Sounds like a Storm

Weren’t things a little different then? An eight year old, even a slightly upset, guilt ridden, eight year old, could generally ride four miles or so home, fairly safely. Being recognised by people on the street who would acknowledge and in the familiar ‘local’ way’ recognise each other. Thereby maintaining that community safety which seems to be so lacking today. However, this trip was a little harder. Not just because of the blurred vision from crying (which makes riding a bike difficult), but also because I was trying not to cry. And while I was trying not to cry, I was also tormenting myself with the ‘what ifs?’ of the situation. This is all a part of the ongoing psychological form of punishment, and an entire additional area of study. Psychological Self-punishment.  So while I am referring to three types, each of those types contain various minor forms. Self-punishment is definitely a psychological sub group. And it is very effective when applied with the ‘Ethical’ category mentioned in decision making (see blog 19^th October 2012). Having been raised a catholic originally (as mentioned in earlier blogs, several times), and, having been so recently terrified by the ‘showies’ and then, by chance, the sincere police officer, a result of my (unsuccessful) thieving actions.

I was now torturing myself as I rode home, in fits and starts, considering all the various circumstances that I may encounter at home. If my parents ever found out about what had occurred while I had been trusted to go with my sister to the street fair. I had considered, with genuine fear, when the suggestion of “advising my parents” was threatened by the policeman, of what would happen. No question in my mind. Definitely punishment and likely form two, physical. I believed I had alleviated the risk of this occurring, but it was, by no means guaranteed

As I rode home I was running through all the incidents. Stopping every so often to wipe my eyes on my shirt and then rub them with the heel of my hand, something I was to learn was not an effective way to hide the fact you have been crying. In fact, it only enhanced the redness of the eyes and the puffiness of the flesh around them. Just prior to my arrival at the home, I stopped at a short distance from the house. I practiced smiling. Trying not to make it seem too forced. I was trying to be confident so no questions would be asked. Then, once I felt I had it all under control, casual and confident (of sorts) I headed up the hill, the last stretch before the home we had lived in near the bus roundabout at the end of the valley. I pushed the bike past the last few houses and went through the low gate. I was barely inside the gate when I heard the front door open and my mother came out onto the front step. I don’t believe her expression was one of ‘Welcome home’. It showed already before she opened her mouth to speak.

(Continued tomorrow)