Maybe I'm NOT the Root of all Evil!
It is an unfortunate quirk of my personality that I remember and internalize just about every bad thing I've ever done. In the recesses of my ridiculous mind, they have festered and morphed and become essential pieces of my own self-understanding, like viruses injecting themselves into my cellular structure.
This morning, as I drove into work, I remembered something that happened when I was a child. I took guitar lessons from the time I was in first grade through the eighth grade and had a variety of different instructors, all based out of a little music shop in my hometown. I was in 4th or 5th grade (so maybe 10 years old?) when my teacher at the time asked me, during my lesson, if I would be interested in taking private lessons with him if he started teaching independently.
I can't remember the guy's name, but I do remember that, after the lesson, when we walked out to the shop together, I excitedly asked my mother if I could take private lessons with him.
"You do take private lessons."
"Oh. But I mean if he starts giving lessons not here. He says he might start giving lessons not here!"
This conversation, by the way, took place in front of the owners of the shop. The guy's bosses. There was some uncomfortable silence and my mother told me we'd talk about it later.
When we left, she explained to me that my teacher was thinking about leaving the music shop and had probably not wanted his bosses to know that. I was mortified. I realized that I had certainly gotten my instructor in trouble, that, because of me, he might even get fired, and it would be all my fault.
I agonized that week. I confided in my best friend, who wasn't much help. I cried every night, hard tears of self-hatred and dread. I knew I had to face my teacher again, and that he would be angry with me, and that I had to apologize. It was horrible.
I don't really remember the apology or his response, which leads me to believe that perhaps it wasn't as bad as I had anticipated, but I remember so clearly that terrible week and the feelings I had.
This morning I thought about that, about how stupid I had been to talk about it in front of everyone like that. I was so naive and innocent. It didn't cross my mind for even a second that an adult would tell me anything that was meant to be hidden, or that an adult would be doing something that was wrong.
And then I had this amazing revelation: My teacher was doing something that was wrong. in fact, I didn't do a damn thing wrong! I assumed the best of him, that he was honest and good. I innocently repeated what he'd told me - a child. If you don't want a child repeating something, it's probably a good idea to say so. Then I might have managed to keep it to myself until my mother and I left the building, at least. Holy crap!
Seriously. I am sure that the sane people out there can't understand this, but I have really truly held onto the terrible feelings of that specific incident for 30 years, and held them as evidence against myself. And I just realized that it was my teacher who was in the wrong, not me.
Somewhere, all of my former therapists are smacking their foreheads in unison.
This morning, as I drove into work, I remembered something that happened when I was a child. I took guitar lessons from the time I was in first grade through the eighth grade and had a variety of different instructors, all based out of a little music shop in my hometown. I was in 4th or 5th grade (so maybe 10 years old?) when my teacher at the time asked me, during my lesson, if I would be interested in taking private lessons with him if he started teaching independently.
I can't remember the guy's name, but I do remember that, after the lesson, when we walked out to the shop together, I excitedly asked my mother if I could take private lessons with him.
"You do take private lessons."
"Oh. But I mean if he starts giving lessons not here. He says he might start giving lessons not here!"
This conversation, by the way, took place in front of the owners of the shop. The guy's bosses. There was some uncomfortable silence and my mother told me we'd talk about it later.
When we left, she explained to me that my teacher was thinking about leaving the music shop and had probably not wanted his bosses to know that. I was mortified. I realized that I had certainly gotten my instructor in trouble, that, because of me, he might even get fired, and it would be all my fault.
I agonized that week. I confided in my best friend, who wasn't much help. I cried every night, hard tears of self-hatred and dread. I knew I had to face my teacher again, and that he would be angry with me, and that I had to apologize. It was horrible.
I don't really remember the apology or his response, which leads me to believe that perhaps it wasn't as bad as I had anticipated, but I remember so clearly that terrible week and the feelings I had.
This morning I thought about that, about how stupid I had been to talk about it in front of everyone like that. I was so naive and innocent. It didn't cross my mind for even a second that an adult would tell me anything that was meant to be hidden, or that an adult would be doing something that was wrong.
And then I had this amazing revelation: My teacher was doing something that was wrong. in fact, I didn't do a damn thing wrong! I assumed the best of him, that he was honest and good. I innocently repeated what he'd told me - a child. If you don't want a child repeating something, it's probably a good idea to say so. Then I might have managed to keep it to myself until my mother and I left the building, at least. Holy crap!
Seriously. I am sure that the sane people out there can't understand this, but I have really truly held onto the terrible feelings of that specific incident for 30 years, and held them as evidence against myself. And I just realized that it was my teacher who was in the wrong, not me.
Somewhere, all of my former therapists are smacking their foreheads in unison.