Childhood

Character Formation

In early childhood, the essential ontic wound emerges—the sense of not being loved for simply existing, which is specific to each E3 individual—followed by a false compensation that shapes the character. The Social 3 child believes they have been valued based on a lie. This falsehood, reinforced by the praise of adults, involves being proudly displayed in front of an audience. The child often becomes the object of possession by narcissistic parents who view them as an extension of their own inflated self-esteem (the child might have been born with certain privileges and feel “naturally” superior).

They grow up believing they can do anything, acquiring a sense of omnipotence, privilege, and favoritism. This status is typically maintained due to their inherent talents, a strong work ethic, and a motivation to continually demonstrate their worth. The child is usually self-conscious and may employ deliberate strategies to avoid feeling like a child. It’s not uncommon for them to feel shame regarding their ancestors, attempting to compensate for

this with their own brilliance (as seen in individuals born into poverty who ambitiously climb the social ladder). The child becomes, in a sense, the star of the family—the chosen one, the redeemer of the clan.

Typically, the Social 3 child is the favorite of the parent of the opposite sex and tends to identify with them. However, the attitude toward this figure is simultaneously ambiguous, featuring elements of seduction, hostility, or competitiveness.

A film aptly illustrating the development of an E3 character from childhood is Little Miss Sunshine. In this movie, parents dress up their children and create little monsters—it's all about control, and it's horrible. They create pure illusion using their children. It’s a real festival of Threes lost in the act, in the simulation.

Parents

The Social 3 grows up burdened with excessive responsibility, often suppressing their true needs to please their parents and secure their affection. They would readily express anger with the parent of the opposite sex and freeze to avoid pain and frustration. The dynamics established in childhood, marked by grandiose parental expectations, make it difficult for them to establish mature romantic relationships as adults.

They tend not to recall moments of repair or reconciliation between their parents. Instead, they often witnessed their parents publicly humiliating their spouses and, as children, experienced physical or psychological violence at their hands, further eroding trust in authority figures.

Some Key Childhood Memories

Here is a compilation of childhood memories from future Social 3s:

• When I was two or three years old, I didn’t yet know how to read, but I knew the story of La Ratita Presumida (“Boastful Little Rat”) by heart. Whenever there were visitors, my parents would say to me, “Come, Haydée, read the story to your friends.” I would play along, pretending to read, turning the pages at the right times, and my parents would proudly applaud my act. They knew I couldn’t read, but let my friends be fooled. I was living up to my parents’ narcissistic expectations—they were showing me off, and I was putting on a façade. My parents and their friends loved and admired me dearly. This taught me that I am valued, but not for my own

virtues, and has left me with tremendous internal insecurity. Haydée • When my mother was at the hairdresser’s, I would read to all the children. I was a terrible reader, but when I got lost in the story, I would make up the plot and put on different voices, like an actress. Giusy • I wasn’t old enough to attend school (I must have been around three years old), but I pretended to leave for school so that someone would pick me up. It was a strategy to appear a bit older than I was back then. Yolanda • My grandfather was a teacher, and I was expected to be extraordinary, at least on my grandparents’ side of the family, where things were fine. But on my parents’ side, everything was a mess, and I felt deep shame. I wanted to hide the chaos in my family. I had two separate worlds. In my family life, it was tragic because my father was extremely violent; he beat us up all the time, and there was constant yelling and drama. At school, I found a place of peace. I excelled academically and worked hard because not doing so would result in punishment at home. It was important to me that no one at school knew, or even suspected, what was happening at home. Nobody was aware of my family life. Outside the house, at school, I was happy and content. If I had any bruises, I would explain them as injuries from falling off the new bicycle my parents had bought me, instead of revealing that I had been beaten at home. Giusy • My mother sent me to an Ursuline nuns’ school, which was upper middle class, to match the social status of the ladies she interacted with, even though our family had a lower socioeconomic background. At school, I often concealed or lied about my family’s financial situation to avoid being judged. For instance, my father drove a horse-drawn carriage, and I was so embarrassed to be seen arriving in it that I’d ask him to drop me off far from the entrance, because my classmates got out of chauffeur-driven Mercedeses. It wasn’t that I lied outright, but I made subtle misrepresentations. I would brag about spending summers at a countryside farm, letting them assume it was our own, even though it belonged to some friends. Haydée • My parents worked as laborers and had emigrated to Switzerland, yet they made an effort to send me to a good school. I lived in Spain with my grandparents, and I often fabricated stories about my parents. I claimed they owned companies and even said they were dead! Yolanda • I must have been six or eight years old, and my birthday brought many kids together for a party. One of the games involved a hidden treasure hunt. Just before we began,

