My father is not a narcissist, but he certainly could be an asshole.
As a kid, I was often afraid of him. He was depressed and angry. He disciplined with a belt. He didn't fly off the handle and hit us whenever he wanted to. He was too controlled for that. We could get punished with the belt for almost anything (often just typical childhood mistakes). Punishments weren't always the belt, but they were frequently enough to make me stay in line. We would have to go get the belt for him. It was pure torture.
He and my sister fought horribly. She was rebellious and aggressive. He actually defended me a lot from her. When she would attack me, he would try to punish her for it. He seemed like such a horrible brute to me, but I've come to understand he played the foil to my mother's "soft" side. She recently told me, with a look of pride, that my sister had said she was a "softie" and would give in a lot. She did. She was a push over. But what we didn't know is that she would then complain to my father about our lack of discipline and he would become the "enforcer". So, in comparison, she looked like the kind one, and he looked like the asshole. And it was often worse for my sister, who was a difficult child.
My sister was my mother's baby and were stuck together like Velcro. NM often asked me to cater to my sister, to give into her. And my mother allowed a lot from my sister. She also allowed my sister to be her little side kick because she was the baby. NSis sat next to NM all of the time, NSis was with NM all of the time. I was left with my dad.
It wasn't all bad. As I grew older, my father didn't find the need to discipline me as much. He could be largely ignoring of me. He rarely expressed any real interest in what I did. He was cold and distant. I remember once calling him "daddy", like my 8 year old friends at school called their fathers. He yelled back at me that I was NEVER to refer to him in such a babyish term. He was strict and allowed little slack because I was a child. I was never "daddy's princess". Ever. He was a task master. He always seemed so angry and depressed.
But he taught me a lot. He refused to allow me to fall back on being a girl and taught me to change my oil and my tires. He expected straight A's (straight A's was not being "perfect" to him, but being "normal"). He helped with homework on occasion, but mainly expected me to just get it. He told me repeatedly that I was smart. I sort of double edged sword, being smart, because it again allowed me no slack in life. I was always "too smart" to be acting like this or that.
I think any confidence that I had came from him though. He believed in me, in his own weird way. NM always believed she needed to step in for us. Unless she didn't want to, then we were on our way. My dad taught me not to be dependent on men, to take care of myself, to have a good work ethic. I know he thought I could accomplish things.
He was irritable, and easily provoked and I walked on eggshells with him. But when my parents divorced, I ended up choosing him. I chose NM first, but that quickly dissolved into shit. Dad required a lot out of me (I did the laundry and the cleaning and the cooking) but he was more stable than my mom at the time. It wasn't all that bad, living with him. He cared enough to do things with me, which is more than I can say for my mom.
As I got older and older, things began to change. I had always viewed him as my "bad" parent. As the reason for all of our troubles in our families. Well, not shockingly, as I learned he wasn't always horrible, I learned how much more sneaky and subversive my mother was. My father went to therapy. My father got on medication to control his depression (or at least ease it). I know he was trying.
In my teens, I learned my father had been horrible abused by an uncle. It was an on going abuse that, obviously, fucked him up for life. I don't know how my grandparents didn't know or stop it. They were good people, as far as I knew. I don't think they knew. My grandfather was quiet and studious and kind. My father loved him. My grandmother was what I thought "maternal" to be growing up. She cooked well, kept the house clean, seemed interested in her kids. She had had a rough childhood (being pretty much on her own at age 12, and being raised by a passel of extended family before that). But, compared to my mother's fucked up family, my father's family seemed "normal". But there had been this secret. Grandma says my dad was always sad, always difficult. Maybe he was. But I know that this didn't help.
As I grew up, things became more and more apparent to me. NM was not interested in how I felt about her or the divorce or really anything. She wanted me to go along with the delusions she had created: she was a good mom, my father was the problem, she did the best she could, she only put herself first because she'd never been first (which was probably true, but required that her children came behind her needs, I don't think you really get that luxury when you become a mom.) My relationship with my father relationship got better. He lives a distance away, but I always had relatively good conversations with him. They weren't the drama filled, soul-sucking kind I had with NM.
