Career Impediments, Part I
Sometime within the last decade, I started coming out of the mental fog I was in. Turning 40 was the triggering event -- it was one thing to enjoy hearing people say I didn't look it, but quite another to then ask myself "You're STILL an administrative assistant who hasn't decided what she wants to be when she grows up?"
Hearing the term "exceptional" always gets my attention. I realize that some people interpret it to mean "far more able than average," while others use it to mean handicapped or impaired in some way. During my childhood, I think opinions were evenly split as to which category I fell into. I was reading pretty fluently by about age 4; my vocabulary was extensive, and everyone agreed that I had a great imagination. But in school, I almost NEVER paid attention (though, looking back, something obviously penetrated because my grades were good, I got promoted, and went to college), had a lot of trouble getting along with the other kids, daydreamed, disrupted class, lost my possessions constantly, forgot homework, was hopeless at math, and basically lived in "my own private Idaho" where fantasies trumped reality most of the time.
I was seen by the school psychologist in 1st grade and 4th grade. My mother would go to parent-teacher conferences without me, but then come home and tell me, word for word, what the teachers told her. I never once felt any motivation to change, based on these reports. All I felt was "I'm bad, I'm no good, and there's nothing I can do about it. That's just the way it is."
My biggest flaw, I think, was the inability to get inside anyone else's head, even my mom's, and see what a situation looked like from their point of view. I was entirely self-absorbed until about 7th grade. Sometimes my behavior was so outrageous, it cost me friendships. I had no self-control, and no ability to scan the group I was in and ask "OK, what's everybody else into right now? Maybe I ought to adjust to that." Nope, it was all about me. I would just sort of drift along in my own personal current, until somebody came alongside me in a boat and threw the harpoon.
I realize that unusual events could jolt me out of this trance, and that as time went on, these seemed to happen more frequently. In 7th grade, I was aware of a lot of criticism from my female peers about how I looked. My clothes didn't match, and my hair was impossible -- frizzy, unkempt, absolutely riddled with knots. In those days, hair care meant a couple of times a week my mother would bend me over the sink, scratch at my scalp with Prell Concentrate, and then put me under a 200-watt bonnet dryer for about 3 hours. Of course it was a damaged wreck!
But in 7th grade, I found out who my music teacher was going to be for the spring semester, and boy, did that bring about some changes! His name was Mr. Lawrence; he was a shy, gangly southerner. Most of the other kids thought he was gay and I think perhaps he was, but none of that mattered in the least. He was (to me) the most perfect male on the planet, and he was, objectively, one of the kindest teachers I ever had.
Whereas before that moment, the only thing I'd ever asked my parents to buy for me were books, the minute I "clapped my eyes" to Mr. Lawrence, I practically put my folks in the poorhouse buying me shampoo, conditioner and hair appliances. No more twice-weekly showers for me. Now it was every night, including a shampoo and meticulous dry-style. This was the 1970s; I wanted that long, straight, shiny, parted-in-the-middle style. So at last I had something to focus on outside of myself. The introversion didn't really dissipate, but I felt like much more of a participant in my own life.
All of this is kind of shocking to reflect on, because every few years I do a reassessment and think "I'm not as oblivious as I used to be." However, the fact that I'm STILL making these assessments shows that the improvement is incremental.
To be continued...
Hearing the term "exceptional" always gets my attention. I realize that some people interpret it to mean "far more able than average," while others use it to mean handicapped or impaired in some way. During my childhood, I think opinions were evenly split as to which category I fell into. I was reading pretty fluently by about age 4; my vocabulary was extensive, and everyone agreed that I had a great imagination. But in school, I almost NEVER paid attention (though, looking back, something obviously penetrated because my grades were good, I got promoted, and went to college), had a lot of trouble getting along with the other kids, daydreamed, disrupted class, lost my possessions constantly, forgot homework, was hopeless at math, and basically lived in "my own private Idaho" where fantasies trumped reality most of the time.
I was seen by the school psychologist in 1st grade and 4th grade. My mother would go to parent-teacher conferences without me, but then come home and tell me, word for word, what the teachers told her. I never once felt any motivation to change, based on these reports. All I felt was "I'm bad, I'm no good, and there's nothing I can do about it. That's just the way it is."
My biggest flaw, I think, was the inability to get inside anyone else's head, even my mom's, and see what a situation looked like from their point of view. I was entirely self-absorbed until about 7th grade. Sometimes my behavior was so outrageous, it cost me friendships. I had no self-control, and no ability to scan the group I was in and ask "OK, what's everybody else into right now? Maybe I ought to adjust to that." Nope, it was all about me. I would just sort of drift along in my own personal current, until somebody came alongside me in a boat and threw the harpoon.
I realize that unusual events could jolt me out of this trance, and that as time went on, these seemed to happen more frequently. In 7th grade, I was aware of a lot of criticism from my female peers about how I looked. My clothes didn't match, and my hair was impossible -- frizzy, unkempt, absolutely riddled with knots. In those days, hair care meant a couple of times a week my mother would bend me over the sink, scratch at my scalp with Prell Concentrate, and then put me under a 200-watt bonnet dryer for about 3 hours. Of course it was a damaged wreck!
But in 7th grade, I found out who my music teacher was going to be for the spring semester, and boy, did that bring about some changes! His name was Mr. Lawrence; he was a shy, gangly southerner. Most of the other kids thought he was gay and I think perhaps he was, but none of that mattered in the least. He was (to me) the most perfect male on the planet, and he was, objectively, one of the kindest teachers I ever had.
Whereas before that moment, the only thing I'd ever asked my parents to buy for me were books, the minute I "clapped my eyes" to Mr. Lawrence, I practically put my folks in the poorhouse buying me shampoo, conditioner and hair appliances. No more twice-weekly showers for me. Now it was every night, including a shampoo and meticulous dry-style. This was the 1970s; I wanted that long, straight, shiny, parted-in-the-middle style. So at last I had something to focus on outside of myself. The introversion didn't really dissipate, but I felt like much more of a participant in my own life.
All of this is kind of shocking to reflect on, because every few years I do a reassessment and think "I'm not as oblivious as I used to be." However, the fact that I'm STILL making these assessments shows that the improvement is incremental.
To be continued...