Where's Harold Pinter when you need him?
- From: "Hitinthehead" <ashleyformby@xxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: 16 Aug 2006 16:53:51 -0700
Hi,
I was hit in the head a lot as a child which I'm thinking about a lot
recently. I recall a lazy summer's day spent with a friend and his
acquaintance. We were throwing rocks across a river to each other for
no reason whatsoever, as children do. One of them was big and it hit me
smack bang on the head. My vision blacked out for a moment and I heard
a huge thud just above my ear where I was struck. My hand instantly
recoiled against the wound, and I saw it was covered in blood.
Another time my dad took me cycling with my sister down the local steep
hill, and when I say steep I am understating! The front brake on my
bike was faulty so I fell head over handlebars onto the ground smacking
my forehead on the tarmac, my bike bouncing onto me. I was lucky on
that occasion that a local nurse was driving a car up the hill and
accompanied me to a hospital straightaway.
Those two incidents were accidents but there were incidental strikes to
my head, too. One boy whom was the son of the local chippie owners
(whom incidentally made the best chips I've ever eaten) once hit me
from the table behind in our class with his laden bag, opening a wound.
Another time, he dropped his bag from a stairwell of two flights of
stairs onto me at the bottom, again resulting in blood being shed. He
had a friend who threw sawdust on me in the woodwork class one day in
an unprovoked, nasty attack. In a heated moment I kicked him in the leg
once, thinking better of it as he yelped in pain and promised revenge.
Later he and about 15 of his friends followed me around until
eventually he was persauded to punch me twice with his lean, mean,
athletic knuckles opening up my left temple. I just held my head
dramatically and knelt down, to avoid anymore punishment, to show whom
was the victor.
I called CALM (Campaign Against Living Miserably) tonight and spoke to
a pleasant man for a second time. I now feel strange and uncertain.
Happier than I was, though. He believes I may be more likely to find a
partner or friends amongst other depressed people. I'm sensitive, he
reckons. As are many depressed people. Perhaps. I don't know. I hope
so. Dear me, I suppose it helps to imagine I'm a character in one of
Harold Pinter's plays. I should get round to seeing more of them, my
dad tells me a lot about them. If only I had more money and there was
more availability of culture.
Listening to Frank Sinatra's My Way on repeat today made me feel very
amused at first but then started to make me feel vulnerable. I must
work on gathering a repertoire of creativity to envelope myself with,
so I'm never left alone to my naked glances.
Thank you for reading,
Ashley
.
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