“Animals are trained. Children are taught.” – E.T., July 2011
That is something that he (E.T.) taught me, along with a few other things. (“We eat people food. People food comes from the grocery stores. Why don’t you STOP asking me if this plant is edible or that is good to eat.” This from my friend who was also abusing me (verbally and mentally that is). He is an ex-Intelligence agent (really and truly, he is!). Worked for the CIA (or MK if you want to put it in other words). Had me confused with someone else. But we ‘stopped him’ (albeit a bit) . . . by doing the things that we had been trained to do; taught to do, even as a small child.
And then I came across a post by Faith Allen, called “Child Abuse as Traumatizing as War“. It immediately set off some issues for me. And then I realized: it’s because as a small child, I’ve always been preparing for war – a war of some kind against somebody – whether that be my own brother (who, in his turn, was waging war against me – in his own time and his own way, including methods of extreme violence.) We covered some of this in “The Armageddon Child”, but . . .
We were learning and knew how to make puji stake traps at the age of eight years old. We knew to cover them with feces to make them enemy die.
We knew how to make basic deadfalls and sh** by the time we were 13. These were for killing a man.
We knew how to set up a claymore mine by the time we were 8. The important thing is to always make sure it stays outwards. There’s a side printed with words like that. “This Side Towards Enemy” I think it says. And then you connect the two little wires and run like rats down into your little ‘foxholes’ and wait.
We were practicing firing RPG type weapons – not loaded, but disposables with telescoping tubes and fold down sights – when we were 9 and 10. We rode in tanks (and learned you’d better be tied down to something – or hanging on tight – as they bounced around). We did the same “ground jumps” from stationary towers . . . but this was being in the military. This was part of being “a brat”. So it was the ‘usual’ thing.
I’m betting a lot of the children ‘in there’ (meaning “The Fortress*”) were trained like me. Trained in the arts of war. How to deploy your forces. How to build a trap. Smearing puji sticks with feces and stuff. Playing games of war. Riding in tanks and traveling with the troops; squatting inside APC’s listening to their commanders give out orders and take reports in . . . cruising the countryside “looking for them” – meaning the enemy soldiers and commanders and things . . . learning how to ‘observe’ them, noting their movements – then going in and ‘taking command’ by misdirecting them and things . . . stuff like that. Sneaky kinda stuff. The kind of stuff you do on your time off – for ‘shits and giggles and things’. That’s the way we were.
I remember being trained on a bow when I was 7 years old. It was a light kind of bow, and we shot it often until we were very good at that thing.
We were all given BB guns when we were eight years old. You would get into trouble for shooting someone with them, but we had wars anyway. BB Gun wars and stuff. Taking pain – that’s what it was all about: our ability to withstand pain.
We were set on by our first dog by the time we were six or seven. He was a big one and he was a German shepperd. He was chained to a tree so he could only stand up (on his hind legs of course) – we thought he was muzzled, but no, I guess not (seeing him quite clearly right now: chained to a big ol’ pine tree set in the neighbor’s back yard – he’s rearing up and we’re approaching him – fearful at times – he’s barking loud and waving his front end all around . . .
and somebody shoves us in; shoves us to him, and he starts clawing on my chest; ripping me down from stem to stern, hurting me kinda bad. The adults don’t step in (it was one of them – I think my mom, or the other mom – I don’t kinda know) – and I’m left there to fend this dog (he stands way taller than me; I can only reach his chest) – and I’m pushing away and crying and things and the dog is ripping me apart – and then I step back (it’s clear right now) blood running down my chest. I’ve been ripped from shoulders to bladder and on down – I didn’t have my shirt on, no one wore them (they were too precious a thing; they had to be kept with our pants in the drawers and things, along with our other good clothes)
and he’s hurt me kinda bad I’m dripping blood and things and the adults take me to the back of the brick sided single story ranch house (with white framed windows; there are six panels in each window, each three panes wide, and there are six windows in this house – at this side only; chck chk chk
yes we have seeen the front of this house before and we can describe it to a T but that just goes to show . . .
our training and all
* – you should read “Military Brats: Legacies of Childhood Inside the Fortress” by Mary Edwards Wertsch if you were (or are) a military dependent of ANY kind – or want to find and know (albeit only somewhat – nobody can truly know or understand anything about it until they’ve been there – and I was “with” the military in one way or another during my first 26 years . . .)