The Pavlovian Dog and The Naughty Step

The Naughty Step

To be intelligent enough to introspect is to become burdened with inspecting the illusion of your intellect.

Mum doesn’t remember much of my birth. There’s recollections of awaking sedately on the twenty first day of the seventh month, the year of the Dragon. Of a dull discomfort from the incisions and sutures telling her of my arrival. And of a hazed husband most astounded not by the miracle of life, but by the fact his cupped palm fit the premature frame of my bare body with room to spare.

It was he who decided how everyone should know me from that day forward; Kirsty Fiona Bishop, born 4 pounds and 11 ounces, to a woman on death’s doorstep and to a man still attempting to measure the surface area of his hand.

By age 4, the syllabic weight of my dad’s decision had already become a good adjudicator as to how much trouble I was in. ‘Krusty’ told me before the verbal lashing left mum’s mouth of an empty juice carton found stranded in the fridge or a Hansel & Grettle biscuit trail leading straight to my bedroom door minutes before dinner was to be served.

As with most unruly children, though, the frequency my full Sunday title was megaphone-ed seemed only to grow with my shoe sizes; quickly and expensively. And, admittedly, this was deservedly so. I threw furniture, I lied, I hit, I screamed. I played truant and ran away from home as far as the street lights lit. I stropped if my cereal didn’t taste like pure chocolate and risked a bag of coal each Christmas with how many times I was called naughty.

It follows quite understandably then that by the age of 9, neither of my two names, nor my surname, held much weight. After years of hearing my title hollered from the bottom of the stairs, our house fell silent bar the floorboards’ creak at night. Mum had resigned, quarrelling more with her wrestled off sheets and runaway sleep than with my deviant disregard. And I, for the first time, followed in her footsteps. Reclusive and quiet, I did nothing more than count the unfamiliar wrinkles on her face and commence hunger strikes in homage of nothing but my echoed voice, reverberated off cross-stitched, hallow prayers hung on four walls til it found its way back to my un-touched butty.

Then, one autumn’s eve, I stopped. Motivated by a poignant broadcasting of Children in Need, I put away my claws and took them upstairs with the toys I’d been asked to clear months prior. Boxed them away with guilt from the years of pain I'd caused my family and fed into repentance. Took the wounds they all bore for my sins and healed them in the only ways a 9 year old could know how. Perhaps there are some medicinal benefits of frozen food, cooked ritualistically at Gas Mark 7 and served as if intended for fine dining. Finally, my mother’s eyes, grey for all these years, regained their crystal blue and I felt the warmth of my nana’s hugs once more. My rehabilitated self, the archetype of reform, deserving of love for the first time since infancy.

Now, in truth, I think that’s where I got stuck. In my juvenile mind, one sure-fire way of ensuring my close quarters in hell was to continue causing trouble as the family’s maverick. With my latent knowledge of those less fortunate than I, I vowed to myself that unremarkable day I’d never again take what I had as given, I’d box the worst parts of myself away for the sake of those other children on my 8pm bedtime TV.

Only recently have I learned, in opening said metaphorical box, it wasn’t my personal sins I was repenting, nor my own character I was rehabilitating. Only recently have I learned; I wasn’t an innately bad child. My sole cure wasn’t the threat of Supernanny appearing at our doorstep one unexpected day or the Tooth Fairy deducting my well earned pennies. Quite plainly and purely. My full title manifested as projections of my anger and confusion from years of abuse onto those who enabled it. I screamed because I didn’t have the vocabulary to speak what was happening. I lied because the truth didn’t get the attention it deserved. I starved myself because the nausea of knowledge was too much for my prepubescent frame to swallow.

In somewhat of an embarrassing truth, I expected a eureka-like utopia when I came to this realisation, to the reopening of this pandora’s box. But, as one could probably foresee, nothing of either sort came. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Just plain old stupidity. So, here I am today, simply left wondering why no adult was sighted enough to work it out for me, for the child I was and for the deviant they so easily accused. I was the child. They were the adults. Now, as an adult, I’m made to feel as though im the cause of the dysfunction, of the chasm created by their unadulterated ignorances. Why have I had to repent sins I didn’t myself commit? Why am I lugging the guilt and shame of his actions? Why am I still banished to the naughty step?

Shunned from a family who never reported what they suspected, I’m only left apologising for trouble I'm never sure I'm the cause of, for the wee naughty child whose full title seemed easier to holler than ‘I love you’ was to whisper.

With intelligence, past its pseudo layer, comes introspection. And, with this, comes the unravelling of intellect. To be intelligent enough to introspect is to become burdened with inspecting the illusion of your intellect. Dumb for taking this long to realise, but even more dumb now for having realised.

Misplaced Anger

I cannot resent the person you are for it’s who you’ve always been.

