There was an incident in my very early childhood That has somewhat scarred me Mentally. It's made me scared of fire. And that the "scared of fire" I mean more than a normal person would be scared, because fire can be a pretty frightening thing for everyone at some point, and it's not to be messed with as a rule. I mean "scared of fire" in a phobia kind of way. I'm scared of lighting the gas cooker, for example. Or candles. I kind of kept telling myself over the years that it was silly to be afraid and forced myself to do it, and I CAN do it, but it's never one of those mindless things that I just do. There's always that moment of - stop, deep breath, it's okay... Okay, let's do it! The heart starts pounding, and THEN I strike the match, almost on impulse, before I have the time to chicken out.
Well, today, in the truest EUREKA! moment, I FINALLY figured out, that it wasn't fire as such that I was really scared of. I was mistaken all these years.
It's matches.
I can almost see my dad reading this and smiling right about now. Yep, it's all his "fault"!
Matches.
What made me realize that, was the fact that I forgot to take my cigarette lighter with me this morning. We were already in the car, and I asked Danny to give me his for the day. He offered me a box of matches that he keeps in the car in case he ever forgets his lighter. And I fought tooth and nail with him for the lighter. I didn't want the god damn matches! He reasoned that while he's driving, it's easier for him to use the lighter, whereas at work, it shouldn't really make a big difference to me. Well, it made A HELL of a difference, but I took the damn matches anyway, just so I didn't have to explain.
I went out to have my lunch-time cigarette, and shit, were my hands shaking! And then it came to me - the lighter fire is okay, the match fire is not. Hmm... When was the last time I used matches? Years ago. A very, very long time. I recalled that I have no issue lighting the gas cooker or candles with a lighter - no problem. In fact, so much of a no problem, that I never even noticed that I wasn't scared doing it!
It's the matches. And it makes sense, it really does.
The incident took place when I was approx 1 year old. I've got a very vague memory of it. I remember my mother kneeling by the fireplace and lighting a fire in it. I remember the small box of matches my mother left on a wooden chair positioned by my cot. I remember a thought in my head to take those matches and do as she did, mimic her moves. I remember an awful sting to my backside. I remember mom sitting on the floor, holding me in her arms. I was crying.
Now, here's what I was TOLD happened by third parties (my parents). Mom lit that fire and left the room, hoping I would settle down to sleep. Her and dad were in the other room, watching tv. At one point, they heard me talking. Baby talk - goo goo, bah bah bah, that kind of thing. Mom told me they were the sounds I would make when I was happy, amused. She had an inkling to go and check what was up, but she was comfy on the couch, and didn't feel like moving. She asked dad to go and check what I was doing. Dad didn't feel like moving, either. It went back and forth like that for a while - you go, no, you go - until finally dad succumbed. He got up and went to check.
The door to my room had a thick, decorative glass in it. Dad recalls that he crept up to the door, and through that glass saw something flickering. He opened the door, and the blood in his veins ran cold. I was sitting in my cot, cooing at the fire slowly engulfing my blankets. He panicked. He swore loudly, which got my mom to her feet instantly.
He could have done a number of things. He could have pulled me out of the cot, and then grab a pillow and smother the flames, for example. But this was a young father in throes of panic. So what he did, was... He tried to put the flames out with his hand. Yes, his BARE hand. He managed to do it, but he burnt himself.
Mom came running, and promptly took me out of the cot. Crisis averted - or so it seemed. It could have ended right there, but my one-year-old self, not knowing any better, made a terrible mistake. As soon as mom let me out of her arms, I went for the matches again. That was too much for dad. Still very much in shock, his hand stinging horribly, he saw me do that - and his anger flared. He smacked my hand, so that the box of matches I was holding fell to the floor. He then smacked my butt. I think it was the first time he ever did it. To this very day, I remember that sting on my butt. It either hurt a lot, or I was just shocked and frightened, because I never experienced anything of the sort before.
Rest assured - I never, ever played with matches, ever again. It was the smack that did it. It was my earliest lesson, and one I remembered until this very day.
I vaguely recall another situation involving matches. I must have been about 5 years old, as I remember my sister being a little baby, she couldn't sit properly yet. So right around that time. Dad asked me to run to the kitchen and fetch him a box of matches. I went to the kitchen, located the matches on the counter, grabbed a small plate and a fork, used the fork to slide the matches from the counter onto the plate, and then I took them to dad - on the plate. I refused to touch the box.
