Unless you lived on Mars during your childhood (which, someday, even in my lifetime, may become a reality) or were completely isolated, you know being submerged in fighting and strife early in life affects you greatly and negatively. One the scale of horrible childhoods, mine probably barely matters (my first psychiatrist disagreed with this strongly). So, my parents fought. So, Dad occasionally put a hole in the wall. No one slapped me around, I had enough food to eat, and my parents made sure I got to school every morning.They bought me clothes and horses, and a brand new Camaro for my 16th birthday (which I didn't find to even be that unusual). However, even though psychiatrists have moved away from this model, many have wondered openly what happened during my childhood to cause me to have such severe mental illness. Even the Stanford doctors don't blame it purely on biochemistry or genetics. There might have been a trigger somewhere at some point.
My first psychiatric symptom was anxiety. At a young age, I was obsessed with food-borne illnesses and overwhelmed with a fear of vomiting (which, I found out, wasn't just me--other people deal with that phobia specifically too). I was especially concerned about expiration dates.
Mom comes up to me on Sunday in the kitchen, and asks, "Why don't you put milk in your coffee?"
If there's some in the house, I like to add whipped cream to my coffee. "Because the milk is expired."
She looks in the frig, seeing the milk carton. "Well, that had been frozen."
The expiration date for the milk was over a month ago. "Yes, but no one knows how long it had been frozen or when it was put in the frig."
Over the weekend, my mother comes up to me while I'm in the front room, and says solemnly, "You know, the past two mornings when I walk into your room..." She pauses slightly.
She found rats? A couple of severed heads?
Then continues, "your heating pad was left on...Remember to leave the auto-off on, so you don't forget. I don't want to hear your Dad complain about the two hundred dollar electricity bill again."
When you live with your parents as an adult, you concede to a few realities: one, you can never bring home that guy from the bar, and fuck him in your bed, and two, if you do go out and don't come home at a decent hour, you have to tell your parents at least something or your mother will drill you about your alcohol use mixed with your meds. Three, you have to follow their rules, even when their rules are excessive for someone who is (supposedly) a rational, thinking adult. In exchange, hopefully, you have a more secure supportive network.
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