Dear Fiona,

We wanted you to know that we are thinking of you at this difficult time. You have taken a very big, brave step, which cannot have been easy. We are genuinely sorry that you feel you have been unsupported by us, which was never our intention.

With what you have gone through as a result of Alastair’s actions, this has been devastating for me as his Father. I am so distressed with what has happened to you that I am unable to talk about it to you or anyone.

There is a lot of tension in our relationship on both sides, so I think that us taking a bit of space may be best at present.

Signed,

Your loving Grandad Donald

Dear Grandad Donald,

Please, take a Rennie for the difficulty you have in digesting the paternal shame I force-fed down your gullet by the divine misfortune of having your son as my father. And, I beg, don’t miss the return address on the condolence card sent my way, for it seems the only ones in need of consolation are yourself and the dried-out pen used to scrawl your half-arsed apology. Even through grey ink, your penmanship remains intact, for you still so eloquently express your personal quarrel with the devastation and distress of having only recently discovered what you’ve known to be true all these years.

Space may well be best at present, but please don’t pretend the distance you’ve given me no option but to take is for my own sake. I see the emotional capacity it's gifted you; transactional in nature, your withdrawal from me, exchanged for an alliance with him. The man you know to be the cause of the tension in our relationship. The man you refused to testify against on my behalf. A son, capable of such sadism, but a son nonetheless.

Misplaced anger. I cannot resent the person you are for it’s who you’ve always been. My earliest admissions, enshrouded and secluded in forced forgiveness and forgetfulness. My voice, always loud enough to be heard, but never important enough to be listened to. Suspecting, but never confronting. Yet, despite the decade-long evasion, the bump in the rug from all you swept under it still swells. I’m still here, and my voice is still loud.

In truth, I think that may be what's causing the majority of your distress; me and my loud voice. However you phrase your solace, the locus of your devastation isn’t in the man you know to be guilty, but in the girl who shouts of his guilt. To admit it’s true genesis would be an admission of all you enabled and justified. And so, in spotlighting his condemnation, you feel I’m extending my pointed finger in your direction, magnifying your own culpability in idleness and negligence. Self-preservation prevails.

So, thank you for letting me know that what has happened to me at the hands of your son is too distressing for you to stand by me. And I’m beyond pleased that the knowledge of such was not enough to fragment your relationship with him. After all, he is your son.

Signed,

Your granddaughter.

You Smell Nice

Still, I had arm-bands to wage the lukewarm waves pouring over…

As a child, there was always an innate fear of some ghastly odour stalking me, one that seeped from the holes in my purity and left room for those around to point and stare at every given opportunity. If ever there was an offensive smell, my mind would claim it as thine own; flustered and conscious, the foul scent forcing noses to upturn and bystanders to shy in disgrace surely had no other cause but my simple self.

And so, at the age of 8, I began dowsing myself in off-brand perfumes and deodorants. More chemicals than polyester, the labels of my school uniform read bare come winter term. Shower bills to cost us plates at the dinner table and half-filled cups of tea at a slant for my mother. Still, I had arm-bands to wage the lukewarm waves pouring over, so long as no one could detect the smell of Saturday evening come Monday registration.

A quandary for my younger self; perhaps never clean for the root cause never acknowledged. Wiped but not scrubbed, dusted but not polished, guided but not groomed, touched but not raped, father but not friend.

Business finished with forced forgiveness.

I tell this younger self, I’ve since migrated to more established brands of perfume, Liz Earle No15 to be precise. Only a decade or so has taught me the value of ‘less is more’, or of the value for more or less nothing.

Today, ‘you smell nice’ is a compliment wealthy in meaningless meaning. You await to hear the established brand of perfume I wear whilst I ponder on how you haven’t yet detected the scent of Saturday evenings long since gone. For, on occasion, when the day’s worth of Liz Earle No15 has worn away, I still smell them. And I only wonder how no one else can.

Pavlovian Dogs

We are what we do with what we know and have been through.

Classically conditioned. We salivate in adulthood at the sound of a bell because of our encounters with the chime in childhood. The bully’s victim becomes the meek and distrustful. The over-achiever becomes the overly-obsessed with achievement. The daughter of the dieting mother becomes the diagnosed anorexic.

Of course, I’m as sure of the fact that not everything is as stringently and causation-ally determined as I am of the fact that Pavlov, himself, didn’t intend for his study of dogs’ conditionally stimulated reflexes to be extended to the complex system of man. It’s true that many of those well-versed in adversity revel in their trials, motivated by their playground taunts or their parents’ short-comings. We are what we do with what we know and have been through. And the only way to do better is to learn from those who didn’t. So, with our hardships and our traumas bundled into a bindle, we often meet a fork in the road; one where you either fall victim to the childhood voices of self-fulfilling prophecies or where you catalyse your scripture for your own self-renewal. A rite of passage for many, we choose how we let our past define our future.

