Sometimes I wonder why I’m so fucked up. I sit around and contemplate it. I discuss it with my therapist. Then, I stop.
I don’t know if the “why” really matters. I’m not sure if there’s any meaning in the “why.” I think everyone is fucked up, and there are all sorts of reasons why.
My inner child, man. I was talking about that with my therapist, today. I wonder how I’ve gone this long, through this many therapists, without thinking about my inner child and what healing him might even mean.
I was talking to her about how, as I’ve written here before, intellectually “gifted” children tend to become really emotionally troubled adults or rocket scientists. She said, “There you go with that black and white thinking,” and she’s right. You can be a really emotionally troubled rocket scientist; there are gray areas in life.
Anyway, something came to my mind that has literally never come up before, which I guess is what you’d call a breakthrough.
When I was a kid, I always hung out with the adults. I guess it was because I was smart enough to have conversations with them, and I must have been a good hang because I made them laugh. I was intellectually ahead of the kids my age, so I guess they just bored me. I don’t remember exactly.
I suppose the adult’s thinking was that since I was mentally mature, I had matching emotional maturity. I didn’t, but what happened was this: I was privy to a lot of adult conversations that kids probably shouldn’t hear. Not anything violent, just pieces of the truth about the world that you try not to let hit your kids right away. Although, I don’t know if this is good or bad (which is very black and white thinking of me), I know it’s true. I’m not saying I never got to believe in Santa or anything. I’m not saying I had a bad childhood either. I just heard things like the truth about how messed up my extended family was or how terrible Republicans were, or I was allowed to watch R-rated movies and MTV. I’m glad I saw Terminator 2 and watched Pearl Jam videos, though.
Maybe, though, I wasn’t able to be a carefree child. As far back as I can remember, I’ve been a wiseass cynic, which isn’t the best way to look at life if you want to be happy.
I’m not blaming my parents for anything. No one knows what to do when they have kids in their 20s, or ever. They did their best, and I didn’t come here to say, “Oh, my parents messed me up.” I mean, of course they did. Everyone’s parents messed them up, though. Some a lot worse than others, and I’m fortunate to have avoided serious childhood trauma and to have had a Nintendo 64 when I wanted a Nintendo 64.
My inner child makes me hoard retro games on my computer because I know he would look through video game magazines in the 1990s and be amazed at all of the games in there. It’s no wonder my happy Zen place is watching the introduction to the arcade version of Super Street Fighter 2. Maybe I’ve been trying to get in touch with him this whole time. I love nostalgia trips. Perhaps I need to take a clinical one to get at kid Ev.
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