How my mom made me mad... (Dec 10)
How my mom made me mad
In a previous post, I mentioned that I had gotten very mad at my mom as a teen. Mad enough to yell “I hate you” at her. And for this, I was spanked. With a belt. As a 16+ year old. And I apologized for it.
Try as I can, I cannot remember the specific thing that made me mad. However, I was able to remember the feeling.
As I focus on that feeling, a cluster of other memories comes to the surface..
**
I was sitting on the computer (now in the main area of our house) playing video games. I did that for hours at a time. They weren’t even fun or “good” games. My brothers were into World of Warcraft and Final Fantasy. But I didn’t play those games. I played simple games like solitaire, and basic, cheesy games with poor graphics. Much better games were available. Why was I playing so much? It is hard to say.
I was trying to find work, but not having much success. Why wasn’t I having success?
I had a job as a dishwasher one day. Only one day. Why only one day? My dad came and got me, and dropped off my alcoholic uncle Raymond. Why has they felt the need to do that? It wasn’t their place to find a replacement for me. Why were they taking me away? I don’t remember that either. Was it because that kind of work was “beneath me?”
I had liked the job, and I had actually been working. Money adds up when you work a full day, and then a full week.
Then I worked a bit of construction. I made some big mistakes. I was to be paid by the load, and I did not load up my dad’s pickup truck high enough. My bosses noticed. Most of the church contractors were working together. They hinted and joked to me, but I didn’t clue in until later. I had been paid quite a bit per load, and done a lot of loads quickly...but they weren’t very full.
I was a clueless teen, but something in my subconscious sensed a problem. They meant something by those jokes. Uh oh. I may have really messed up. I tried to ask my parents for advice. Should I apologize? Lessen the bill? Charge them for less?
I don’t remember what they said, but am sure they told me something like, “of course not! You did the loads, you get the money.” I felt very uncomfortable about it. I finally removed one or two loads, then gave my bill to Bob, who fussed and fumed about the price, then came out with the money.
“I explained it all to Bob,” mom told me later, “about how you worked sooo hard, and the truck got some flat tires from working at the dump too, so that was part of your pay.” (Although they never charged me for the tire repair)
You can be sure that none of those contractors were interested in hiring me again. I also felt too awkward to ask.
And so I tried working for another contractor. He was a gruff man with a rough crew. I was fired after one day for not having sufficient skills. He was not willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, and train me, as the guys from our church would have been.
I got a short contract painting, then asked the contractor if he had more work for me. He said he might. What did I charge an hour? I had no idea. I asked my parents. “No son of mine should work for less than $14/hour,” said Dad, proudly.
“$14/hour” I told the contractor later.
“What did you say?” He stammered on the phone.
“$14/hour.” I said it louder and clearer so he could hear me. He never called back.
$14/hour was a lot at the time, when minimum wage was (as I recall) $9.50/hour or so.
I made some posters and put them around town that I was available as a painter, for $14/hour. A friend mentioned it to me one time. “So…we have some painting that we need to hire for. Um…how much do you charge again?”
“$14/hour” I replied.
“And…um…what do you have for experience?”
“Not much…” I replied honestly.
In hindsight, he was trying to help me, and I should have listened. But I was not at the age of being self-reflective in that way. My brain catalogued the memories as significant, and only later could I see the significance of them.
I asked another contractor for work. He said he couldn’t hire me, but his own house needed painting. I agreed to do it.
My mom got her fingers into that too. The contractor’s wife was a personal friend. Mom told me all about her, and her business.
This was the contractor that eventually would cheat me: after working for several weeks, he would pay me a few hundred dollars and send me on my way.
Mom had hinted several times that I the deal was not a good one. But by this time, I was done listening to her. I just ignored any advice she gave — even good advice. Every time she opened her mouth it made me burn inside.
I told my pastor/mentor, “Sometimes, I just want to fail. Not even try. Just fail, and have something bad happen, just so that I can feel the consequences of it. Does that sound crazy?” (I said something like that)
My pastor leaned forward in his chair and said, “You know what that is called? That is passive aggression. You are mad, but in a passive way.”
I was feeling claustrophobic, cut off at the knees, destroyed, hampered. But how could I be mad at anything? I had only myself to blame. Which made me feel even more pressure, anger, and darkness. Masturbation and pornography were often an irresistible temptation.
I wanted so desperately to save up money to go to Bible school. But how could I if I couldn’t hold down a job?
And so I played video games. Stupid, boring, unpleasant games. Where my mom could see me. In her space.
Because I was mad at her, but I was not allowed to tell her I hated her. I had to tell her I loved her. But I could still vent my irritation.
Finally, I got a job working in the bush, thinning trees. It was brutal, brutal work. The company made us buy our $1,200 brush saws (taking it off our pay-check in instalments), and pay $25 a night for camp fees. It was “piece-work,” meaning you made money for the work that you did. At the beginning, none of us made any money, as we worked very slowly. The equipment was hard to use, they barely trained us, and they purposely gave the worst ground they had to the “newbies,” to thin the weak ones out of the pack.
It was hot, buggy, painful, gruelling, hellish work.
I made it through that first week by telling myself that I would quit on Friday. But Friday came, and I went home, and there was my mom. Nothing to do but play video games. I decided another week of work couldn’t be that bad after all. So back I went on Monday.
My feet were sore, soggy, and blistered and so I asked my parents to buy me boots. They bought me some very nice looking boots from the SAAN store. I paid them for them, but they were too big, and my feet slid around in them. It was pure misery. I bought my own boots, and they weren’t much better.
“I don’t get it,” mom commented, “You don’t seem to be making very much money.”
She was right, I wasn’t. The work was hard, the pay was little, and I was basically working a hellish job for minimum wage or less. I should have stayed back washing dishes. I would have had enough to pay a semester by now. And a resume that didn’t look terrible to boot.
She objected to my paying so much for a saw. She objected to my buying a second pair of boots.
She objected because she was “concerned.” I think. Did she want me to quit? Or wanted to talk to the bosses, or make the situation better somehow. Or maybe she just wanted me back home. I didn’t know what the fuck she wanted. I still don’t. What did she want?
Maybe she wanted drama — fuel. Maybe she sought it out and created it anywhere she went.
It was at that job, though, that things finally began to change.
One decisive day I was sitting next to my machine feeling sorry for myself when I had an epiphany: “I am hot, tired, bug-eaten and sore…and right now, I’m not even getting paid for it! So I might as well be all those things and paid for it.” So I got up and started working. I think it’s safe to say that after that, no employer ever caught me loafing. I became a self-starter, and worked hard.
I was, however, tempted to quit quickly after starting my next job. But by that time, my wonderful girlfriend (now wife) encouraged me to stick it out: and that was some excellent advice.
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