Popscholar

In high school I convinced myself that I had AIDS.  Mind you, there wasn't a terribly rational basis for that thought but, nonetheless, I was absolutely certain of my disease.  I was so sure that getting a test would only confirm the inevitable.  I never went for one until years later.

People who know me now know that I'm somewhat of a hypocondriac, but I find it curious that my neuroses began around the time that I started to more actively explore my sexuality.  Ever since I can remember, there's been this lingering belief (and, granted, it's becoming less prevalent as I've been working to grow and evolve) that because I'm not a "good person," I deserve some cruel fate.

The fact that I had done something through which, theoretically, I could have contracted HIV was enough to convince me that I was sick (I may have experimented some in my adolesence, but I was far from promiscuous).  Obviously there was a larger issue at hand: my own guilt.

While I do find it interesting that said guilt first manifested itself in regards to sexuality, I think that was merely its vehicle of choice at the time.  Growing up my parents did a decent good job of stifling my need to grow and explore due, predominantly, to their own fears.  My mother, in particular, was very anxious.  Her need to be in control and my need to become who I was trying to become often butted heads and, as a result, I experienced a bit of an unpleasant duality.  On the one hand I would revel in my newfound independence, but then I would seemingly revert to feeling badly because I had "upset" her on some level.

The way I see it, my guilt wasn't about sexuality per se, but about my own seeming inability to live fully into all aspects of my humanity without inspring the displeasure of my parents.  As I write this now, I'm remembering a discussion we had in my honors class about One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and how, in essence, we decided that to repress one's sexuality was to repress one's humanity on some level.

Growing up I unfortunately learned to repress a number of aspects of my humanity when they weren't "acceptable."  I "punished" myself (diseases were just one way!).  I buried feelings.  I learned to live in my head.  I deferred to my intellect.

Of course this all came at a price, as my guilt has been a somewhat debilitating force.  To that end, it has made me overly sensitive to the cues of others; I absolutely obsess when there are implications of wrongdoing, regardless of how irrational they may be.  The recent "dirty book" debacle is a perfect example.  Certainly I know intellectually that I am not immoral and that I possess integrity as a teacher.  But yet, I still can't help to shake the feeling that I've done something "wrong," simply because this woman pointed a finger in my direction.