Who would I be if I had been parented by different parents? My first inclination was to think and write about who I would be if I had been raised by a different mother, but really, it is the combination of the parent I had, my sibilings and extended family that produced who I am. Obviously this is all supposition. I really think this is more about what I hope would have been true about growing up as opposed to either what was true or what I remember as reality.
I think that if I had been held more as a child, especially by my mother, I wouldn't have such issues with my comfort level when it comes to affection and intimacy. It wouldn't feel so foreign, and I wouldn't feel as though I have to tell myself what to do when people want to show me affection. It has gotten easier, but in the past I remember the self-talk that would go on in my head, telling myself that "this" is what normal people do. I also think that as a teenager and young adult I might have had less of an issue confusing a deep need for affection and belonging with sexual acting out. While I remember my dad being affectionate I also am pretty sure that because he allowed my mother to dominate it affected how I look at intimacy.
A little girl that was loved and treasured, in the way any little girl should be, would have been told that she was pretty. She never would have been given a list of things that were wrong with her physical appearance. In high school I was constantly told, by my mother, that I was overweight or pudgy. I look back now, especially when I look at pictures, and realize that I was thin. I weighed 115 friggin' pounds for christ sake. I now know that had more to do with her, and her childhood obesitiy, than it ever had to do with me. Healthy parenting would have given me a positive view of myself and a feeling that I had worth. That feeling might have put me in a position to believe I had worth when it came to dealing with sexual pressure.
A healthy emotional little girl would have been taught to make age appropriate choices, so that as she got older she would have the skill set to continue to make choices that were in her best interest. I can remember as far back as six years old and being told I could pick out my new glasses. I went through the process of tediously looking at and choosing the glasses I wanted and then, when it really came down to it, I was given no choice at all. I had to get the glasses that would be most practical -- the glasses my mom wanted me to get. Choices were never really choices at all -- I felt teased with the possibility of a choice. As I got older I realized what the game was and I just quit having an opinion, or at least I quit sharing my opinion out loud. This senario was repeated over and over throughout my life, even into adulthood. It got to the point that I had trouble trusting that I could make decisions that were good.
As a little girl I would have gotten to do little girl things. I often felt either pushed into doing thing I really didn't want to do or kept from things I did want to do. I loved art and reading. Neither of those things were encouraged much, they were only allowed. I should have been praised for the things I did well, and encouraged to try new things instead of being told that I was a smart ass, and who did I think I was -- I must feel pretty proud of myself thinking I was better than her. The thought didn't cross my mind, until I was almost grown, that I was better than her.
As a young woman, questioning my marriage, I wanted to be listened to and to be understood. I was scared and wanted to stop the merry-go-round and get off. I wanted to know that I, and what I was feeling, was more important than "stuff" was.
When I lost my baby I wanted to be taken care of, by someone -- anyone. My dad was the one who showed up the most --taking me to the hospital, stayed with me. When I got home from the hostpital I remember being told that it was best that Sarah didn't live; she was better off in heaven with God because after three boys I probably wouldn't know how to raise a little girl.
I can see that I have strayed a bit from my intention in writing this. The things I would want for me as a little girl and young woman would be to feel loved and cherished, feel worth something and to be taken care of, that I would be somebody's number one.
So here I am -- middle-aged, depressed , and trying to figure out who I am and where I fit in -- partially aware of the destructive patterns I was raised with and trying my damndest to not repeat them. I am tired and worn out and it often feels like so much work.
So, at almost 48 years old I would like to feel peace and ease. I would like "know" that who I am is okay, even if it's just me that I am okay with.
When I’m asked why I no longer go to church I usually answer with, “there are many ways to feed the soul besides sitting a pew an hour each week.” I can also be somewhat flippant about my response.
When I really take the time to think about what it is that I believe it goes much deeper and is very convoluted. There is the obvious issue I have with many of the traditional Christian belief system. When I started dissecting it I realized that I haven’t bought that package for several decades. I did the “church” thing for many years, but can’t remember the last time I approached it with an open and believing heart. The most over-arching thing I remember was an underlying skepticism. I also wondered what was wrong with me – why couldn’t I just believe like everyone else.
