kundalini yoga that left me sleepless for 21 days. A pivotal point in my life. By 23, I was learning Hebrew and studying Judaism. 24, I began spending a lot of time at the library reading. Now, at 27, soon to be 28, I spend my days at the library - a two minute walk from my house. I read 20-30 books a month, from neuroscience, to psychology, to political science, to computer science, to philosophy, biology, novels, reading scientific journals. All of this for self improvement - an investment in my future.

My greatest hope is to be out of this situation by age 30. To be in school by 31, to be married by 35, to have kids by 40. These are hopes I can't deny myself - I want them so deeply, at the core of my being. But, as of now, I know I have a mountain to climb. I have things to do - situations to conquer. I hope and pray it goes well.