In the middle of my third grade year, in 1986, my teacher died.
We got out of school to attend the funeral, kids were crying, yada yada yada.
When I saw my young peers beside themselves with grief over this dead woman, I vividly remember feeling both perplexed and disgusted.
I hated that woman, and I was glad she was dead. I enjoyed the funeral. “Haha, bye, bitch.” That was my attitude, basically. And I couldn’t understand why anyone would feel any differently.
I understand now, of course. And I should be a little disturbed by the fact that I defaced full-page tribute to her in my copy of the yearbook. But I’m really not. It was nearly 30 years ago; who cares?
Why’d I hate her? I felt targeted by her. Singled out. She didn’t like me for whatever reason and demonstrated it on a daily basis, making my life rather unpleasant for the half a year I had to deal with her. She was a bully, in my estimation at the time.
In my mind, anyone who caused me to experience that kind of anxiety, on purpose and with malicious intent, deserved death. I didn’t think about causing it, but I hoped and sometimes even prayed for that eventuality in regards to certain people over the years.
I carried that attitude with me throughout my youth and well into adulthood.
Look, I’m an extremely empathetic person…much more than most, I’d say. In fact uncomfortably so. But I have the unique ability to single out certain people who I believe have wronged me or stood in my way and turn that off for them. They’re garbage to me. Walking, talking bags of meat, standing in my way. An irritant.
I’ve mellowed considerably over time, and that’s something I’m still working on a little bit, but I can look at this yearbook page and vividly recall fucking it up. I remember the rage, the trembling hands, the angry scribbling. And I even remember scribbling over her face for a long time and then pressing my fingers on it, then putting my fingerprints all over the page. I do remember having a good reason for doing so, however I don’t remember what it was.
Note the angry marking out of words like “wonderful” and “cherished,” and even “she,” indicating I viewed her as some kind of genderless monster, unworthy of a “he” or “she” designation. Wow. What a piece of work I was, huh?
Of course, adults had, by that point in my life, already hurt me and I knew that they weren’t to be blindly trusted. I had and still have a sixth sense about disingenuous people. Fakes. I can smell them. And they’re everywhere. It puts me on the defensive a little more than it should, which is also something I’m working on.
I can’t sit here 30 years after the fact and claim that my hazy childhood memories of some woman I didn’t even know on an adult level cement her legacy as a bully or a witch or whatever else I might’ve thought he was. It’s simply a curiosity from my past that I felt compelled to share because it’s interesting. I actually think it’s kinda cool. In a fucked up way.😎
What’s really telling is that this was before I fell prey to the “influences” of heavy metal and horror movies. This fuckedupedness came straight off the dome, son. I did a lot of drawings and writings and had a lot of fantasies that were extremely dark and gory, and I wasn’t even allowed to watch PG-13 movies. And I listened to Michael Jackson and watched Fraggle Rock. No entertainment medium influenced any of the darkness I carried with me. I was drawn to those mediums because I understood them. They resonated with me on multiple levels. Take that as you will.
If you’re shocked or disgusted by this, please understand that i understand why, but also that I don’t particularly care. Kids are fucked up, keeping it real, here. Dig down deep and I’m sure you’ll find some dark shit inside of yourselves as well.<