Sounds Like Blackmail

While these two showies and the few, now angry, members of the public, crowded around and tormented me with threats of terrifying imprisonment and abandonment to the vagaries of undetermined incarceration (‘Put him in a box”). Psychologically scarring me with such fears (these threats, which to an eight year old, were an all too real possibility). They played with me mentally. I was the worm, trapped on the end of the hook (pinned through by their barbs?) Funny really, when you put that description of a worm on a hook and align it with the idea that psychological punishment can make you squirm? They knew I was feeling remorseful but they continued playing with me, their game. Yes, like the cat toying with a mouse (not the first time I have used the analogy I know, but again appropriate). Then they reached a point where I could not be more scared and with a threatening warning, that they, “Will be watching”, they told me to clear off home.

As he released his grip on my neck, I paused unsure if the release was genuine, or if they were going to grab me back. It is this type of psychological pressure which allows the controller such dominance. The continual fear of further retribution, or punishment by the controller. This must be how blackmail works. I know as kids we threatened each other on various levels, blackmailing skills really started pretty early in our house, and ranged from, “I’ll tell mum”, right up to the terrifying “I’ll tell Dad!” That last, would of course, bring any number of rapidly offered deals and acceptances. The number of times, I must have ‘happily’ done their chores, to prevent word escaping to my father of my latest transgression. Drying the dishes, or washing. Doing this job or that, in fear they would tell my father of something else I had done, that I shouldn’t have. And not just once or twice but many times.

There was also the blown threats. The vocal…and often too loudly spoken, “I’ll tell Mum!” Which, when spoken a little too loudly, attracted a response from somewhere nearby by the very woman herself, mother, who would ask slightly piqued, “You’ll tell mum, what?” Inevitably the next words were, “Greg just… (did /did not / said /has / hasn’t /won’t /couldn’t / shouldn’t / can’t (which always drew a grammatical correction from the English heart of our mother, of, “Do not say can’t. Say Can not”), etc, etc, etc (The old King of Siam line. My mother always loved Yul Brunner in that role). You get my drift. I was often the one thrown up as not doing what he should have done, for one reason or another, and, being the oldest boy, was supposed to set a good example. I tried. But if mother was not in range then the blackmailing would begin. Depending on the level of the incident being attributed to me, the deals could often be quite involved.

(Continued tomorrow)