I walked through the door from another stressful school day, not because of pastime bullying, every one enjoyed me as a classmate or personal friend. It was the intellectual challenge of the subjects. My father had driven out any self-confidence. Reflecting with the help of my therapy insights, I realize it was what I now call the shit whisperer, who whispers lies into our brain and heart.    

I didn't discover how intelligent and capable I was until I entered graduate school. By then I had had no more contact with my father so the previous damage was healed. I got A's and A+ which was a very new experience. 

I had gotten some A's over time, but mostly C's. Both my brother and sister consistently brought home A's for marks on their report cards.  I dreaded the humiliation when my father was handing out little rewards for our marks.  He had to make a new rule for my unusual situation. When he was presenting my brother and sister with their quarter and dime for their A’s and B’s,  he made a big production as he presented me with a nickel. Can't you just picture it?  

In the midst of all my mulling these things over, Mother came toward me from the kitchen, her favorite haunt. “I have a big surprise for you.” I began to grin as she presented me with a bag. When I looked inside, filled with hope, I lifted out a white boiled wool sweater. 

Unfolding the soft fabric and flattening it out against my front, I could see it was identical to the previously shrunken one I was trying to hide.  Evidently, she had been able to coax, blame, or shame my father into doling out the required money amount. 

There would be no need to conceal this glorious trendy highly fashionable sweater. It served as a pass admission into a much-coveted unofficial group, as perceived by many. There were no rules or requirements for wearing the designated sweater,  I just knew it was important.

I knew getting a brand new sweater would make me happy and more secure, however, it would never be enough to assuage my mother's guilt.  Gazing at me teary-eyed, she said “I promise I will never wash it in hot water.” We both joyously hugged each other and knew this would be the end of it. 

****** 

Some of my high school friends had older brothers who let them wear their sweaters. They proudly danced around wearing a variety of sweaters. I pretended a small-framed Nike, barely a year younger, was the type of big brother who would let me wear his sweaters. The fit was a little tight, but it was a sweater worn by my brother, just like the other girls. 

That wasn't the only fit to be considered in this scenario.  Unaware I had been snooping in his dresser drawers,  he saw me prancing around wearing one of his favorite sweaters. It was pretty or should I say handsome, a white sweater with red and black patterning. 

He immediately went into action and I immediately knew I'd better get out of there as fast as I could. He chased me down the stairs, and out of the house. I skidded down over the bank with broken glass and rusty cans, into the brook.

You may remember this was a routine we played out. As long as I got down into the brook I was safe.  I got thinking about how I did have a tedious record of teasing Nike. I worked very hard to get out of the distorted mindset I exhibited.  Facing myself, even at an older high school age,  I was tormenting him wearing one of his favorite sweaters that really didn't fit me.

 At his expense, I wanted to look like my friends in this new trendy way. When I wanted to make things right between Nike and me, I tried to give it back with all kinds of apologies. He was having none of it and said. “You ruined it, you put bumps in it. I don’t want any sweater with bumps in it.” He threw it back at me. We have another blur, as I have no idea what happened to the sweater after that. 

******

He did get me good at an earlier age.  I must have been only about four and he three. I suspect because we'd visited the A&W Root Beer Stand where they have big glass mugs, he contracted what we in that era called Trench Mouth. I don't know what it is called now. My mother had to paint his gums with a gross purple-dyed medicine called gentian violet.

I was sitting there clutching my light pink blankie curiously watching the whole ordeal. Nike was very agitated trying to spit out the medicine. He grabbed my blankie and wiped his dark purple mouth all over it. My light pink blanket now had a purple stain covering it. I cried and made a fuss. He was crying because he did not want that stuff painted on his gums. It probably tasted horrible. My mother was the only one not crying at that moment.  I think she could easily have done some crying later on. 

Fortunately, in this day and age we only challenge each other with word play and words smithing. Despite his head injury, which I will discuss later, Nike is extremely bright.

*******

I will now make an effort to sum up the painful moments I have had to face myself.  At the risk of rehashing the processing of my consequences resulting in lying to my partner,  I would like to look at it from different angles. As I have faced myself taking responsibility for some of my behaviors, I will assess the impact of lying as adult children of alcoholics do, even when we don't have to. 

Following a pleasant evening, my partner called me while at work on her psych nurse shift. That is one of the things I've dreamed of in a relationship.  I love hearing the other person’s voice. Society seems to have reached a point where people would just much rather text the other person. I’ve abashedly observed this routine. Even if someone is in a nearby office, they are texting some message, rather than entering the physical space of the person they are texting. 

My partner and I were laughing, having a light, playful conversation on the phone, until it wasn’t. As I earlier said I broke my partner’s heart, and our relationship began to deteriorate after that. She ended up finding someone else who was more reliable and honest than I, but we remained friends. When she invited me to her new location we had a good talk. I told her I no longer lied and I understood the whole sordid picture of my learned behaviors. I have worked against those influences of unknowingly lying and fabricating. 

She said, “Maybe other people would not be offended by that behavior and it would be okay for them. But my problem was my mother lied to me all of the time. I just could not tolerate your lying to me.” In facing myself,  she was invited to face herself. Powerful.