When a child crashes into the teenage years, it’s a rite of passage to blame anyone brave enough or stupid enough to come within spitting distance.
Some of us turned our loathing inwards.
I hated my bleeding heart. It conned me. It made me believe in the best of people. It fermented my gullibility yet I was ashamed not to trust.
Love. I especially hated love because it wasn’t mine.
Thirteen years old is too young for a child to know the extent of his worthlessness.
I transformed from a chubby happy chappy, into a gangling and utterly miserable toe rag who hated everything except sleeping upside down, squeezing blackheads, scraping fingernails across chalkboards, extracting snot, pissing up walls without using my hands and banging my head to music cranked so loud the bass blew out candles.
Mother and Father – overworking, over-achieving, rarely seen – were abruptly re-cast as hateful and interfering megalomaniacs. Even if they had chosen to spend time with me what lessons could they possibly have taught me? Nothing! Absolutely nothing because I was suddenly an existential expert in everything. I was a full-on genius. My grasp of the mysteries of human experience and the entire canon of spiritual and philosophical lore was simply incredible. I was surely a walking, talking, eating, breathing, stinking marvel freaking out in a Teenage Daydream!
If only they had listened to me, the world would have been saved!
Although the calamity I endured was all their fault, they accepted none of the blame. They were smug, dismissive and condescending when all it would have taken to calm the storm was a hug.
The stuff of nightmares or daydreams.
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© Rivenrod 2020