Moments from Childhood that May Have Scarred You for Life!

You don’t have to be locked up in a closet as a wee one to have some serious baggage. 

Lane Cummingsby Lane Cummings


Listen, I’m not saying you’re a basket case. I’m just saying that, like me, you’re not perfect. Really what this article seeks to examine is how not perfect you are. Look, if one of these totally human, but totally damaging events have happened to you, you might want to sit down with a shrink or a damn good self-help book to examine how this event continues to affect your life and your relationships—in the meanwhile the rest of us will have a hardy-har-har at your expense.

Peeing your pants in school. Now, I’m not talking about kindergarten. That’s clearly okay, as in kindergarten, no one really knows what the hell is going on, and is also why kids get hit in the head with blocks and other toys. If you are in a classroom, and cannot make it to the bathroom on time, well buckle up, bucko, because you’ve just entered the territory of scarred-for-life-land. Kids are going to call you a range of choice nicknames, from “Niagara Falls” to “Slushy Balls” to “Old Yeller River” until you pack up and go to college. You will forever be connected in the minds of your peers with a hot stream of piss. Feel good?


Not being able to able to do the thing you’re supposed to do with the ball during gym class. Now I know I could’ve shortened this to “Not being athletic” but I feel my subtitle best summarizes what it feels like to be crappy at gym as a kid. I couldn’t throw or catch (not just because I’m a girl, but because I am/was scared of the ball) or dribble or kick or… whatever else my gym period teammates would shout at me to do. And it didn’t feel good. And I’m certain it has haunted me in untold ways as an adult—such as in my ability to take out the garbage with any regularity (reminds me of basketball) or my desire to visit beaches without beach volleyball nets.


Having a creative lunch-packer at home. What do I mean by this? An adult in your home who just didn’t get it and packed “creative lunches” for you. Ethnic foods. Soup packed in a rinsed out pickle jar.  Chicken slathered with Jiff peanut butter (my dad did this) or raw pieces of broccoli stumps (my mom did this—and with that bit of info, do you now know what I was up against as a kid). If you took out your lunch and it either looked like an acid-trip incarnate, stunk up the room, or made you look like a slightly better dressed version of Oliver Twist, you were going to hear it from the other kids. And you also had the pleasure of thinking that deep down, your parents despised you.