Youth Without Youth

I just got hit by Metric’s new song “Youth Without Youth”. The imagery is a kid growing up in a war zone. Hang grenades, 9^th brigades, fires and bricks through window panes. But, in the midst of that kids are playing kid games…hangman and double dutch.

When you’re a kid, you just want to play, man. You just want to get out there with your friends and have fun. But, behind the laughter, underneath the innocent games there’s the reality of what home life is really like for a lot of little people...chaotic and unsafe.

That’s how it was for miniMatthewBlakeAtkinson. But, it took me well into adulthood to realize that. As I’ve started looking at the reasons I’m so fucked up and tried to find answers and healing, I’ve been able to recognize that the perfect upbringing I thought I had was anything but perfect.

I thought my childhood was perfect because I was told it was. We went to church. My parents did youth ministry. I was the handsome son. My sister the beautiful daughter. We had a golden retriever (for a few minutes). I mean come on, we could take a helluva good picture for the church directory. On the surface it probably looked too good to be true.

It was.

What first got me about that Metric song was church as a hiding place. There weren’t outward signs that my sister and I lived through a war zone, but we did. All the shit that we went through was covered up, swept under the rug at Christ Church on Breton Road.

All this chaos. All these unsafe, uncomfortable feelings that my sister and I grew up with…la la la…hands over our ears…they don’t exist, because we can do all things through Christ. But, I don’t think the Christ was into pretending shit was okay as it was hitting the fan.

I think about other kids back in elementary school who obviously had rough home lives. This kid named Joel would get in fights. Throw chairs in class. Sing “I ain’t nothing but a hound dog” while running down the hall. Rumor had it that he started a fire in his apartment smoking in bed…in third grade.

Joel was fucked. He obviously had a lot of shit going on at home. He had a youth without youth. He didn’t get to just be a kid. And his reaction to that was to take the war zone he lived in at home and bring it to school every day for show and tell.

Contrast that with my appearance. I showed up at school with my hair combed and plastic smile on my face. Everything was fine. I was a good student and got along well with the other kids. I was the anti-Joel. I was one of the kids bursting into applause when our 60 year old teacher, Mr. Molnar, caught with one hand the chair Joel threw.

I was one of the good guys. Joel was one of the bad guys. I was a saint. He was a sinner. I probably prayed for him. What the hell did I pray? That God would rescue Joel from his wild ways and bring him into the flock.

Maybe so. I just couldn’t see yet how fucked up my way of life was. At least Joel got to express his emotions. His uncomfortable feelings came out. Mine were stuffed. And worse than that, I was conditioned to say everything was okay.

That shit was so confusing. Everything looked so good. This is how we’re supposed to live. It’s what the Bible says. But, inside I was a wreck. The war zone that was my house and my insides weren’t visible to the outside world. Whatever my grandma did to me didn’t leave the house. I felt so unsafe in my own home.

And that’s the feeling the song talks about, the house is burning, but there’s a long wait before the fire trucks come. I had that feeling every night. Who’s going to save me? I just remembered little Matt in bed at night. I told myself that the sound of crickets meant that “Spidey was coming”. It was a long wait before Spiderman came.

I felt like I needed a superhero. I couldn’t take on my grandma by myself. I couldn’t tell my parents about it or express my emotions. I couldn’t beat them, so I joined them. I signed up for Christianity hardcore.

And I think that’s all so backwards. Christ is the superhero. He’s the Spiderman of his generation. I needed a Savior to pull me out of the war zone where I spent my youth. My dad spent countless hours convincing other kids to accept Christ as their Savior, while my sister and I got sacrificed, being forced to be babysat by my dad’s abusive mom. I call bullshit.

As a kid I couldn’t. Now I can. And there’s great healing in that for me. The truth will set you free. Free to be a real person not a product of religion and family traditions. And that's one thing about 3rd grade Joel. He was real. What I wouldn’t give to go have cocktails with Joel right now. And trade stories about our fucked up childhoods.

Joel was forced to grow up too fast. I was forced to grow up too slow. But, the great equalizer is that we’re all fucked up when we’re willing to let the truth out. There’s something so refreshing about the truth. I knew there was something off my whole life, but it’s just through therapy and talks with my sister that I’ve been able to piece the truth together.

There are actual reasons why I’ve always felt like such a fuck up. It feels so good to express them. And really what I was hoping for when I waited for Spiderman is what I’m getting from my therapist. She’s a superhero…she saved me from the insanity that was my former way of life.

All the shit I went through as a kid was traumatic. But, that’s how it is for most of us. And now as adults we can keep acting like kids and la la la close our ears or we can stand up and face our pasts…for our own health, but also for the health of our kids.

My son wanted to know how often I go to my “talking doctor”. He’s curious about therapy. My daughter told me this week that she loves it when we talk about life. They know they can express themselves. They know I’m trying to get better and when I feel stuff that I don’t get I write and talk about it.

We had the coolest time at bedtime the other night. They wouldn’t settle down and go to sleep, so I said, “Well since you’re not following directions” (at which point Blake thought he was busted and started to defend himself) instead I ended that sentence with, “I’m going to tell you a story.”

I told them about being a summer camp and our counselor trying to get us to shut up at bedtime. He was serious. It was quiet for a minute. Then I said, “What’s Michael Jordan’s middle name?” He screamed, “MAAATTTTTTT!!!!” And I said, “THAT’S RIGHT!!!!”

The kids thought that was hilarious and wanted to do it on repeat when they should have been going to sleep. Good for them. After all they’ve been through; they deserve some legit belly laughter. Letting them have their youth. And as my therapist says, in those moments I’m getting re-parented as I parent my kids.

They don’t have a perfect childhood. And mine wasn’t 100% awful. But, there’s enough shit there for all 3 of us that I want to give them the head start that I didn’t have…letting them know that they’re safe with me. They don’t need a superhero. Their lives are no fairytale, but I love the moments where they're free to just be kids. They know that I want to help them with their feelings and hurt as it comes up, but also that I want them to grow up at a healthy pace taking plenty of time for hangman and double dutch.