I've got a lot of closure these past three years. I've learned a lot; about myself, others, relationships, food...but there are some things I'd still like to know. I still feel attached to knowing:
How did I get the scar on my leg?
So there's a scar on my calf. I've had it for years and years. It's about 9 cms in length and 2 wide and points downward. According to my mum, who I've asked this question on numerous times, it "got caught in a door". How? It seems to me entirely infeasible to get a scar in that orientation from a door but she's always refused to elaborate. Despite host feel about her I'm still willing to give her the benefit of the doubt because it's hard to quantify that she was physically abusive. If you have a possible answer please let me know.
What did I do to Linda?
What did I do to Linda?
My stepmother at one point when I was living with her and my father fell apart crying and screaming and threw me out. I think I've documented this before. Go find it. What did I do? I've asked different family members at different times but they're a) not willing to tell me (weak) b) not willing to ask her (highly likely) or c) she's not willing to communicate what it was because it was so god awful terrible. I'd know wouldn't I if that was the case? I know I've blanked out a lot of stuff from that point in my life but still...
How would my life have been different if I'd said 'yes'?
So I'm 15. Never had a girlfriend. A girl two years below me liked me. She told me. She told me by cornering me in the science block and demanding to be my girlfriend. I said no. What the fuck, Jay?!? She asked me to meet her after school BEHIND THE SCIENCE BLOCK. I said no. What the fuckity fuck, you stupid twunt? Why would you say no?? Well, I was terrified. I had no idea what to do if she...well I didn't know what she'd do to be honest. AND NOW WE'LL NEVER KNOW. I could've had my first kiss. A tug. A BLOWIE! My confidence could've taken a major boost, I could've grown sexually, I'd've learned what to do with this bit of flesh between my legs...
Why do people not reply to the letters I write?
I've written various letters over the past few years to people from my past, either to clear the air, air a grievance, or to rip them to shreds. I'm not sorry about any of them but I do regret one of them. Only two people have ever bothered responding. To be quite honest I wasn't expecting a reply, I was so full of self righteous judgement, and what I got back both times was mature, spoken from the heart, surprising depth. Both times I realized I'd maligned these people for years. One of the other letters was very sensible - I know. A friend approved it. One was deeply personal, heartfelt and heartbreaking to write and a follow up quite caustically mean. What reaction did they cause? Was a reply ever going to come?
What happened when I was 13?
Something happened. I was in my room. Angry. So very, very angry. I had my music turned up just loud enough to deny being able to hear my mum shouting me for dinner. Which she did. And it made me angrier. She just kept shouting and shouting...wouldn't it be more sensible after awhile to either stop shouting or climb up the two flights of stairs? Save your voice, woman. But what made me angry? I wish I knew. That was the year I changed. It was the year the anger started. I went home from school at the start of the holidays a quiet, timid, precocious youngster. I went back defensive, trying to be funny to deflect the crap around me, nervous. And angry. The anger was there. Starting. Building. What. Happened.
What could I have been?
As I said, I was precocious. World at my feet. Options abounded. And then one day I gave up. I decided not to go to university. I accepted a shitty job I hated. I did it for six years. I married a woman out of desperation. We were together eight very long years. I got depression. Things got bad. Shit got real. Where would I be right now if I'd given a shit? If I'd had ambition? Or courage?
There are others but these are top of the tree. Answers on a postcard.