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This is very much my blog, so don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. It is a place where I can be anonymous and honest, and I appreciate that.

It will deal with many things and new readers would do well to check out the "Story So Far" Page above this and the "New Readers" tag down there on the right. Although there's nothing too bad in here there will be adult language, so be careful. If you think this needs a greater control, please let me know. Thank you!

Thursday, 21 September 2017

I am a Stegosaurus

Not pictured: me

In the office, I am the one sweating like a pig under the brown suit, stifled by the atmosphere, babbling about something only tangentially related to the question asked. The interviewer, busy and over-worked, scribbles down notes, attempting to appear innocuous but mired in judgements, numerically noted on the paper as inscrutable as it can be done. Of course, I catch the parade of zeros and twos, occasionally a one, and can see the words going down but, for once, I am unable to read the writing upside down. Either the handwriting is carefully created to be unreadable or it is an accident of happenstance, no matter, my usual trick of keeping tabs and responding accordingly is lost.

Me as a child
The discussion covers childhood through to adolescence, taking in sojourns to my adult life, always searching and probing for specifics that, as usual, desert me. Whole words, phrases and ideas flit away like mist when I grasp at them, though there is no pressure but the fact that the window won't open and the cold autumnal weather has cleared for a moment to allow the summer temperatures in beneath a leaden grey sky. Now and again, in the six hours, there are bursts of sunshine beyond the small window behind the interviewer's head. We cover the creepy behaviour of that cold child in school, the one that pretty much stalked the objects of their affection through classes and between home and school, the one that never received that which was sought simply because, like Neiman in Camp Weedonwantcha, it made them look wrong, out of place, and just plain weird. Questions were asked about development and academia, it was noted that there had never really been a struggle, how no learning difficulties were really present. It was noted that arrogance was a constant companion, unwarranted but still there, and how reactions to some of the less academically rigorous tests (like the fucking eyes one) were somewhat extreme.

Me in my head. But brunette.
He was a not nice boy, I said of the strange youth at Scouts that would physically assault others because they bullied or broke rules in games, no mention of the titanic rage or the fact that this boy just didn't fit in with the masculinity on offer. The affectation of being blase about it all. As an opening gambit - what would I wish for if there could be a swish of a magic wand - was itself an attempt at shock and awe, the arrogance of youth still there in all its tarnished turd: to die. What should have been said was to be deleted from History.

Had this cold child not been born then maybe the sister would have survived, being a first child she would have been closer to the parents, not in a crib outside the bedroom as had been learned with the noisy bastard who preceded her. Had she lived then the stresses that followed that death, made worse by the ever-accusing glare of that strangely quiet little bastard with the stare and the insistence in the grunting that would eventually become speech, would have been avoided. A marriage may have been saved by the affairs that never happened and, with that, the move that would never have become necessary to attempt a new start. The brother would not have been as extremely 'favourited' and so, if divorce did come later, would not have had so bruising a fall and so nasty a punishment from both of the parents as they strove to come to terms with the realisation that they had a favourite and it was the same child. Without that little shit there would have been no up-ending of friendships in the primary school on the hill, no brooding jealousy from a young boy with largely uneducated parents bombarding for so many years with the horrendous phrase, insidious and evil: "why can't you be more like him?"

So much easier.
No one to threaten people by being so different and strange, by being not of this world, by being a little less than human. No whiny little runt sapping the will of the Form Tutor to deal with their charges in a humane and supportive manner and thus no turn into derision and sarcasm as the go-to when faced by those who were upset. No victim to feed the bullies. No one to hit that girl with a chair in an after school club that had strangely no repercussions. No one to send those post-cards years apart to some poor sod who had no idea, but a sick inkling, who sent them nor how they got her address. No one to corrupt the girl at University looking for her first romance with 'dry runs' and pressure to conform to what amounted to sexual assault but for the poorly given consent from someone who didn't know better. No one to foment the divisions in a social group at University, to feed the petty squabbles out of a desire to interact because they did not understand human interaction.

Tilly would have stayed with Scrabble Boy, empowered when she dumped him and had children with someone who would not have introduced the genetic coding for ASD, thus preventing at least two more autistic children from entering the world. A boss who would have kept his choice for a job, created that person rather than having that resentment at having been wrong but being unable to place why eat away at his soul. No constant reminder to slowly drive him over the edge and into the abuse of trust in a relationship with students nor bullying of his staff. From that, no departmental issue for an incoming Head of Department. No quisling who went to another school only to return. Toby would have calmed earlier, found a secure relationship quicker and perhaps enjoyed herself more, maybe even stayed friends with those with whom she shared a house rather than employing a little entitled shit as a means to sow discord.

That was the real answer.

It was a six-hour appointment. I didn't realise how gruelling until I tried to function today and found my ability sapped. Until I realised just how much I couldn't give a shit and how little enthusiasm remained. Will it end with a diagnosis? Probably. Maybe not. It's another three months until I shall know. Were I deleted from history my interviewer would have had a better Wednesday, that much I am certain of, or at the very least helped someone who might actually benefit from the interaction rather than the piece of shit they got who will most likely undermine or subvert whatever comes from it.

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