The Goggins - Can’t Hurt Me - CH1

Jun 21

Challenge #1

Who am I?

This is a question we all ask ourselves at some point. When we’re lost and looking for purpose, the answer to “Who am I?” might give us what we seek.

But who we are is based on our experiences up to this point, and a lot of that is based on our childhood, and how we were raised (treated) by our parents, teachers and peers.

If you were treated like a princess, you’d undoubtedly think you’re the centre of the universe. If you were treated like a pet you’d likely be timid and shy.

The Princess is larger than life the Pet is withdrawn and makes himself as small as possible.

I was treated, in my own mind anyway, with indifference. Like I was in the way.

I’m not saying that my parents were bad, they just weren’t very good.

I bad carpenter costs you more money in the long run. But a not-very-good one tries and fails, but you get the idea, it’s a shelf.

If I asked for something, the likelihood is I wouldn’t get it. My sister however, did, and she asked for a lot.

I once asked for a computer. Back in those days it was big, beige and slow. My sister complained, she wanted a computer. My parents had given her a car earlier that year.

I caught my mother in a lie. We’d just finished a BBQ. My mother, one of her friends and I were the only ones left in the garden. My mother didn’t know I was sitting right behind her.

“Oh don’t talk to me about Jason, he’s always borrowing lots of money from me and never paying it back.”

Her friend looked me in the eye, she could see me the whole time, “JASON!” she said.

My mother, realising what just happened, turns to look at me — ‘nervous laugh.’

Me “When was the last time I borrowed money from you?”

Her “oh I don’t know.”

Me “If I’m borrowing lots of money from you, all the time, you must remember one?”

Her ‘Nervous laugh.’

Her friend is no longer looking convinced by all this

Me “I’ll tell you, it was 3 months ago. It was £10. and I paid you back two days later.”

Her ‘nervous laugh.’

Me “Do you always talk shit about me when you think I’m not around?”

I didn’t have a hard life. I just felt like I was a constant source of embarrassment to my mother. My dad didn’t seem to care either way. The only time I ever asked my mother to help me with my homework, it was maths and she was a payroll manager, she told me that she “doesn’t know what maths is being taught these days,” and so I learned nothing.

If my mother can’t be bothered to help me I’m probably not worth the effort. Right?

She once received a letter from my teachers saying my spelling wasn’t good enough and that I had to learn these by the next day;

Those

These

Theirs

Though

Through

Thought

She forced it into me. However, it felt like she did so because it was embarrassing that her son couldn’t do this. I couldn’t read, spell, or write until I was 12. This was the only time she ever “helped” me do my homework (That I can remember). But only because she was contacted by a teacher.

I was given remendial classes at school (secondary, not primary, they couldn’t care less). Here I was to give up my free time during breaks and lunches to learn. Up to this point I had never read a book.

Indifference. The sense that I wasn’t even worth the effort. The feeling I was worthless. This is how I was raised. Like a mistake to be tolerated.

The first time I felt powerful was when I achieved my black belt. I was 13, and adults were bowing to me as a sign of respect. I then taught a Karate class. At 13. From then on I realised that I had power and didn’t need it given to me by my parents. I just took it for myself.

A few years later I had another experience of power. It was my final year at (secondary, age 15) school. I was being screamed at by the dept Head for beating up a fellow student in my year. Fact is, I had nothing to do with it, but the kids that did, told them my friend Stuart and I did it. They didn’t ask for our side of the story — and given that the guys that told on us were known troublemakers, it makes you wonder — I was literally being screamed at (and I mean literally in the true meaning of the word).

I thought that if I didn’t do anything why should I care about this adult shouting at me? So a wash of calm came over me and I relaxed. The more the adult shouted and screamed the redder his face became, which made me smile. The teacher then gave me a lesson in power—he slammed his hand on the desk in front of me, lifting it I saw that his palm was bright red. He’d hurt himself because of my lack of response.

I let out an involuntary chuckle, this only made him madder and his face redder.

I realised I had the power here. Not him. A 15-year-old kid had power over a middle-aged authority figure.

It was then that I realised that I had to do this for myself. Sure I was cocky for a bit and wouldn’t start to get humble until I was in my 20s.

The hand I was dealt wasn’t hard it was just indifferent. I didn’t get beatings because there wasn’t any point, and I did shit that deserved beatings. Like using my mother’s couch as a target for knife throwing.

I couldn’t get punished even if I tried. That sounds good, but it teaches you nothing. Except that, I wasn’t worth the effort.

My earliest memory, probably manufactured, is of abandonment. But manufactured memories are born of trauma to cover a mental scar. So why is mine about being abandoned by the side of the road?

What is it there to cover up? What can’t I remember?

Who knows. All I do know is that I’m not going to fixate on it. I’m doing good. I’m well-adjusted and liked and respected by my peers. I have control of my own life and I get to do whatever I want with it.

In my case, I freelance as a builder, photographer and bartender. I’m writing a book (finally. Watch this space), I read, and I take care of my body, my health and my mind.

Can I or should I attribute any of this to my parents? Or is it all mine?

Who knows. It’s not a question I need answered right now.

All I know is this; I’m doing good.