I remember as an eight year old being shamed into “getting saved.” My younger sister had gone forward during the weekly pleading altar call and I had yet to feel compelled to get my life right with God. Two weeks after she walked down the aisle I was shoved out into the aisle to make the trip down to the preacher. I felt guilt for many years because I didn’t feel as though mine was a true conversion and it was tainted by the coercion I felt.
So what do I believe? I guess I’m still trying to figure that out. I know that the things that are important to me are love, kindness, peace and the ability to be selfless. I believe that what I think is important and informs my actions. I believe that we are all created with very unique abilities and talents.
Do I believe in God? I can’t say that I believe in the god I was raised with. There isn’t much about that god that I would love or trust. That would be the god that punishes and waits for me to misstep. He would be the god that would let my daughter die because I had a relationship with a woman in college. He was the god that employed my mother to be an extension of his right arm of justice.
If I do believe in God he would have to be the picture love, grace and kindness.
The places I feel most spiritually connected are when I listen to music or look at art. I feel connected when I am near large bodies of water. I feel connected when I am outdoors. And, I feel connected when I read and the words grab me and surprise me.
I find it very difficult to expunge the faulty belief system in my life. It seems to follow me around like a specter. When I think I have changed how I believe or redeemed it there are always little pockets or deeply hidden pustules that rise to the surface. While I think I have made progress, I am still very wary of church or organized groups of people that align themselves with religion. I have found them to be some of the most hurtful people.
I shared a bed with my sister from the time she graduated from a crib until I left for college. I never understood why we had to share a double bed instead of having twin beds of our own, but as I look back into my childhood I don’t remember our room, our house, or our yard looking like children lived there.
We had toys. I know this because I have pictures of me, at around five or six years old, surrounded by toys at Christmas time. I had good toys. That year I got Barbie and Ken, wardrobes and cases for each of them, and a turquoise, hot-rod convertible for them to ride in. That was just the first layer of toys that surrounded me. There were several more layers. From the looks of the picture the scene was staged. My toys had been arranged, much like you’d see in the Sears and Roebuck’s Christmas Catalog, and I was plopped right down in the middle of them right before the photo was snapped.
That’s what I remember most – that throughout my childhood everything was arranged and had to look like a magazine or a catalog, and the only sanctioned and certified arranger was my mother. My drawers were arranged, my closet was arranged, my bookcase was arranged, and my life was arranged.
I remember doing little things, things she wouldn’t notice, to mess up the perfectness. The bedroom set that was purchased for us, when I was four and my sister was one year old, was a brand new, dark wood, adult set. Besides a crib I never had children’s furniture. When I was around seven or eight I carved my name on the underside wood of one of the side railings. Even though the bed was perfectly made every day, and our room looked like a picture in Better Homes and Garden, I knew that there was a little piece of imperfection that I controlled.
I really don’t remember every feeling close to my sister or brother. When we were small my sister and I would laugh and giggle when it was time to go to bed, but that was almost immediately put to a stop. There is so little that I do remember, and if there are memories they usually are only the shadows surrounding what was really going on – I remember feelings and thoughts more than events. There are a few events, though, that I do remember.
I remember when I was about seven and my sister was four. My mom wanted to take a picture of us sitting on the front steps. It was summer and we had been in our inflatable pool in the back yard. Mom marched us to the front yard and plopped our behinds squarely on the hot concrete steps. The water that dripped from our suits onto the steps sizzled and evaporated almost immediately and the concrete started to burn our backsides. Because it was important to sit still until the perfect photo was taken, and that required our complete cooperation, we were made to sit for what seemed like a long time. I remember my sister's lip began to quiver and tears streamed from the corners of her eyes as we waited for permission to move or get up. I know this memory is true because I have the picture.
I remember slipping on the wet bumper of a pick-up when I was about four and falling on a trailer hitch. My crotch swelled immediately, there was a small gash, and it hurt for several weeks when I urinated. We were over an hour away at a horse show and I was made to get dressed and ride my horse because “we drove all the way here for you to show your horse and you ARE going to ride.”
