To exacerbate the shame, I was accused of pilfering another student’s lunch box. The teacher had to rummage through the contents of my lunch box to see if I had stolen anybody else's lunch. I had plenty of food, my mother made excellent sandwiches with combinations of salads.

There was a pork salad, shrimp salad, or chicken salad. I would be willing to bet if the kids knew what I had for sandwiches they might want to snap open my Hoppalong Cassidy lunch box.

To diverge a minute, it's kind of funny because as my partner was munching into one of my delicious sandwiches, she laughed teasingly, as she was wont to do “I can't tell if this is chicken or pork. They all the taste same, but they're darn tasty.”

I've always relished my mother's salad sandwiches and greatly enjoy the ones I make. As a not-so-little fourth grader, I was humiliated, very aware the students knew my lunch box was being searched. Because this is such a blur, I do not know if any other kids had their lunch boxes searched.

Driven by some bias, I was singled out. Maybe it was because I was overweight or because I lived down by the brook, which was akin to living on the wrong side of the tracks. I have no idea. We will be

discussing more of that later.

*********

In my private parochial high school, wearing the same sweater was prestigious. It had to be white

boiled wool with green stripes going down the zipper and around the wrist cuffs and circling the

collar.

I’m providing you with a vital background filler to aid you in comprehending the environment in which

my emotional need for a boiled wool sweater arose. Whenever anyone in the family asked my father for

money, he’d say, “ What do you think I am, a cash register? Just punch the cash register key and out

will come money?”

This obviously discouraged Mother from asking for anything extra over the pittance he gave her for

household and food expenses. I did not intend to put pressure on my dear mother to buy the expensive

sweater for me. I thought she could just ask my father.

Although are strongly aware of the proverbial cash register metaphor. I had to wait a long time for Mother to assure me we would go shopping to buy that special white wool sweater with trim on the sleeves, waist, and down the side of the zipper

This meant having to go inside one of those expensive stores which Mother hated. I remembered what she told both Nike and me, as we shuffled hand in hand, into a store with elaborate dresses, blouses, and skirts we’d never seen the likes of in our tiny lives.

Half grumbling to herself and being overheard by us, “I always feel like shit when I come in these stores.” We were both aware, with the distorted truth we were just shit too. Not because she ever told us we were, she never would, but because we were an extension of her and all she felt.

I held my breath, daring not to become overly excited. This is a common characteristic of Adult Children of Alcoholics. We’ve learned to not get very excited, because we will surely be disappointed. I remember our family had plans to do something enjoyable together, a rare event, such as going on a picnic or swimming.

Because my father had done too much imbibing of his apple jack, apple-flavored whiskey, we had to change plans or too often ended up going along without him.

Holding my excitement down, we pushed open the heavy doors and hesitantly walked through the

entrance of the expensive store. Daring to glance around I spotted them. The stacks of sweaters

were two tables down. Could it be, I was really going to be wearing what all the others wore?

The following day while sitting in tandem desks during my sophomore English class with

my best friend, Sarah, I would be wearing the special sweater. I would be like everyone else. I slept

restlessly with the thrill of tomorrow pirouetting in my head.

Throughout the morning I beamed, gazing at my sweater. My greatest moment was when I reached

English class. I kept putting my arm beside Sarah’s as if to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t

dreaming. No one mentioned it, but I knew they noticed I had a sweater like theirs.

It wasn’t long before events took a dark turn.

The belief system of the child of an alcoholic was reinforced with this cautionary tale. Don't get too

excited about anything. Fortunately, my therapy helped me heal this belief system. I get excited about

things frequently. I believe good things can happen to me and it is also okay for good things to happen

to me.

I began to notice how dirty everything around me in the school seemed to be. The desks, the

books, and the lunch tables were slowly turning my elbows as Mother would say scurvy dirty and the

underside of my sleeves had ugly dark streaks along them. Why anyone ever chose white sweaters to

wear in that school I'll never know.

My classic sweater was pure white when purchased however, the dirty desks, papers, and books did

not help. It would have to be washed.

Today everyone compliments me on my many attractive sweaters. I have some from the Andean Mountain Culture. One time I was in New York City meandering along a street fair exhibition selling colorful coveted sweaters.

Burgeoning with excitement, I purchased a black, red, and green designed sweater. Since then I have acquired two more beauties from friends who recognize my fascination with the llama wool knitted sweaters.