Control, pride, fear. The degradation of the Path. Sure I have free will, I was born that way. Let's see what happened when I took that free will and used it improperly.
I ran from home when I was 13. While it wasn't a literal running away, I did indeed run full steam ahead to my high school. Culver was a blessing and a bane to me. It was a blessing because it took me from a home where abuse was the norm. Today I understand the abuse was not intentional and that my parents were doing only what they knew how to do in raising children. Try telling that to a repressed 13 year old. I felt betrayed every day. I prayed to God that I was adopted that my real parents would come to claim me some day. Truth. This is what I used to think.
The good
Being admitted to Culver was such a joyous occasion to me that I was afraid to show it outwardly for fear that it would be taken away. I could not bear to hide in the closet with my little sister and try to soothe her as our parents drew blood from each other any longer. I shudder to think what my teenage years would have been like if I had not gone.
The bad
Culver opened up a new world to me. I never ever thought I would meet so many varied people from all over the world. I, a country bumpkin from North Carolina, was a part of this grand institution. This grand tradition. Horses, sail boats, airplanes, marching, the uniforms (NO MORE HAND ME DOWNS), it was all so very overwhelming. So much so that it went to my head in a very bad way. I became haughty, arrogant, and condescending. To make matters worse I was good at hiding it. I made myself look the part of a kind a nd caring person, but inside I looked at the world with disdain, envy, and contempt. I wanted the riches that my new friends had, I wanted the limos, the designer clothes they wore on civvies days or on their way to break. I started hating breaks because it served as a reminder of who I wasn't and what I didn't have. I opted to stay at Culver on the short breaks rather than suffer the humiliation of returning to my real life.
The ugly (as if the bad wasn't enough)
one particular break, I don't remember which, I remember going home and my father asking me to ride with him to the parts store to get a part for the car. I made him wait as I took a shower, combed my hair, and put on what I considered, my 'nice' clothes. After we got back I begrudgingly helped to repair the vehicle and immediately went inside to wash the filth off of my hands when we were finished. I had never seen so much pain and shame in my parents eyes than that break. I was ugly. But I didn't care at the time.
-to be continued-
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