Published on January 19th, 2017 | by Richard Black0
The Importance of Repressing Memories
There’s something to be said about repressed memories and being from the Midwest I should note that they’re better remaining repressed. Perhaps my mindset is due to my upbringing.
I grew up in a simpler time in a simpler place in the middle of nowhere during the 1980s where people didn’t talk much about their feelings. Instead we simply assumed that everyone was pretty much miserable and destitute. We didn’t take part in outright displays of emotion or concern and buried our emotions deep down inside until they manifested as some sort of colon cancer or a midlife crises involving a second mortgage, a Corvette and a case of herpes.
The sad fact is that life is full of embarrassing and unpleasant moments. In my humble opinion one of the ways in which we remain a relatively functional society is through ignoring the awful things we’ve endured and then moving on. I should know. I have a lifetime of horrible memories that I haven’t revisited until now and thanks so much for bringing them up.
As a boy I’m fairly certain I recall my mother telling me that she wouldn’t breast feed me because I couldn’t stop biting her nipples. If memory serves I was twelve at the time and she also mentioned that I had a pair of “sexy feet”. To date the jury is out as to which comment has given me a foot fetish or erectile dysfunction but, in all fairness, there may be other culprits to blame. One night when I came home one night from college I discovered that my mother didn’t wear underwear to bed.
The emotional damage I suffered and tried to repress doesn’t stop. When I was thirteen my father decided that I should learn how to square dance. The old man considered it to be a character building experience and in a way I suppose it was. I lived in a county that had the highest rate of teen pregnancy in the state and didn’t manage to have sex for the first time until I was in my mid thirties and I have square dancing to thank for remaining a virgin for 30 years.
It might seem somewhat surprising but square dancing was not a path to popularity in the rural backwoods of Indiana. Even the 4H kids, when they weren’t raising chiltins or watching bulls hump or doing whatever it is that kids in 4H do, looked down on the four squarers.
I threw a fit and complained and finally begged the old man to have the common decency of anyone who wanted their children to bear offspring to allow me to forgo the experience of square dancing but it wasn’t to be. My father’s decree was final and so, for the next two years, I spent every Sunday do-se-doeing and promenading with large boned women whose ample bosoms met my head squarely at eye level. It was a confusing time for me to say the least and laid down some solid groundwork for sexual dysfunction later on in life.
The square dancing years also coincided with a time in which I played the French Horn which, if you’re a parent looking to provide your kid with a weekly ass beating, is a perfect choice when it comes to an instrument. The French Horn is unwieldy at the best of times particularly when one is running home in the front of a horde of knuckle dragging morons.
The French Horn, combined with regular beatings and the fact that I also wore braces and headgear, pretty much assured that I’d have my ass handed to me at every opportunity and provide a lot of women with sub-par sexual experiences throughout my life as well as a lot of weeping…on my part.
I can’t claim for certain that there are more than a few women who discovered that they were lesbians shortly after sleeping with me but then again I can’t claim that wasn’t the case either. Whatever the reason I plan on repressing the thought right now and, thanks to massive amounts of alcohol, I’ll do precisely that.