I remember July 4th when I was around nine. We were in the backyard at my paternal grandparent’s house. My grandpa had just had surgery to repair his forearm which had been injured while working on a piece of machinery. His arm was wrapped from wrist to elbow in a bandage. He was drunk, as usual, and was heading from his cooler to his old chaise lawn chair. Just as he was trying to lower himself into the chair he lost his balance and listed to one side. I was twirling around with a hula-hoop, the two of us collided, and we ran into each other. My body fell onto his bandaged arm and he started dancing around and let go with a tirade of swearing. I had only heard the word fuck spoken out loud once before, but I knew what it meant. I remember him calling me a “little fucker” and I remember no one moving or saying anything. The hot tears began flowing and I ran inside to go to the bathroom. No one seemed to notice that I didn’t come back and no one came to find me. I was peeking from around the side of the house.
Even today, though I live within a mile of my sister and brother, we rarely talk. We seem to get along fine but I think that we all are trying to separately deal with our history. The interesting thing is that my history doesn’t really feel like it belongs to me. It feels as if it is someone else’s story and I just got plopped down in the middle of it for photo opportunities. I look at photo albums and know that I was there because I see my face staring back, but I look at it as if I am reading a book or telling a story. When I talk about my childhood it’s usually in a detached tone or told in third person because I sometimes wonder if I was really there or if someone is playing a cruel game with me.
I admit it. I am a thinker. Beyond being a thinker, I am a delayed thinker. When Anne asks me questions, or brings something up, I usually pause before giving her an answer, but that answer is rarely the end of it. I continue to process the question and often take many side roads as I tear the question, and my thoughts, apart, mining for that one little piece that can be the one "true" answer that will allow me to finally put all of the pieces together.
One of the things Anne asked me last week was why I wasn't angry with my dad for allowing my mom to behave the way she did, exacting mental and physical abuse on me and my siblings. Pieces I have come up with are, 1. we were all in it together, and 2. if I alienate him I really have no parent at all.
I realize that both of those thoughts are probably coming from a childlike mindset and as an adult they probably don't work as well. I have tried to recreate a like situation in my mind to see how I might differently think of it from an adult mindset, but for the time being it escapes me.
My dad was 19 years old when I was born. Because of the abuse he suffered as a child he may have appeared younger than that, I don't know. Several months before I was born he lost his only brother to a horrible car crash. His mother was inconsolable and his father, I imagine, retreated into a drunken stupor. I do know that my dad had to help his young sister-in-law take care of many of the arrangements and he had to be the grown-up for his own parents, helping them navigate the immediate grief.
When I look back at pictures of me when I was very little, most of the pictures show me and my dad. In the few that show my mom she appears very detached, as if someone caught her by surprise, handing her a 10-lb. frozen turkey and twirled her around to take her picture for the newspaper. She always appears caught off guard, wide-eyed and uncomfortable. I don't have pictures with my mom holding me or showing me affection. To the contrary, one telling picture shows me, at about four months, plopped on my mom's lap and her hands are down to her sides. Her look betrays motherhood, as if to say, "where the hell did this come from." Pictures of my dad, which are more plentiful, show him cuddling me, playing with me and helping me walk.
So, when I say that I am not angry because I feel like we are all in it together there seems to be some validity to that idea. We all suffered together, and if we all banded together we might withstand the storm. Does this work today? No, not really. It appears that my dad has thought about this. Over the last several years he and I have talked more about it. It is obvious that he has seen enough skirmishes to not want to forge into the big battle. For him it is survival, even if it is survival in the life he has always known. For me it is a survival of a different kind. I don't believe she will change. That's not what it is about.
Anne asked about confronting her about the the more immediate issue. I could do that; I have before. I know that it would be for me, because I doubt if would have much lasting affect on her. Right now the most healthy option for me is to make sure that she has the information. While I understand the power in verbally speaking the words, I also know that I am not in a place right now where that would be a healthy choice. What she did was a symptom of a very sick person and relationship. What I am willing to offer is a very sterile note to her that tells her what happened and to ask her to not talk about me to anyone, period. I am more interested in figuring out how the way she parented me has affected me and how I can minimize how if affects me as I parent and as I engage in friendships and relationships. I do know that it goes to the core of who I believe myself to be.
