02-03-2016, 11:49 AM
(This post was last modified: 02-03-2016, 11:57 AM by Colonel Knight Rider.)
Hey everyone. I’m new here. My codename’s Colonel Knight Rider, and I’m San Francisco’s favorite high-tech Medieval-themed superhero…or, rather, I thought I was. Evidently, I’ve come here seeking emotional support.
Before you read the following story, please note that, for financial reasons, I still live with my parents.
On the evening of February 2, 2016, I set out to do something I had long been hoping to do: learn self-defense so I could seek some sort of personal fulfillment and a way to defend those about whom I truly, deeply care. Well, at least that’s what Mom and Dad told me I would get from it if I tried—that, and assistance with my lifelong attention deficit disorder (ADD, for easy reference). I could even use it to impress a girlfriend if, God willing, I had one.
However, before I even walked in the door, I felt a strange disturbance. My whole body froze up in terror, and my elbows tucked into my sides. Something didn’t feel right. At once, I flashed back to memories that were too pervasive to keep under control. I had off-putting visions of my mother quite liberally chiding other people’s religions/beliefs/philosophies, something that I, as a Christian, have vowed personally never to do. The first thought that came to mind was a memory of Mom saying something about how some yoga preaches Eastern philosophy, which she fears may collide with our beliefs. Keep in mind that Mom’s not racist. She just says stuff like that around the house (but never in public). I then thought, “What if I betray my family by being indoctrinated into some sort of Eastern philosophy by taking this class? I can’t afford the consequences!” I then had a panic attack in front of everyone and fled before the class even started. Dad, who tagged along, said he was embarrassed to be seen with me. It goes without saying that the feeling was mutual. I’ve had a pretty uneven emotional relationship with my father over my life, so I think his presence also put a strain on my ability to stay in the class.
I knew right there that I had forgotten my original purpose for coming to that self-defense studio. I let fear win, and bad things always happen when I let fear win. I’m now just a mess of tears, and my parents are showing no sympathy and using aggressiveness to make me regret my decision to leave the studio and then desire to go back. It’s as if they were both Terrence Fletcher (J.K. Simmons’ character from the 2014 film Whiplash, whom I frequently use now to describe anyone who’s innately abrasive and unsympathetic), whom I was literally hoping would be shot and killed at the film’s end for all the right reasons. I want to be able to strike out on my own and find another self-defense class, but I’m afraid that my parents won’t allow it and will adopt their usual unsympathetic demeanor of, “You had your chance, and you failed!” What kind of parent does that to a grown man!? My parents are so controlling even though I’m a man of nearly 24. And they wonder why I cry even though I’m a grown man.
But I guess their disappointment in me can be reasonably justified: they went out of their way to find this for me so I could go out and have more of a social life. And I failed them. I’m a rotten son who can’t change no matter how hard he tries to change his attitudes or thoughts. I don’t deserve to bear my maternal grandfather’s name. I’m not him, and I’ll never amount to his greatness. I’ll never be the strong, emotionally stable, level-headed, brilliant, courageous, compassionate, honest, flawless demigod he was. I’ll never be able to “grow a pair” as he did and as my parents keep telling me to do. I’m just going to be a man-child for all eternity and fall apart bawling every time I meet, for example, a mugger instead of using cool self-defense moves on him. I’m sorry I can’t be my maternal grandfather, who passed on four years before my birth.
Bottom line: What I need to do is summon the courage to stand up to my parents in a way that shows I do care about them but also says, “Hey, you told me I need to find fun things to do on my own if I want to prove that I can be mature and responsible. I’m doing that now. Deal with it.” But they’ll probably come up with some excuse to talk me out of doing so. They always do. They do care about me, but they believe “tough love” is the answer for both me and my brother. You think they’d learn to stop, seeing as I don’t usually respond well to the tough part of tough love, but no. They’re just old and set in their ways. That’s the way nature works.
*Sigh,* If I don’t find a way to convince my parents to let me find a new self-defense class for myself, I might as well end it all by shooting myself with my maternal grandfather’s shotgun. And, of course, I chose his shotgun because I besmirched his family name. If I can’t measure up to the expectations of what it means to be a real man that Mom and Dad, having both known my maternal grandfather, have set for me, what’s the point of continuing to live? I’m never going to be able to know how to defend a possible future girlfriend from a mugger if we’re walking down an alleyway one night. We’re both going to die, and when we go to heaven, she’ll blame me because I’m nothing more than a pushover, just like Mom said. And my parents probably wouldn't care if I killed myself. I’ll never forget the time years ago when Mom said she wouldn’t mourn me if I killed myself.
