Childhood trauma is the gift that keeps on giving

So I’m starting to piece together the transition from Ricky to Rick/Rich which happened in grade 8.

I was meditating and exploring an outline of memories of throwing myself off the monkey bars multiple times at school with the intent of my dad leaving work to take me to the hospital.

Again, no one noticed. But, I digress, anyway, why would I do that. What forces could make me do that and then it hit me. (pun intended)

My entire life has felt like an experiment and I was testing my environment to see if I was safe with my father and as he “saved” me multiple times, Rick was in charge and I asked everyone to start calling me Rick. You see we didn’t need those memories now that we were safe from Ricky’s mother. But as this was a natural thing for a 12-year-old, no one noticed.

It also explains why “I” have normal memories of living with my grandparents in the summers during the same time, but nothing but a handful of sound bites from time living at home.

I will keep exploiting and report back.