On Suffering, a Crappy Childhood, and Finding Meaning in Your Struggles
Having a bad childhood is not unusual. It’s what you do with it that matters.
A shitty childhood is not very original.
Having a horrible childhood is neither an original nor a unique experience.
The older I get, the more I realize dysfunction is the common denominator for most families.
Growing up, my family was more diss than fun in our dysfunction. We were hellbent on destruction rather than function.
My life was not one where I was chained to a toilet and made to drink piss water. We had no chains in the house. I don’t think my mother wanted me in the bathroom. What if she had to pee?
My parents were not that imaginative when they beat my siblings and me. Ours was the normal run-of-the-mill kind of abuse. They preferred the belt or its buckle, the fist, or even an extension cord.
Once my mother used a barbell to express her feelings for us. She came close to hitting me in the head, but stopped. I remember her smiling as she told me she almost sent me to God. She then started beating my sister again.