Before you read the following story, please note that, for financial reasons, I still live with my parents.
On the evening of February 2, 2016, I set out to do something I had long been hoping to do: learn self-defense so I could seek some sort of personal fulfillment and a way to defend those about whom I truly, deeply care. Well, at least that’s what Mom and Dad told me I would get from it if I tried—that, and assistance with my lifelong attention deficit disorder (ADD, for easy reference). I could even use it to impress a girlfriend if, God willing, I had one.
However, before I even walked in the door, I felt a strange disturbance. My whole body froze up in terror, and my elbows tucked into my sides. Something didn’t feel right. At once, I flashed back to memories that were too pervasive to keep under control. I had off-putting visions of my mother quite liberally chiding other people’s religions/beliefs/philosophies, something that I, as a Christian, have vowed personally never to do. The first thought that came to mind was a memory of Mom saying something about how some yoga preaches Eastern philosophy, which she fears may collide with our beliefs. Keep in mind that Mom’s not racist. She just says stuff like that around the house (but never in public). I then thought, “What if I betray my family by being indoctrinated into some sort of Eastern philosophy by taking this class? I can’t afford the consequences!” I then had a panic attack in front of everyone and fled before the class even started. Dad, who tagged along, said he was embarrassed to be seen with me. It goes without saying that the feeling was mutual. I’ve had a pretty uneven emotional relationship with my father over my life, so I think his presence also put a strain on my ability to stay in the class.
I knew right there that I had forgotten my original purpose for coming to that self-defense studio. I let fear win, and bad things always happen when I let fear win. I’m now just a mess of tears, and my parents are showing no sympathy and using aggressiveness to make me regret my decision to leave the studio and then desire to go back. It’s as if they were both Terrence Fletcher (J.K. Simmons’ character from the 2014 film Whiplash, whom I frequently use now to describe anyone who’s innately abrasive and unsympathetic), whom I was literally hoping would be shot and killed at the film’s end for all the right reasons. I want to be able to strike out on my own and find another self-defense class, but I’m afraid that my parents won’t allow it and will adopt their usual unsympathetic demeanor of, “You had your chance, and you failed!” What kind of parent does that to a grown man!? My parents are so controlling even though I’m a man of nearly 24. And they wonder why I cry even though I’m a grown man.
But I guess their disappointment in me can be reasonably justified: they went out of their way to find this for me so I could go out and have more of a social life. And I failed them. I’m a rotten son who can’t change no matter how hard he tries to change his attitudes or thoughts. I don’t deserve to bear my maternal grandfather’s name. I’m not him, and I’ll never amount to his greatness. I’ll never be the strong, emotionally stable, level-headed, brilliant, courageous, compassionate, honest, flawless demigod he was. I’ll never be able to “grow a pair” as he did and as my parents keep telling me to do. I’m just going to be a man-child for all eternity and fall apart bawling every time I meet, for example, a mugger instead of using cool self-defense moves on him. I’m sorry I can’t be my maternal grandfather, who passed on four years before my birth.
Bottom line: What I need to do is summon the courage to stand up to my parents in a way that shows I do care about them but also says, “Hey, you told me I need to find fun things to do on my own if I want to prove that I can be mature and responsible. I’m doing that now. Deal with it.” But they’ll probably come up with some excuse to talk me out of doing so. They always do. They do care about me, but they believe “tough love” is the answer for both me and my brother. You think they’d learn to stop, seeing as I don’t usually respond well to the tough part of tough love, but no. They’re just old and set in their ways. That’s the way nature works.
*Sigh,* If I don’t find a way to convince my parents to let me find a new self-defense class for myself, I might as well end it all by shooting myself with my maternal grandfather’s shotgun. And, of course, I chose his shotgun because I besmirched his family name. If I can’t measure up to the expectations of what it means to be a real man that Mom and Dad, having both known my maternal grandfather, have set for me, what’s the point of continuing to live? I’m never going to be able to know how to defend a possible future girlfriend from a mugger if we’re walking down an alleyway one night. We’re both going to die, and when we go to heaven, she’ll blame me because I’m nothing more than a pushover, just like Mom said. And my parents probably wouldn't care if I killed myself. I’ll never forget the time years ago when Mom said she wouldn’t mourn me if I killed myself.