More so than the original piece, however, I find myself considering those canine subjects in their later years; a Pavlovian Sequel, exploring whether they ever overcame their conditioning. And, by the same token, what of those whose reflexes were never disentangled from the bell?

Contradictories. I am the person I've become despite my encounters with the childhood chime. Or, is it because of those encounters? An obsession with intelligence, despite the years of skipped school, but perhaps motivated by the years I was made to feel dumb? An unwavering duty of compassion and care for my goddaughters, despite having no model of such parental guidance myself, but perhaps motivated by the neglect and ignorance I endured? An overwhelming ability to trace others' deficits to their difficulties in childhood, despite no one having done so for me, but perhaps because I wish someone would. Do I owe all of who I am to the one ringing the bell?

Then there's the more correlated facets of my character, where the links between the reflex, the stimulus, and the conditioning intertwine so evidently. Beer-soaked breath reminding me of standby lights in the dark. Slurred speech cautioning me of skin covered in sick. Unfamiliar territories casting me back to weekend kidnappings.

An unravelling of the self, truly. A mental relapse into whether the self ever existed external to the stimulus.

Is this how the dogs felt?

Bubblewrap

 …it all just trickles down to the trainers we wear and how tightly our parents tie the laces.

Comparison, specifically the envious type, becomes the thief of joy and pride for most. We simmer and dissect the accomplishments and tribulations of others only to the effect of de-pedestaling and tainting our own.

As such, I occasionally [and unwillingly] see the worst in myself when I see the best in others. And, despite an almost omni-benevolent level of adoration for those closest to me, I may also, at times, catch myself in mid-relish of their pain.

Perhaps relish is actually too strong a descriptive. Relief may be more on the mark; an unsuccessful job interview or date gone awry, a small part of me is just that little bit relieved that I won’t feel the inevitable envy of their desired outcome. Relieved that I won’t lose the imaginative race between myself and no one for fear my poor sportsmanship may show.

It’s not that I want them to fail, and it's not that my relief follows every failure of theirs. It’s a relief that I'm not gonna be left behind at the start line again.

Hence, there’s no nefarious nature to be found burrowed within my repressed relief. Just as there’s no real reason why I seldom consider gifting refillable pens to a friend whose poems seem to read more as riddles for the dry ink used to rhyme, other than for the fear they’ll no longer ask to borrow my own.

Quite obviously, this paradox between dignity and cupidity isn't a struggle I’m unacquainted with, though I quite commonly debate with myself on how well we know one another. To admit our familiarity would, itself, be an admission of the ugliest parts of myself; the thorns cut from rose stems before gifting to a loved one or the cracks in paving stones those suspicious among us hop to avert.

Having lived enviously for quite some time now, the paradox and I are, however begrudgingly, maturing in tandem, such that the gossiping of others often takes a back seat during our carpool conversations. We lean into circular chit-chat amongst ourselves in lieu of the trials and tribulations of peers. Over time, we’ve come to understand that, in our self-fantasised sports day olympics that is everyday life, perhaps others’ actually hold no athletic advantage over us at all. Maybe those around us move with little to no head start at the sound of the whistle that is their morning alarm. No peer placed with the stealthier partner in the relay race that is their 9 to 5. Perhaps, perhaps even probably, it all just trickles down to the trainers we wear and how tightly our parents tie the laces.

In all, in truth, and in essence, there’s really no room for comparison, specifically the envious type. We each own varying tolerances, unique pain thresholds set by the pain we’ve endured. One whose first and only encounter with death is the loss of a pet will experience grief’s grasp as does their peer who’s had countless dealings with the grim reaper himself. Again, we are what we do with what we know and have been through. In envious comparison, we invalidate not only ourselves, but the nuance and experience of all those whom we enviously compare ourselves to.

I think it’s safe to say, sometimes, I forget that my experiences, the way my brain was shaped during developmental years, my traumas - they curate my responses and my reactions to everyday situations. My anxieties are seen as excessive and my responses as verbose to most. I run the risk of seeming weak if unable to do mundanities, or as too stringent if reluctant.

No matter the extra compassion the paradox and I deserve, work and friendships and regular life aren’t trauma informed. They aren’t designed for those slimmer Windows of Tolerance.

And, after our years of envious comparisons, that’s ok. Not everything needs to be bubble wrapped. Still running a little behind, we lean towards self compassion instead. And, in so doing, we understand when others may need a little more compassion themselves. In healing the self, perhaps we’re healing the world too.

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A wee bit of a different piece, exploring the chapters to self-actualisation for those who've experienced trauma. Also my longest piece, including one of my previously written blogs, to bring a more holistic perspective to the stages and inner-wafflings of seeking the Self whilst suffering with C-PTSD.

compassion compassion compassion. the more we learn, the more we grow. blahblahblahhhh