my mother whispered to me where the treasure was hidden. That act unwittingly made me an accomplice in imposture. I found myself torn between the desire to “win,” the compulsion to obey my mother, and the overwhelming, intolerable embarrassment of cheating everyone. By not allowing me to play fairly, my mother tainted my spontaneity and childlike innocence. I didn’t know how to resolve the conflict or stand up to her. As the treasure hunt started, I pretended to search randomly, and after a while, I went to the hiding spot and “found” it. All the while, I was shrinking with inner embarrassment, restrained anger, and a hatred that no one could truly understand. I felt disgusted, and I don’t remember what the prize was at all. Well, actually, the prize was the feeling of deceit and moral contamination, and the effort to appear like my peers while knowing I couldn’t be like them. Ana • During my school days, students were considered attentive when they were very quiet, focused on the teacher, and had their hands behind their back. When it was time to do this, during moments of silence in class, I placed my hands behind my back, pressed my lips together, and became very, very stiff, puffing out my chest, and widening my eyes. I would almost choke from holding my breath. I contorted myself into this ridiculous posture to show the teacher how well-behaved and quiet I was. Giusy • For me, as a kid, attracting attention was a mixture of embarrassment and urgency. At school, I used to imitate the singer Raphael. The more people looked at me, the more I grew and became increasingly histrionic. I love receiving applause; I feel like it gives me something I am missing. Eustaquio • I don’t remember specific instances, but I recall the feeling that when there was an audience, I did everything better. If I didn’t win, I did whatever it took to be recognized. I itched to be noticed, even if it was something negative. I couldn’t bear the thought of being no one. It was as if I needed an observer, someone to acknowledge me. Francesco • When I studied piano as a child, in my imagination, there were people watching me practice. I didn’t practice just for the sake of it; I did it with the fantasy that there were people appreciating how well I played. My mother used to sit nearby to listen. I needed an audience, whether real or imagined. Haydée • When I was little, at the pool, I eagerly ran towards it, facing my mother, shouting for her to watch me dive in. I was so desperate for her attention that I dashed into the pool. There was a slide, and my need for an audience was so intense that I jumped down it… without even realizing there was no water in the pool! More than

the physical harm, the public embarrassment hurt me. Yolanda • When I was seven, my father enrolled me in a swimming course taught by his former diving partner. I felt the teacher’s eyes on me, and perhaps my father’s as well (although I was too embarrassed to check if he was watching). There were many laps to swim, and I was exhausted. I felt like I was going to die, that I couldn’t take another stroke, that my heart would give out, that I’d drown. But out of shame for not measuring up, I kept swimming, hiding the fact I couldn’t go on. I couldn’t listen to my common sense and stop because I wanted to live up to those expectations; I couldn’t bear to disappoint. I went against my survival instinct, all for the sake of an image. Ana • I remember that, when I was little, my father, who was a civil guard, got wounded in an armed conflict with terrorists. I remember being with him in the hospital, holding his hand. Press photographers arrived and, when I saw them, I shifted my attention from my father and turned to them, posing to be photographed. I was twelve or thirteen years old. Francesco • When I was little, a boyfriend once asked me if I knew how to ride a bike, and I confidently said yes, even though I had no idea how to. We arranged to meet, and I rode my bike out of the house. “Where are you going with that bike?” a relative asked me. “To ride,” I replied. “But you don’t know how to ride!” she yelled. I got on the bike and started going downhill, not knowing how to brake. I managed to stop by making a sharp turn in front of my boyfriend. Rather than admitting that I didn’t know how to ride, I took the bike and kept going… that’s how I learned. Yolanda • As a child, I was very athletic and used to run and jump hurdles. On one occasion, in a race, they mistakenly placed one of the last hurdles too far from the previous one. Since strides are measured based on the standard distance between hurdles, I couldn’t adjust for the unexpected gap, and I fell down hard. I broke my knees, but more than the fall, I found the scene horribly embarrassing in the eyes of others—the public failure was so overwhelming that my face flushed with shame. I decided enough was enough, and I never ran hurdles again. Image was so important to me that, because of it, I gave up something I loved. Giusy • In Mexico, where I was born, while stuck in a traffic jam on a beltway, I remember putting on a little show directed at whoever was in the car next to me. I was hooked on the driver’s gaze; it was so fun entertaining someone. But my brother kept giving me strange looks, and it made me feel ashamed. Eustaquio