Matches. As far as I'm Concerned, they're the root of all evil. The root of a butt painful sting That lasted a lifetime. Although that's way better than what could have been. _________________
He was sure such an incident in my very early childhood, which left a lasting mark on my psyche. Namely - meant that I'm afraid of fire. Means "fear of fire" in the sense that it is more than the average person, because the fire for all is somewhat scary, and everyone really knows that the fire is not what to mess with. "I'm afraid of fire" in the sense of the mini-phobia. For example, I am afraid to light a gas cooker. Or candles. Over the years I managed to tell myself so far as it is absurd so afraid, and forced to ignite the stove and candles, and I smoke as I have come to the crunch, but this is not something for me, what I do without thinking, without preparation. There's always a moment before, when I stop, take a deep breath, it is ... Okay, we light! And then serducho accelerates quickly and rapidly, almost on impulse, I do what I need, I turn what I have before I have time to burn funk.
And today I had the truest EUREKA! moment, and finally realized that the fire is not really scared. All my life I thought it was flames frighten me, but I was wrong.
Because I am afraid of matches.
I already see how dad reads this and smiles to himself. Because it's his "fault"!
Matches.
And realized it yourself thanks to the fact that I forgot to bring lighter this morning. I was reminded on the way, there was no point to go back, so I asked Danka to lend me his for this one day. He offered me a box of matches, which keeps the car in the event of just such a situation. I fought like a lioness on the lighter. I did not want any damn match! Danny explained to me that while he is driving a lot more convenient to use a cigarette lighter, and my work should be neutral. Damn, I was not neutral, not at all, but took the match to avoid having too much to explain.
The lunch time I went out for a cigarette, and shook my hand like I do not know. And then somehow it hit me that the above - the fire from a cigarette is okay, and no longer matches no. Hmm ... When I was the last time I used a match? Years ago. Very, very long time. And so I stood and thought and realized that I do not have any problem with lighting a stove or a candle lighter - and it's so much I do not have a problem that has so far not even paid any attention to the fact that I'm not afraid.
These are the matches. This makes sense, really.
incident took place when I was about a year. Overall, I do not remember it, but I have such glimpses. For example, I remember my mother kneeling by the stove. I remember a box of matches on that wooden chair with a backrest which This happened with my baby. I remember the idea to reach for these matches and do so as a mom. I remember the stinging ass. I remember my mother sitting on the floor and hugging me. I remember that I cried.
And now what I know about the event from the so-called third-person (or parents). Mama kindled in the oven and left the room shutting the door behind him, hopefully I'll put it up for the night. The father sat in the living room, watching TV, Dad probably solve hybrids on the floor, and maybe not, but my dad always on the floor solves the hybrids, so I can easily imagine that, then it solved. At one point they heard that something started there after his tweet. Gu gu, ba ba ba, and the like. By the sounds we were, which usually seemed to myself when I was glad when something I liked. So it passed through the mind to go see what fascinated me so, but not very much wanted her to move. Tatce told to go check, but he also wanted to be so mean to get up from the floor. Banter for a moment - go, no, you go - dad finally gave in and went to check it out.
door to a small room was so thick, patterned, decorative glass. Daddy told me that crept up to the door, and through the glass something to him flicker. He opened the door, and the blood froze in his veins - at the sight of me in bed, świergoczącej joyfully at the sight of flames spreading slowly on my "pizince" (or blanket). Poor panicked. He shouted, "Oh Appl WHORE!" or something similar style, and this in turn poderwało mom on her feet.
could resolve the situation in different ways. He could, for example, remove me from the crib, then grab a pillow for her and smother the flames. But after the fact that everyone is smart, right? The young father, in the arms of treacherous panic, he threw himself put out a mini-fire ... hand. Own bare hands. And he succeeded, but it is burned.
Mama ran, and these shoots me out of bed. And after the crisis - or so one might think. This would be the end of the story, if I had one year I know what good for me and failed to play in the meantime. Did not fail, and it was a mistake. As soon as my mother let me out of the grip, I again reached for a match. Daddy saw, and a brilliant wkurwił. Still in shock, to lift his headache hand, slammed me for grabs, so that those matches came out of my hand, and then another to be sure that they have reached, I got my first slap on the butt. And in this way cured me of any piromaniakalnych tendencies. I still remember the stinging ass. Or really hurt (which I doubt to be honest, I had a diaper and in general), or just was in shock and the I freaked out, because nothing like I had never happened.
In any case, have never, ever, then I did not have the slightest desire to play with matches. The slate that was my earliest lesson in life, and I remember it to this day.
so little vaguely remember another incident with the matches. Then it had to be about 5 years old, I remember that my sister if she could not sit still well, and in general was so glubaśna such fa fa beach ball with a face and is still held by the leg. My dad asked me to bring him matches from the kitchen. So I flew, he located a match on the cabinet, I took a plate and fork, the fork slipped off a box on the plate, and so it took my dad - on a plate. For China's Party and the adjacent kingdoms dotknęłabym not the box.
As for me, the matches are the source of all evil. The source of burning ass. Not pleasant, I say to you. And sometimes the slate lasts a lifetime. But it's better than the alternative.