As for number 2 above, I do not, with my adult mind, believe that my father would love me less if I were to be angry with him, but at this point what good would it really do? At some point in my childhood, and in my life, I think I did question the allegiances and had concerns that I would be left with no parents if I held them both responsible. Over the last decade my focus has been on cultivating relationship and friendship with my dad. Flawed though he might be, he desires to be a good father. He is kind and makes conscious choices to be helpful. He is wounded, yet he tries to love in spite of it. I have heard the saying that our parents did the best they could with what they had. I'm not sure I always buy that, but in the case of my dad it seems like that may be true.
Another thing I have realized about myself this week is that if I ask for help or draw attention to myself I feel that I will be considered a whiner or needy. What this causes me to do is to carry burdens alone. Professionally I can put myself in a position of not sharing pertinent information that might be useful to someone above me when looking at specific situations. I feel like I am in this alone, that I am the Lone Ranger. I can see where this feeds my loneliness.
Growing up it was not okay to cry and it was not okay to ever offer any explanation for behavior. There just wasn't discussion. It is really no wonder that I have God issues, because the true God in my life, especially from birth to my early twenties, was my mother. Her word was not to be questioned and she was the establisher of right and wrong and of ultimate rule. I always feared her retribution more than any punishment that God might hand down. I remember as an early teenager reading the Bible with a very skeptical mind. Grace to me has always been a concept, not a reality.
The last observation I have was about my session last week. As I was unfolding my story, especially my childhood, I noticed that Anne was expressing some emotion. I am not sure where that was coming from, and I don't want to be presumptuous and think it was about my story, but I did realize that the story I tell has little affect on me. I tell it as if it were someone else's story, one that I may have read about in a magazine. I know I am detached. I have had to work hard to feel attachment all of my life.
The several places were attachment has felt innate are motherhood and some loving relationships. There is something on a very deep base level that has drawn me to connect as a mother. There is a drive to "do it well" and with integrity. While I have questioned myself all along the way, I have watched people who parent well and have worked very hard to emulate good parenting and not just focusing on NOT parenting the way I was parented. From the point that my children were very small I knew they were entrusted to me and that I could do everything in my power to break the cycle.
In some relationships, as friend and lover, I have felt very connected and have experienced deep emotion, but often the emotion that can overwhelm is "do not leave me alone." I have gotten to the point where I recognize it, can name it and try to use tools to work through it. Funny how the vicious circle kicks in and the tools I use can include the aforementioned Lone Ranger mask. While I use affirmation, and positive self-talk, I end up dragging out my Lone Ranger mask and work through it by myself. If I were to tell someone the psychosis of what I was really experiencing I would scare the hell out of them and they would leave.
How appropriate that we get blasted with wind, ice and snow today. I WANT SPRING TO COME AND STAY! As I sit here at my desk and type, I can see the flowering bush outside of my window. The same bush that yesterday was covered with bright yellow flowers, bending and bowing to the south. I can see hints of yellow encased in the ice that weighs the branches to the ground.
Why is it appropriate? Because it matches the storm inside of me. When I talked with Anne (my shrink) last week I was determined to have a discussion with my mother about what she did and the boundaries I want to establish. Really there should already be boundaries, but she always seems to believe they are temporary or situational. I have realized that I am in no place to have that discussion.
While cleaning the other day I came across a book, Toxic Parents, that I bought years ago when I was beginning to deal with my mother issues. You see, I am more interested in getting to some core issues than I am with confronting her about this present situation. Anne asked me if I saw a need to talk with her and I answered that it wouldn't do any good -- it never has. The question then became, "do you see the value in talking with her because it would be a good thing for you?" Really, at this point, I see the importance of her knowing the information and visually seeing a boundary. I want what she did to quit. I don't see as much benefit from standing in front of her and telling her. I am not in a good place to do that.
So, the wind, ice, and snow make sense -- both outside my window and inside my heart. I am ready for a thaw.
