The Tale of a Grade School Cynic

Over the past, I don't know, say 15-18 years, I have been struggling to find a reason for my overwhelming sense of cynicism, self-degradation and low self-esteem; up and down in emotions, regardless of circumstances, and always expecting the worst from myself.  But when I actually come out ahead, it's usually followed by a feeling of grandeur, as if my great mind had willed it so.  I have used this feeling to create distance in relationships and friendships,  walk away from careers, and create a wall to everyone who would attempt to get to know me.  But, don't cry for me, Argentina.  I have also been able to use this strange and powerful brooding to develop myself into, not only a semi-functioning adult with no sense of direction or real depth, but also a hard-nosed jerk that tends to rub people into a weird feeling of alienation and then feels deep, deep sorrow when he finally realizes how poorly he showed in that particular situation.  I am a self-loathing, tragedy-seeking fool with an unending supply of pessimism, sarcasm, neurotic behavior and paranoia.  Simply put, I am Woody Allen, but without all the social graces, good looks or the comedic genius. 

Identifying my own personality has never been the problem.  I've been trying, rather, to figure out when and why I developed this behavior.  Up until recently, I have been able to recall moments in junior high and high school where I exhibited these traits.  But still, no reason.  But this weekend, I realized something deeply soul-shaking and eye-opening about myself: I have always been, since I was first able to communicate, this exact same way.

This weekend, I was cleaning out some old boxes that my mother had dropped off at my house.  Anxious to "de-clutter" our bedroom, I started sorting through the barrage of crap that I had no inclination to hold on to for obvious reasons. (I mean, my old 5th grade science essay, really?  Do I need to prove to future generations that I was a C+ student?  At best?) But then I found a folder containing a slew of writing assignments from 1st - 3rd grade.  And, as I started reading, I slowly began to realize that nothing had happened to me.  I've always been this way!  A tragedian from the start, I wrote some horribly concerning things that, if written today in 3rd grade, would be cause for a meeting with the school representatives, parents and probably some counselors.  But, being that it was the 80's, I was apparently "just another kid."

So, I submit to you, for your entertainment and your crude and personal judgement against me as a person, some samplings from Daddy J as a small child, anxious to begin a writing career that would cause J.D. Salinger, Stephen King, and John Steinbeck to stop and say,"Dude, that's kind of messed up..."

This first story is written in 3rd grade.  We were asked to take part in a collection of short stories.  I submitted "Leprechaun."

Also, in 3rd Grade, we wrote in our daily journals.  Apparently, on this day, I was extremely salty with my mom.

Titled "My Mom is Great"

"My mom is great at yelling.  My mom is great at hitting.  My mom is great at telling me to clean my room.

(song)

Mom! Mom!  You're so mean
Mom! Mom! You're not clean
With words.
Mom! Mom! You're great at killing me.

You bake some gross food, you drop the dishes too,
You iron my new shirt and burn a hole right through.

Mom! Mom! You're so mean
Mom! Mom! You're not clean
With your words
Mom! Mom! You're great at killing me.

You wake up Erin in the middle of the night
Just turn out the light
Why don't you fix your tuna casserole and scare everyone away, Mom.

Mom! Mom! You're so mean
Mom! Mom! You're not clean
With words
Mom! Mom! You're great at killing me
I'd rather not live with you."

(NOTE:  You can take your hand away from your mouth now, because the very next entry in my journal was about how much I love my mom and all the things I was going to get her for her birthday...Also, my mom was not great at hitting and cursing...She was ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT at it!  Just kidding.  She was a great mother who embraced me with warmth, compassion and support growing up, and she still does to this day.  As I said, I must have been having a "Terrible, Horrible, Not-Good, Very Bad Day.")

But it started even earlier than that.  In 1st grade, I wrote a small novella entitled "Two Fat Cows."

"This is a fat cow with a fat little cow.  The little cow went far from home that he couldn't find his way home.  So he called the police and his mother called the police too.  And his mother was so nervous that she hung up on the police.  The little cow was so nervous that he hung up on the police.  So, they never seen each other again.  THE END"

And there are so many more little pieces of paper out of my "Big Chief" tablet detailing my disdain for fire drills and how I wished that they were real, or how I could never be a Speech Therapist because "I don't speak right," or about the souvenir poster of Billy the Kid's Funeral Announcement that I picked up from the Pony Express Trip in St. Joseph.  After reading these (and laughing hysterically with my wife for the rest of the day), I came to the conclusion, that I am not a victim of some odd circumstance that created a down-trodden and emotionally cursed man from years of misfortunes or a poor environment.  I was made this way!  I have, since my earliest years, been a mildly off-balanced individual with a sick yearning for sadness, poor life choices and dreariness.  I have been the "Fat Little Cow" and "Pat the Leprechaun" and various other characters from my youthful attempts at story-telling throughout my 32 years. I still seek tragedy, subconsciously, and go through my days expecting terrible outcomes every day.  And knowing that I have never changed frightens the neurotic side of me, but, at the same time, satisfies the individual in me. 

Perhaps, though, that is why I strive to be such an involved and present dad and husband.  Because, even with all my fears, preoccupations and anxieties about failing, they are always there to give me the validation that I am a success through their constant love and support.