Pardon me, but I think you've pissed me off.
You know, the beauty of blogging is the record it provides; the road map to my stream of consciousness. I like being able to go back and reread my rants. Without a doubt, it appears that avoiding an allusion to my parents is nearly impossible. Even when I talk about my cats I’m describing my expectations of a parent.
Why has it been so difficult to just come out and say it? Is it because I’m ashamed of myself for not having the courage to face them; to make them own up to their mistakes? Or at least to try to make them? Yes, I’m angry. I’m angry that I have Cerebral Palsy. I’m angry that my parents, acting like children when they were 30 years old, MIGHT have caused it. I’m angry that they had to tell me about that. I’m angry that their judgment wasn’t sufficient for them to know that I already had enough to deal with without wondering about whether or not they wanted me in their lives.
I’m angry that not only were they less than perfect parents, they were oblivious to my needs while I was growing up with a disability. I can’t seem to separate those two things. I mean, were they horrible parents, or just horrible parents to a child with a disability?
"I'm glad you’re doing real good in school." I used to hear. "You’ll need a desk job, since you won’t be able to get a real job."
A real job? ‘Fuck you’ just doesn’t seem strong enough, does it?
I remember once when I was little I was playing at the end of our field after school. I saw my dad’s volkswagen bug drive around the corner, and I immediately started running the 100 yards or so to our house. I was running, and waving my arm to greet my dad, excited that he was home from work. Sometimes he used to let me sit in his lap and steer the bug. When I finally opened the door to the house I heard my father telling my mother, that he had seen a little kid running towards the house from the end of the pasture. And he knew it was me from the ‘funny gait’. I hate the way he made me feel. He made me ashamed of myself; ashamed for running funny. He made me ashamed to have to 'settle' for a desk job.
About that same age I remember going out to the pump house for a handful of chocolate chips from a Ziploc bag my mother kept in the freezer. My older brothers had shown me where it was. I put the chips in my front shirt pocket so they wouldn’t melt in my hand, and then I ran into the house to get back to my toybox. In my haste that last step across the threshold was just a tad bit higher than I had calculated, and as I fell to the floor my frozen chocolate chips flew across the linoleum like marbles. My father started to scream, but I didn't hear him. I was too busy calculating the optimum route to pick up all of my chips. When my father’s steel-toed boot lifted my entire body up off the floor, I began to wonder if we were supposed to be getting into the freezer. I wasn’t running to hide or to be sneaky. I was running because, I was a little kid. Too little in fact, not to wonder if I had been kicked in the ass just for being clumsy. Maybe if I didn’t have Cerebral Palsy I’d be laughing about it now.
I just don’t know.
Why has it been so difficult to just come out and say it? Is it because I’m ashamed of myself for not having the courage to face them; to make them own up to their mistakes? Or at least to try to make them? Yes, I’m angry. I’m angry that I have Cerebral Palsy. I’m angry that my parents, acting like children when they were 30 years old, MIGHT have caused it. I’m angry that they had to tell me about that. I’m angry that their judgment wasn’t sufficient for them to know that I already had enough to deal with without wondering about whether or not they wanted me in their lives.
I’m angry that not only were they less than perfect parents, they were oblivious to my needs while I was growing up with a disability. I can’t seem to separate those two things. I mean, were they horrible parents, or just horrible parents to a child with a disability?
"I'm glad you’re doing real good in school." I used to hear. "You’ll need a desk job, since you won’t be able to get a real job."
A real job? ‘Fuck you’ just doesn’t seem strong enough, does it?
I remember once when I was little I was playing at the end of our field after school. I saw my dad’s volkswagen bug drive around the corner, and I immediately started running the 100 yards or so to our house. I was running, and waving my arm to greet my dad, excited that he was home from work. Sometimes he used to let me sit in his lap and steer the bug. When I finally opened the door to the house I heard my father telling my mother, that he had seen a little kid running towards the house from the end of the pasture. And he knew it was me from the ‘funny gait’. I hate the way he made me feel. He made me ashamed of myself; ashamed for running funny. He made me ashamed to have to 'settle' for a desk job.
About that same age I remember going out to the pump house for a handful of chocolate chips from a Ziploc bag my mother kept in the freezer. My older brothers had shown me where it was. I put the chips in my front shirt pocket so they wouldn’t melt in my hand, and then I ran into the house to get back to my toybox. In my haste that last step across the threshold was just a tad bit higher than I had calculated, and as I fell to the floor my frozen chocolate chips flew across the linoleum like marbles. My father started to scream, but I didn't hear him. I was too busy calculating the optimum route to pick up all of my chips. When my father’s steel-toed boot lifted my entire body up off the floor, I began to wonder if we were supposed to be getting into the freezer. I wasn’t running to hide or to be sneaky. I was running because, I was a little kid. Too little in fact, not to wonder if I had been kicked in the ass just for being clumsy. Maybe if I didn’t have Cerebral Palsy I’d be laughing about it now.
I just don’t know.
posted by Sylow_P | 5:50 PM
1 Comments:
MissKate told me yesterday that you need to come out our way so we can all sit and talk with a bottle of wine. I think it may need to be two or three bottles.
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