Playground blues.
Reading someone else's post about someone being spit on, I recall 2 things from when I was little.
Once, I got into a fight with a group of kids, so I fled into my parents' garden. There was a party going on there, I reckoned I was safe.
When my dad had gone to the front of the house for a few minutes, his face looked grim. "Someone has spat all over the car!" My bullies, as it turned out, had taken their rage at me out on my father's car. I was severly shocked.
Another instance was when my mom told me about something I had forgotten. When I was very little (and fearless), about 4 or 5 years old, I apparently got into a fight with a few older kids, and ended up going home with green blobs all over me. My mom, of course, went to tell off the bullies, who told her I had spit first. My mom said she told me not to spit at people, and we went home. It was only at home that I confessed all I had done was blow them a raspberry. Hearing this story after having repressed it for years made me cry like it happened the day before.
Sometimes I am reminded not to think of the past, like when browsing my LJ. Remembering the pain of remembering is good enough to make me feel blue. I must be some fragile little girl.
Once, I got into a fight with a group of kids, so I fled into my parents' garden. There was a party going on there, I reckoned I was safe.
When my dad had gone to the front of the house for a few minutes, his face looked grim. "Someone has spat all over the car!" My bullies, as it turned out, had taken their rage at me out on my father's car. I was severly shocked.
Another instance was when my mom told me about something I had forgotten. When I was very little (and fearless), about 4 or 5 years old, I apparently got into a fight with a few older kids, and ended up going home with green blobs all over me. My mom, of course, went to tell off the bullies, who told her I had spit first. My mom said she told me not to spit at people, and we went home. It was only at home that I confessed all I had done was blow them a raspberry. Hearing this story after having repressed it for years made me cry like it happened the day before.
Sometimes I am reminded not to think of the past, like when browsing my LJ. Remembering the pain of remembering is good enough to make me feel blue. I must be some fragile little girl.