I pop onto Facebook now and then to click a ‘like’ here and there, to let people in my life (be it at a distance) know that I am interested in what interests them. The rest of the time I do what many blog readers do: I look, I think, and I remain silent.
I also notice that recently there are many comments appearing about ‘guns’, which is not a topic I jump into with a toe, let alone with both feet. Except that this morning — this quite early morning — my personal shields must be up. Or is that down? I’m frankly not too sure because this is what I feel urged to say: Blaming any object for any human action is childish thinking.
Or so it seems to me.
I have perhaps a rather unique take on objects and violence. I was raised by a psychotically abusive (and I mean PSYCHOTIC) Borderline Personality Disorder mother. I spent the first 18 years of my life being victim to her brutal verbal and physical assaults. I know a thing or two or ten thousand about objects and violence.
I have written before on this blog – briefly at best – about the insanity of the ‘object’ portion of Mother’s abuse. She made a long list of every item she deemed of value that she beat me with — and broke. Wooden spoons, spatulas, wooden Stanley hairbrushes. True, crazy.
But on this list were also placed all kinds of other items that in Mother’s world were hurt by my supposed actions. Did she pass by the kitchen sink while I was washing the family’s dishes and see that I had left a wooden spoon soaking in the water? Attack! And ruined item added to the list.
Had I caused a mark across the waist of an apron from rubbing against the metal strip along the counter top? Onto the list. Caused a bend or a twist in the cord of the iron? Onto the list. Left a clothespin on the line when I removed the dried laundry? Onto the list.
Only the wisest, most savvy readers will understand the other levels to this abuse. By the time I was in 8th grade Mother hit on the idea that index cards with contact information could be placed around town that I could be paid for doing their ironing. All fine and well? Any money I earned went toward paying off my debt for broken and ruined items on Mother’s long list.
It didn’t stop there. A month after my 18th birthday my parents ‘put’ me into the Navy. Off I went to boot camp. Off my paychecks went back to Mother to pay off the damages I had accrued in her universe — by growing up.
In the end, after boot camp was in my past, Mother settled up my debt by generously ‘making a deal’. She would keep every one of my personal items left at home when I flew off to ‘freedom’ as final payment on my debt.
OK. So, when I went to 8th grade and had to wear one of those ugly little blue gym suits that exposed every color of bruise covering the back of my body from my heels to the base of my neck from being beaten with belts with buckles and Stanley hairbrushes and wooden spoons and shoes…….. Blame the OBJECTS?
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