He's the Kind of Kid You'd Stick Needles Into

Security at the airport used to take one look at me and throw me up against the wall.“Alright kid, spread ‘em.”It’s not like I could resist.Let’s just get this over with, I thought as I obediently put my hands against the weeping concrete. I tried to think of other things as pinching fingers traveled up the inside of my legs.My dad used to think this was funny. It happened again and again. I got the sense that he looked forward to it. Me getting groped became a highlight of our trips.“Do you think they’ll search you?” he’d ask with a laugh as we pulled into the airport parking lot. My hands would begin to clench and unclench.I was eighteen.There’s a family story about how Grandma once referred to my dad as, “A kid you’d stick needles into.” He’d gone missing during a family trip to Washington DC. The phrase came out when Grandma noticed his absence and sought the help of a police officer.“He’s the kind of kid you’d stick needles into.”Why would she say that?Was she worried about him?When I first heard it, I couldn’t comprehend what that statement meant. My aunts and uncles would repeat the line like the humor was obvious. The thought of getting stuck with needles wasn’t something I wanted floating around in the atmosphere, so I never asked any follow-up questions.“Oh, you don’t know what we’re talking about? Let us show you!”That’s one of the first tricks you learn when you’re little and you can already sense that you’re a target: Don’t give them anything to make it seem like it was your idea.The question stuck with me. Why would a mother say that about her child?How does that comment become a family story? Did it mean that she used to stick him with needles? Was that something parents did in the 50s? Was that how she entertained herself during the long road trip to DC in the family station wagon… by sticking needles into her child?What went on beneath the veneer of the “perfect” society?Church.Apple pie.The traditional family unit.Sticking needles into kids.On the basis of that story alone, I never spent too much time with my grandmother. The story was told at family gatherings. The story never originated with my dad. Still, it always seemed to come up.I still remember him becoming quiet and looking down at the table. His brothers and sisters cried out “needles” and cackled with laughter.Grandma kept quiet too.When I was thirteen, Dad threw me face-first into a foot of water at the lake. I remember thinking I was going to break my neck as the sand approached. My eye was open when I hit the bottom, and a wad of mud and gunk scooped into my eyelid.I felt relief to have gotten away with blindness instead of death.They took me to the hospital and the doctor had to clean out my lid with a Q-tip. There were also twigs and bits of leaves. Later, I remember Grandma berating me for this whole episode. “You shouldn’t do that! You should be more careful. What’s the matter with you?”“Actually Grandma, I just did it to annoy you,” I replied. I said this even though some part of me knew I might get in trouble for being disrespectful. But nobody said anything. In fact, they laughed. Maybe they laughed to cover up the fact that I was on the doorstep of recognizing the whole thing had been my dad’s fault.With the reprieve of laughter, I backed down. The spotlight had been diverted, so why should I think about it anymore?It’s so much easier not to question things. Just submit and it will all be over soon.I wonder if my dad considered the needle comment as he watched strange people put me up against a wall and grope me at the airport.“He’s the kind of kid you’d stick needles into.”The thing is, I did come to understand that comment.It is applied to people who have the look of submission.Opportunists can see that look from a mile away. A person who has been conditioned to submit tries not to make eye contact. Their shoulders are hunched to make them look smaller. There’s no spring in their step. It’s the look of a dog that slinks around because it knows escape is impossible.They don’t object to abuse. They just endure it. They don’t even think to ask for it to stop.They saw that look on my face at the airport and threw me up against the wall. At the time, I thought I was targeted because I looked suspicious. It wasn’t that at all. I was targeted because they knew I’d let them have their way.There’s a commonly believed theory that you’re better off enduring the bad to prevent the worse.For example, if I say, “Okay search me,” then it’s all done and I save myself the futile effort of resisting. For a long time, that was pitched to me as a logical pattern of thought.“I know it’s painful, but just submit and it will all be over soon.”I grew up living beneath the specter of imagined threats.“He’s the kind of kid you’d want to stick needles into.”I’d do anything to avoid getting stuck full of needles. After a while, I started to think that the whole world was full of needles. Any choice I made could only result in needles. I was broken. All my choices were fated to be wrong. I had to trust in the judgment of better people.“I know it’s painful, but this is the only way. Don’t you understand that I’m trying to save you from a whole world of pain? Don’t you realize that the only thing out there is pain?”“But I’m in pain now.”“Yes, but the pain you experience is less. Trust me. You have to trust me. You have to have faith in me.”I think my dad was afraid of the needles. He probably didn’t want to get stuck with them either. Who would? Maybe he’s even sincere in the thought that his was the way of salvation.But here’s where the newspapers didn’t help him. Every day I read about how my generation was “defiant”, “ungrateful” and “lazy.” So, one day, I decided that if I was to be labeled as such, I might as well live up to it.I grabbed my backpack and I purchased a plane ticket to South America. I decided to walk into the unknown and let it chop me up into little bits if that was truly all it offered.If the darkness obscured the threat of needles, then I decided to endure the needles. The unknown threat was preferable to my day-to-day reality. I could no longer stand the perpetual fear. If pain was the only thing out there, I had to know.My dad was aghast. “You can’t do that! You CAN’T! Haven’t you been LISTENING to me? The only thing that awaits you out there is AGONY! The NEEDLES! Think of the NEEDLES! They’re actually SWORDS! I’ve been trying to PROTECT YOU! You’ll be cut to pieces.”“You keep saying it’s worse” I replied. “I just want to see for myself.”There are those who pitch reality as a choice between greater and lesser pain. But what if there’s a third option?What if there’s an option of no pain?What if that option lies in the direction of greater pain?What if you can choose to go that way?A strange thing happens when you elect to walk boldly in the direction of your fears. My plane landed, I walked right by the security guards, I looked them in the eyes, and for the first time in many years, they were the ones who looked away.I marched right on by. No pawing. No humiliation.At that point, I realized I had to completely start over and rebuild my psyche. Nothing I’d been told was true. My entire perception of reality was based on lies. It felt like all my efforts leading up to that moment had been for nothing.What a waste.But I had achieved something. I’d found a path of no pain. I even tried to invite my dad to join me, but he refused.It’s been more than 20 years since I renounced my reality and faced the horrors of the unknown.To this day, nobody’s ever threatened me with needles.Except for the ones I faced at home.You all make this newsletter happen! Thanks for your sponsorship! I have payment tiers starting at as little as twenty dollars a year.Upgrade at 30% offUpgrade at 40% offUpgrade at 50% offUpgrade at 60% offI’m so happy you’re here, and I’m looking forward to sharing more thoughts with you tomorrow.My CoSchedule referral linkHere’s my referral link to my preferred headline analyzer tool. 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