I feel like I should say that this is not a story of how I was shaped/wounded by my upbringing. Not a whine, either. I know when I’m wallowing in the sadnesses and violences of my childhood, which I can spend eons doing. This isn’t a wallow. This is figuring out, and being almost amused, or mildly amused to have figured out an origin.
I think I must have hated all that change much more than I was aware of. The parental stress, the new places, new schools full of kids I was fairly sure would think I was just fat and weird, the sense of powerlessness and undefended-ness. Nothing unusual in any of that, really. I’ve heard military kids talk about the same things—and some of them adapt gorgeously, becoming, well, highly adaptable and capable adults. I haven’t exactly crumbled under the weight of the various bumps of my childhood, either.
But I think I’ve maybe been having a decades-long, heels-dug-in tantrum about change. And a decades-long wallow in the discombobulation of change. So I’ve spent decades compensating for the instability of the first 12 years of my life. Some might say that that constitutes just a teeny bit of over-compensation.
I’m 60. I think that means that my job from here on in is to do the best and most that I can for as long as I can. And that includes wasting less time beating myself up for not-entirely-bright behavior patterns. I have no idea whether this morning’s “no-duh, Devon” epiphany will bear much fruit, or change the pattern. But it will at least allow me to chuckle at myself and my slight tendency to react to many things an itty-bit hyperbolically.