Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Staplers: Evil Machines of Pain

You know, I would assume most people have some memories of their early elementary school years. Me? Not so much.

I kind of remember kindergarten. My teacher's name was Mrs. Vince. She had brown hair and was nice. She gave us trail mix with carob chips instead of chocolate in little white paper cups as snacks. We took naps. I read my first book all by myself in Kindergarten. It was called: Put Me In The Zoo. I was SO proud of myself. (It's still one of my favorites. I have read it to my kids.) I remember little seeds growing in cups, too. That's about it.

I remember, at some point in my very early elementary school years (couldn't tell you what grade or how old I was) there was a little half-wall at the left of the doorway, dividing the room, on which stood one of those huge staplers with the large pad on top for smacking... Anyway, my mother had me up in her arms and we were standing near this evil machine of pain when I managed to staple two fingers together. I cried. There was blood. It was traumatic. I've been wary of staplers since.

And that's about it. I have no memories of my early elementary school days until third grade. I know (because I've been told) that I repeated second grade. I have no memories of first grade at all.

Is that weird?

My doctor asked me if I have ever been diagnosed with PTSD. No, I haven't. He wondered aloud if I'm repressing some kind of traumatic incident (other than the Stapler Incident) but I don't know. It seems unlikely. And furthermore, what could be that traumatic that I would repress it entirely? I'm really not asking for suggestions, just putting forth a rhetorical question.

I have lots, and lots, and lots of gaping holes in my memory. I've written about that before. All the awful stuff surrounding my mother's death...I get why I've suppressed those memories. But the other...? I guess I might never know. And maybe I don't want to.

I know after my second Second Grade, we moved. I remember that move. And with the move came a new elementary school, and - what do you know? - third grade! Memories. Coincidence? Who knows? My teacher's name was Mrs. Glover and she had blonde hair and soft hands and was absolutely amazing. She took me and my brother in occasionally when my mom was having surgery or other treatments and procedures. She had a second home in New Hampshire, which I visited. I remember I threw up in her car on the way up there. How she didn't hate me for that is beyond me. She also had guinea pigs. That's when I found out just how horribly allergic I am to guinea pigs. Benadryl became my best friend. Her New Hampshire home was built into a rock and part of the inner walls of her home were actually natural rock. I also remember the other third grade teacher's name was Pearl Johnson. (Or was it Jackson?)  See? Memories.

Anyway, I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that some of whatever this stuff is (repressed or suppressed) can be directly linked to my current and ongoing depression and anxiety, but I'm no expert. Someone recently suggested I do some kind of regressive hypnosis to see if I can uncover whatever IT is. But I think probably not. As a wise friend of mine said, "Some doors need to remain closed."

What do you think?


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