A place for a

20.03.2015

Growing up without a father – Part 2: Away from home

Every place I went, I would start out to please everybody with my behavior. Only to get bored and show my dark side with time. Isn’t it curious: Girls are like that! They are really sweet, but do something they dislike and they become monsters.

At the boarding school, I would live in a smaller group secluded from the main building, as I was some kind of special case. I was in a room with two other guys. One I had met at my introduction day; he had taken a photograph of me and for that I had strangled him with the camera strap, destroying the camera, making him cry. We became friends. The other guy was a complete sissy, going to sleep with his teddy bear. I became his bully. I also made my first experiences with agonizing envy towards a guy who, at the age of 16, told me how he had fucked a hot girl. How she had wanted him. I was a fat little boy with a high-pitch voice. I would know no other action than to agonize over the injustice. I demanded the universe to serve me with fortune alike. It didn’t.

After two years of excellent grades, I was offered to attend a proper grammar school to fit my capabilities while the guy who had slept with the girl was having a hard time learning the simplest things. I would be helping him out. The truth is that I didn’t look down on him, not in an obvious manner; I was glad to support him. Maybe I just did it to be above him, without knowing it myself; I used to be like that. But maybe there was some kind of friendship after all; maybe my memory is only overshadowed by my overwhelming regret over my virtually nonexistent sex life. Who knows.

Attending the new school, I still lived in the small group that belonged to the boarding school. Finally I was something special, eh. As it had always been, I had trouble integrating myself into groups, and it stayed that way. I managed to find two friends who would tolerate my behavior, which probably was somewhat arrogant and at times domineering and insensitive. I know I claim to be a covert narcissist today, but to the people I managed to be in contact with, I was condescending. Maybe that’s a conciliatory illusion created by a false reality in my mind; on the other hand, Robert Moore suggests that the tyrant and weakling are but two alternating shadow systems of the same psychological Archetype. One of those friends I know to this day. When we were together at school, we beat each other for fun, played with soft air guns and built bombs. I stopped getting invited to parties after I had let bottles explode on a camping night, leaving the ground covered with shards of glass. An attractive girl made fun of me by writing me a love letter covered with a lip-glossy kiss that I took seriously; it seems harmless now, but it hurt a lot at that time.

About half a year after my attending the new school, it went to my head or something. I did some stupid stuff at the group house. For instance, together with an electronically talented guy, I tapped the telecom router in the basement and used a vacuum cleaner to suck a cable from there up to our rooms, all done in thrilling secrecy. By tapping the line of our psychologist, we could basically listen in to his phone calls. Also, we had internet. No smartphones back then. How exciting. When confronted by the chief of the boarding school, I immediately folded; how scared I was! After all, he told me, we had done something very illegal. What does that word even mean.

Not long after that, I was thrown out of the boarding school.

I desperately wanted to go home, but the once free choice wasn’t one anymore. The youth welfare office convinced my mother that I had to be attended by professionals and I was sent to a stand-alone therapeutic living group for … troubled people. There I lived together with drug addicts, people with a history of violence, girls with anorexia, sexual addiction (not to my benefit), girls with traumatic rape experiences, a very tough, proud and arrogant guy from Kosovo whom I envied, and whatnot. Man!, was I proud to learn to accept all those people. My damn vanity. If I can accept all those people, I am just a damn good person. After all, that’s part of what that group was about. I was a success.

How politically incorrect would it be to want to get away from those failures and learn from the good guys. But I had forfeit my chance on that and at that time, I preferred to be around people I could motherly look down upon, anyway. As noted above, I was unable to cope with people who were better than me.

Living within the therapeutic group came with the necessity of partaking in weekly private and group therapy which consisted basically of psychoanalysis. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with me and was bored to death. As always in the beginning, people would say I was so nice and normal that they wondered what I was doing there.

I fell helplessly in love with a rather manly and domineering girl who lived at the place and listened to aggressive rock music. If I say manly, I mean only her attitude; I did and still absolutely have the hots for her. Never quite understood her attitude, but I do more now. I was suppressing, or rather, not recognizing my anger for very long. Anyway; a girl who appeared strong and confident – even though that’s not what she liked to be – was everything my mother was not. She would be my friend, even tell me of her sexual adventures. I don’t know if she actually tried to get me to open up or if she was simply playing with me; maybe both, maybe that’s what life is – how you react. In a way, I hoped she would take me. That I would be her girl, from a classical gender role perspective. The closest I ever got was a candlelight dinner with tea lights and canned ravioli. Suck on that!

After two years, I was kicked out from the new school, having collected reprimands again. I had shot another bullied boy with a soft air gun; no serious injury, though. I had been accused of sexually offending my walrus teacher. And whatnot. They said that if I didn’t leave, they would kick me out. God, however fucked up I am, what do these idiots all care about reputation and written proof thereof? It seems so silly once you stop to care about it.

So the school didn’t want me, I didn’t want the school and I didn’t want to live in that living group anymore. My great chance.

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  • Mikke Musen

    About the girl. At least you may have given you a sense of what sort of females you prefer. It didn’t end up in nothing at all, in a way.

    • Thanks for the tough love, bro. I think I’m starting to prefer the innocent cute ones.