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conuly
I've had to really stretch my memory to come up with some of them! It seems my own recollections of my childhood would fit inside one very slim book. Jenn had a similar realization, and was upset. I'm just surprised.
I guess all this thinking is what reminded me of this story from when we moved to Staten Island.
See, when we moved to the new house, I apparently lost the ability or will to choose my own clothes. I had to have my mother pick them out, which must have been a trial to her because most of the clothes she picked out I would not wear (as she heard very clearly. I think I screamed. I certainly remember crying)! They were the wrong colors, or too tight, or too scratchy, or too warm, or not warm enough. Or I'd put them on and realize they weren't comfortable here or there or had a tag, and more crying, and more screaming. And I felt bad (I still feel bad! I can only hope I stopped before my father died, because I can't stand the thought of putting her through this after that), but I could not make myself stop. I couldn't make myself pick out my own clothes, and I couldn't make myself be nicer about it to my parents.
And do you know what's really weird? I don't remember my parents getting too upset about it. They must have. I was putting them through hell many, probably most, possibly even *every* mornings (do I take a plural, since I put an every in there?), and I don't remember them doing anything more than eventually telling me it was too late and I had to just deal with it.
This seems totally uncharacteristic. I must be mistaken in my memories. I'll ask my mother in the morning.
I guess all this thinking is what reminded me of this story from when we moved to Staten Island.
See, when we moved to the new house, I apparently lost the ability or will to choose my own clothes. I had to have my mother pick them out, which must have been a trial to her because most of the clothes she picked out I would not wear (as she heard very clearly. I think I screamed. I certainly remember crying)! They were the wrong colors, or too tight, or too scratchy, or too warm, or not warm enough. Or I'd put them on and realize they weren't comfortable here or there or had a tag, and more crying, and more screaming. And I felt bad (I still feel bad! I can only hope I stopped before my father died, because I can't stand the thought of putting her through this after that), but I could not make myself stop. I couldn't make myself pick out my own clothes, and I couldn't make myself be nicer about it to my parents.
And do you know what's really weird? I don't remember my parents getting too upset about it. They must have. I was putting them through hell many, probably most, possibly even *every* mornings (do I take a plural, since I put an every in there?), and I don't remember them doing anything more than eventually telling me it was too late and I had to just deal with it.
This seems totally uncharacteristic. I must be mistaken in my memories. I'll ask my mother in the morning.
