Ok. Fair warning, as this is still fresh for me. I don’t imagine this post flows right, but here goes:
As a man well into my 50’s, I should not allow myself to feel the same bullying I felt in childhood. I shouldn’t allow the blather of others to live within my soul, my thoughts, to change my outlook, to destroy my peace. But I did. I most certainly did.
Recently, in partnership with another employee, I was given the task of wiring in an actuator control switch. I was looking forward to this task because I have little experience with this type of electronics and wiring, and the person I was to be working with had a lot of experience but his age was making the physical work difficult. A great pairing, I thought.
He ordered the components and designed the support structure while I assembled the structuring and then attempted to follow his written directions on the wiring. I told him I didn’t understand his wiring diagram but I’d do my best and let him know if I had problems. Yep, I had problems.
This older man entered back into the project angry. Ok, he is always angry. But, I called him back into it because I had done the best I could, the very best I could, but I was at a loss. So, I left everything open, labeled, easily changed. His first words were “Why in the hell did you do it like that?”
Ok, I’m new at this. How would you have done it. Grumpily, he tells me. Cool, information! I can use this in the future! Then, he grumpily complains about how I’ve done it again.
And again. And again. And again. And again. He complains about my multimeter, which is owned by the shop, not me, and is the only one I have available. Why did you buy this meter? This is a stupid design. Anyone who uses a meter like this shouldn’t be using a meter. Why did you leave so little wire where this gets connected? (He ordered the wire, and I used every bit of it as best as able). You should have left more. Dammit, this is horrible, why’d you leave this so short? You should have left more….
Outwardly I stood quiet, but, inside sat a little boy who couldn’t hold a flashlight right or grab a 7/16 box end wrench fast enough. I tell you now, when I realized I had put my hands in my pockets I ripped them out so fast I’m surprised I didn’t start a friction fire!
This type of stuff continued, repeatedly continued. I’d done the best I could with what I had available. I’d done the best I could to understand his diagram. I’d done the best I fucking well could!….. and all I could do was hold back the scream that it was all unfair and swallow my own anger as he let his flow. I needed to get this component wired and get this machine working again. I needed his help.
I’m a grown-assed man well into my 50’s, why am I suddenly that little boy again? Why am I so incapable of lifting my head? Why am I so hurt by someone so much smaller than I am? Why did I allow myself to be so abused?
Wiring complete, machine put back together. I trained the operators, watched them operate the machine successfully, then quietly collected my tools and went home. On the way home another driver passed me on the highway as I was changing lanes. He was speeding, nearly hit me – I could have reached out my window and changed his radio station! Then he sped away on the highway, and I was pissed! Finally, I was pissed!! I’d had enough this day and dammit someone was going to pay! I chased that guy for two miles at over 90 miles an hour before I realized that – a: I was never going to catch him in my little car. And, b: I needed to forgive that man or I was going to end up in an accident or jail or both.
Many years ago I stumbled upon a little blog that talked about a lot of stuff. I read his offered story, read his posts, then one day I commented. See, I liked how he signed off on his posts with “hugs”. We became grand friends, this virtual hugger and me, and I learned how incredibly important hugs were to him, and to my surprise, to me. To receive them, and to give.
Of course, I know this is a sad, angry, lonely, pathetic old man. I know this is just how he is, and I’ll never see him different. But. I also “know” he spoke to me that way because I was no good. I “know” I was horrible at my job. I “know” I’m dumb. I “know” I had no business trying to do that wiring job. I “know”… I “know”… Yeah, I “know”.
Hugs.
Randy
Scottie's Playtime 
The stuff does come back. You did well with showing respect that he didn’t deserve, and you no doubt did not feel. That may not be satisfactory, but it was the correct thing to do.
I wish people wouldn’t take things out on other people, and I’m sorry that happened to you at work.
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Hi Ali. Thank you. I just read your other comment as well, and there is an argument there, but full agreement as well. What we perceive as reality, is in fact reality…. sort of.
hugs;
Randy
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True. As frequently happens, my words get in the way. I’m glad you didn’t think I was belittling the natural reaction to such treatment, because I had no such intent.
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Hi. Randy, wonderful friend and brother. It is amazing how fast we can revert to the abused little kids we were back when we couldn’t stand up for ourselves. Brother as you were there for me, I am here for you. Vent all you wish, but remember the Randy that reaches well beyond his own abuse to help so many others in real life. You have reached out to help others, you have defended the workers who struggled, who had problems, who needed someone to care. You were that someone. I am glad you came to your senses and backed off from chasing the guy. Ron mentioned to me that seeing a guy you size coming out of your small car angry might make them freak enough to pull a gun and shoot you. Plus if he was driving like that he might have been hyped up on some heavy drugs. By my dogs that love gravy, no telling what a person in a drug fueled crazy might have done if you had caught them. Love and lots of warm comforting hugs. Scottie
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oh, but I so wanted to find out! Sometimes I miss those younger days when swinging my fists was a more acceptable response. Can’t do that as anymore.
Thank you, Scottie, and thank you for checking in on me.
Hugs!
Randy
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When I put my hands in my pockets it’s a sign I’m about to, as they used to say, reach out and touch someone. It’s the last thing I do before I take them out of my pockets really fast
Though I know how it is when they get away with it …
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Hi Ten Bears. When I was little I would hear “Take your hands out of your pockets, boy! How are you going to go through life with your hands in your pockets?” I sometimes put my hands in my pockets just out of spite now. But, I did also hear that same reaction from others – that they were using the constriction of the pockets to help not throw their hands.
Thank you for your comment.
Randy
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Hi Randy. Hugs
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I was just now half-paying attention to an Eva Mendez interview while reading, and she mentioned how her child had developed some anxiety-more than normal for 10-but the child said something about needing her brain to listen to her. It developed into a book, intended for children, but the takeaway was, “Just because you think it, doesn’t make it true,” applied to intrusive thoughts and memories that belittle us.
I’m trying to be brief, and likely am not only failing that, but also failing to show the empathy I have for this situation, and I want to show that. Because it’s always easier for ones who aren’t in it at the moment to bring the helping tools, isn’t it? (I guess both literally and therapeutically, in this situation, so a giggle would not be inappropriate.) I’d delete this, but I just loved the comment about thinking things about ourselves that aren’t true, so I hope the good stays, while the extra blahblahblah doesn’t.
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