Name: 私たちの幼少期が大人の生活にどのように影響するか (How Our Childhoods Affect Our Adult Lives)
Uploaded: 2021-01-14T09:58:40.000Z
Duration: 7 min 59 s
Description: VoiceTubeの動画で発音を聞きながら英語表現を覚えよう！学べる英語：

No one intends for this to happen, of course, but somewhere in our childhood, our trajectory

様態の副詞

towards emotional maturity will almost certainly be impeded. Even if we are sensitively cared

for and lovingly handled, we can be counted upon not to pass through our young years without

sustaining some kind of deep psychological injury – what we can term a Primal Wound.

Childhood opens us up to emotional damage in part because, unlike all other living things,

homo sapiens has an inordinately long and structurally claustrophobic pupillage. A foal

is standing up thirty minutes after it is born. A human will, by the age of eighteen,

have spent around 25,000 hours in the company of its parents. A female grouper mother will

unsentimentally dump up to 100 million eggs a year in the sandy banks off the north Atlantic

seaboard and never see a single one of her off-spring again. Even the blue whale, the

largest animal on the planet, is sexually mature and independent by the age of five.

But for our part, we dither and linger; it can be a year till we take our first steps

and two before we can speak in a whole sentence. It is close to two decades before we are categorised

as adults. And in the meantime, we are at the mercy of that highly peculiar and distorting

institution we call home, and its even more distinctive overseers, our parents. Across

the long summers and winters of childhood, we are intimately shaped by the ways of the

big people around us: we come to know their favourite expressions, their habits, how they

respond when they are late, the way they address us when they’re cross. We know the atmosphere

of home on a bright July morning and in the afternoon downpours of mid-April. We memorise

the textures of the carpets and the smells of the clothes’ cupboards. In middle-age,

we can still recall the taste of a particular biscuit we liked after school and know intimately

the tiny sounds a parent makes as they concentrate on an article in the newspaper. During our

elongated gestation, we are at first, in a physical sense, completely at the mercy of

our caregivers. We are so frail, we could be tripped up by a twig; the family cat is

like a tiger. We need help crossing the road, putting on our coat, writing our name. But

our vulnerability is as much emotional. We can’t begin to understand our strange circumstances:

who we are, where our feelings come from, why we’re sad or furious, how our parents

fit into the wider scheme, and why they behave as they do. We necessarily take what the big

people around us say as an inviolable truth; we can’t help but exaggerate our parents’

role on the planet. We are condemned to be enmeshed in their attitudes, ambitions, fears

and inclinations. Our upbringing is fundamentally always particular and peculiar. Being children,

we can brush very little of it off. We are without a skin. If a parent shouts at us,

the foundations of the earth tremble. We can’t tell that some of the harsh words weren’t

perhaps entirely meant, or had their origins in a tricky day at work or are the reverberations

of the adult’s own childhood; it simply feels as if an all-powerful, all knowing giant

has decided, for certain good (if as yet unknown) reasons that we are to be annihilated. Nor

can we understand, when a parent goes away for the weekend or relocates to another country,

that they didn’t leave us because we did something wrong or because we are unworthy

of their love but because even adults aren’t always in control of their own destinies.

If parents are in the kitchen raising their voices, it can seem as though these two people

must hate one another inordinately. The altercation the children overhear (there was a slammed

door and several swear words) can feel catastrophic, as though everything safe is about to disintegrate.

There is no evidence anywhere within the child’s grasp that arguments are a normal part of

relationships; and that a couple may be entirely committed to a life-long union and at the

same time forcefully express a wish that the other might go to hell. Children are equally

helpless before the distinctive theories of the parents. They can’t understand that

an insistence they not mix with another family from school, or that they follow particular

dress codes or worry as much as they do about dirt or being late represent a very partial

understanding of priorities. Children don’t have a job. They can’t go elsewhere. They

have no extended social network. Even at its best, childhood is an open prison. As a result

of the peculiarities of these early years, we get distorted. Things within us start to

grow in odd directions. We find we can’t easily trust, or need to keep cleaning the

room, or get unusually scared around people who raise their voices. No one needs to do

anything particularly shocking, illegal, sinister or wicked to us for very serious distortions

to unfold. The causes of our Primal Wound are rarely outwardly dramatic but its effect

is rarely anything short of momentous and long-lasting. Such is the fragility of childhood,

nothing outwardly appalling need have happened to us for us to wind up inwardly profoundly

scrambled. We know the point well enough from tragedy. In the tragic tales of the Ancient

Greeks, it is not enormous errors and slips that unleash drama: it is the tiniest, most

innocent errors. From seemingly minor starting points, terrible consequences unfurl. Our

emotional lives are similarly tragic in structure. Everyone around us may have been trying to

do their best to us as children and yet we have ended up now, as adults, nursing certain

major hurts which continue to make us so much less than we might be. Lastly, and most poignantly,

it’s a feature of the imbalances that stem from childhood wounds that they don’t cleanly

reveal their origins, either to our own minds or, consequently, to the world at large. We

aren’t really sure why we run away so much, or so often get angry, or have a proud, haughty

air, or underachieve or cling excessively to people we love. We simply assume this is

the way we are – and are assessed accordingly. Because the sources of our ailments escape

us, they don’t feature in the explanations for why people are as they are and we miss

out on a vital source of sympathy. Our problems begin with a wound which, if it were known

and adequately explained, would naturally elicit tender understanding. But because the

consequences it breeds tend to be so much less appealing, and explanations are lacking,

we are left open to disdain, sarcasm and our own self-hatred. Our wound may have begun

with a feeling of invisibility, but now it looks as if we’re just show-offs. Maybe

it began with being let down, but now we simply come across as crazily controlling. Perhaps

it started with a bullying, competitive father, now it seems as if we are simply spineless.

We make our lives tougher than they should be because we insist on thinking of people,

ourselves and others, as evil and mean rather than, as is almost invariably the case, primarily

the victims of what we have all in some ways gone through: an extremely tricky early history.

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