My last post was intended to be an exploration of factors relevant to past relationship failures, workplace difficulties, etc. Instead, I eluded to some features of my personality that I believe have contributed to those challenges. In large part, I have traveled through life alone. In the past I recall having felt alone even when in a loving relationship or in the presence of friends and family. My adult life has been a constant battle of maintaining an external impression of confidence, self-assurance and competence whilst self loathing, negative internal dialogue and self deprecation raged within. I’d like to share some experiences from early life that I feel have contributed to the many layers that we are now forced to peel back. I think I’ve procrastinated getting to this point. Another point of failure in my functioning, clearly yet to be rectified.
I grew up in a lower middle class suburb about 45 minutes drive from Melbourne (Australia). In those days the surrounding area was mostly market gardens and vacant land. The ‘eldest’ of three kids, a sister four years younger and a brother another four years younger again. Both of my parents had links to regional Victoria. My father, I have come to realise is a highly intelligent human being, if not passive and accepting in his demeanor. Having grown up near the small rural town of Rushworth under the care of his widowed mother and her brother, he left school at the age of 13 before heading to Melbourne. There, he taught himself electronics before commencing employment as a technician with the government run telecommunications provider (in those days Telecom, now privatised as Telstra). This was to be a life long profession. With privatisation inevitably come offers of redundancy packages and at the age of 55, dad took the package. Although he did odd jobs for some time afterward, he would never work fulltime again.
Some of my favourite childhood memories revolve around joining dad at work when he was called back to the telephone ‘exchange’ to correct faults. In those days telephone numbers were dialled by massive panels in warehouse sized buildings where mechanical rotating systems would click out each of the numbers dialled in sequence for connection. Terminal computer systems would be used to fix faults. That was dad’s job. Though I never really learned what that actually involved. Clever I am certain he is, a talker he most definitely is not. Weekends as a kid were often spent tinkering with electronic circuits in the garage, soldering light bulbs or electric motors to batteries or making flashing lights for my pedal car so I could pretend it was a fire engine.
Mum is a much more complex being. Nine years younger than dad, she was married at 21. Although trained as a seamstress she would never return to the workplace after having children. In mum’s opinion, her role was to be at home ‘looking after the children’ which was very much in line with the thinking of the day. It would only become clear many years later, that there was a lot more to this mindset from mum’s perspective.
The home (?) or house that I grew up in was typical Australian 1970’s ‘red brick’ three bedroom offset from the closed end of a long cul de sac (they were called ‘courts’ in those days) with an awkward block and large backyard. A corrugated iron garage abutted the neighbour’s fence, with a veggie patch and black plum tree filling much of the deep angled aspect at the end of the block. Even after a ‘family room’ extension was added there was enough room for an above ground pool or backyard game of cricket. Blocks that size barely exist anymore in Australia. The dissection of large blocks now allows 3 or 4 properties on an equivalent sized patch of land, with developers and builders laughing all the way to the bank. Backyard cricket is dead. Kids now play in local parks.
Keysborough was not a rich suburb. In year two of primary school my family got notice that the new Keysborough Park Primary School (KPPS) was taking students. Some children in the correct ‘catchment’ would be moved to the new school. No choice. Wallarano PS had been my home for 3 years. Memories of which have faded with time but still show through like a dim light through frosted glass. I remember the last day of school at Wallarano vividly. My two best friends, Chris a tall gangly kid with brown hair from distant memory, and Warwick a short kid with freckles and curly red hair did their best to say goodbye. Warwick turned to me and said ‘good riddance’. I’ve never forgotten it. I’m sure he probably had no idea of what the term even meant at the time, let alone how those two words would become imprinted in my mind, like the branding of cattle station livestock. In fact it was only after quite some time that I came to learn what the term good riddance actually meant. Prior to that time I had a deep feeling that it wasn’t good, though I hoped differently. When I did learn its meaning it left me with an indelible sense of sadness, which persists to this day when I give it cognitive space.
In truth, KPPS wasn’t actually too bad and Wallarano soon became a memory. A gawdy uniform of tomato sauce red t-shirt or skivvy in the winter, together with grey shorts speaks volumes to the fashion sense of the Government Education Department. Mostly, school was an enjoyable experience and mostly I did reasonably well. More academic than sport in construction, I enjoyed learning subjects like math and science, though I do recall consistently placing second to Simon J, a skinny fast and over confident kid in my year of South Asian descent who could simply not be beaten. In Australia, both primary and secondary school students are categorised into Houses or Teams, normally conforming to the colors Blue, Red, Green and Gold. In Fifth year, I was designated as Vice Captain for ‘Red’ House and provided with a little brass badge embedded with cool red crystals. I still have it. Year Six, the ‘senior’ year before departing for high school, had a House Captain for each of the four house colors, as well as a ‘School Captain’ of which one boy and girl were selected, either by perceived merit on the part of teaching staff, or possibly by the amount of ‘sucking up’ to teachers. Depending on who you asked. I was awarded School Captain with Renata B, a Yugoslavian immigrant. Tall, beautiful, clever and completely European.
It wasn’t all fun times though. I remember one day, possibly in Grade 3 or 4, it was the end of the day and I was busting to go to the toilet. For some reason, still unbeknown to me, I didn’t ask to be excused but instead proceeded to wet my pants. I can still see the puddle in the curved plastic chair that we were forced to sit in back then. In fact I think schools are still using them. I remember when we got home from mum picking me up, she totally lost her s$%t at me. There was no sensitivity, no softness, no gentle enquiry as to what might have caused such an event. The response was typical of her approach to many things which she saw as out of line with her expectations. There was no compromise. Interestingly, having eventually pursued a career providing clinical care to children, I look back on that particular event and many others, as symptomatic of the functional dynamic in which my family existed. A symptom well recognised in Paediatric Medicine as an indicator of childhood stress.
Let’s scratch that itch next time. Thanks for reading.
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