He never became kinder or gentler. He often is still grouchy and mean. He can deliver a low blow like no one else. He has a short temper and is irritable. He has a low threshold for outside "noise" and can easily loose emotional balance. But he doesn't lash out physically. He doesn't intentionally try to hurt people. He does hurt people because he can be blunt and mean. But I do think he is trying. I know he has tried a pharmacy of drugs to ease his depression. I know he really needs talk therapy, but I know that for a man of his generation, that might not be something he's willing to do.
He's told me repeatedly that he was a bad dad. Not because he wants me to feel sorry for him. Not because he wants me to reassure HIM. But because he is sorry. Because he would do it differently if he could. If he could erase things, he would. He has been kinder and gentler, in his own way. He tells me he is proud of me. I think he is proud of me. He does not compete with me. He is genuinely happy for me. He may not always be as invested in our relationship like I would like him to be. In fact, he can be quite selfish in not making more attempts to get together. He can still be a grouch and an asshole. But he's not a narcissist.
I recently went to visit him. He has been remarried for about 15 years and his wife is controlling and overbearing. She struggles with limits too. She definitely has some narcissistic qualities and is on the spectrum. She is bossy and pushes her opinions on people. When I had my children, her constant opinions and criticisms pushed a huge wedge between us. I really, really disliked her. When I coupled that with all of the chaos of my recent problems with my sister, and my dad's difficult temperament, I didn't even know if I wanted to go.
But I did. I had a plan (something I plan to write about soon). I was a grown up now, and if he pissed me off too badly, I'd just pack up my kids and leave. I had that right.
But the trip went well. Step mom was on better behavior. She was softer with me and even offered support to me about my sister (she is estranged with her narcissistic sister). My father told step mom to back off when she was trying to control me (she really can be controlling about the DUMBEST things, like that I had to give a paper napkin instead of a paper towel to my kid).
My dad seemed to respect my feelings on things and we had good conversations. When he was getting grouchy one night and I pissed him off, he went for a walk instead of blowing up at me. That is progress. He came back in a better mood. He is trying. I know he is. I had some good talks with him about my childhood. He listens. He tells me he is sorry.
He and my step mom were good with my kids. It was strange to see them interact with the kids. There was a different frequency in the air than with my NM or MIL and the kids. The room didn't seem so charged. There wasn't tension. No one was competing for the kids' attention. Dad and SM helped out when I need them too, but let me be the mom. They didn't hoover or silently "observe" my mothering skills. I didn't feel I was constantly being watched and ranked as a mother. They didn't compete with me or each other for the kids attention. In fact, when they needed a break from the kids, they took it. That's something MIL and NM really struggle with. There were no forced interactions, no forced hugs, no bribes of toys. There was activities together, and a souvenir from the zoo, and SM brought out coloring books one morning so I could sleep in. But none of it felt like it was a bribe, or an attempt to buy attention, or some sort of "investment" on the part of the grandparents that they expected the grandkid to pay back with love and attention. The grandparents did what they wanted to do with the kids, and expected nothing in return. It was refreshing and sweet and did my heart well.
It wasn't all perfect, but it was so much better. I wonder if the changes in me showed. That the changes in me made things different too and that they recognized it. That I wasn't so "charged" with anxiety. My father lives a distance away and so I don't get to see him as much as I like. I do wish he lived closer. My step mother, well, I do think seeing her less frequently makes for good visits. She was good when we went (even finally giving into this stupid little pissing match she and I have been having, and allowing me my way....which was HUGE) but I think she'd be too much if we lived closer. And I do wish they'd visit more. My father is really involved when we are together, but he can be a kind of "out of sight, out of mind" person. He struggles with developing relationships. He struggles with moving out of his comfort zone in order to make things work. He hates travelling and can be selfish about not being willing to compromise to make visits work. There is still a lot to work on, but there is progress.
Recently, he and I had a talk about NSis. We haven't spoken about her in almost a year. But I needed some information (NSis has been "hovering" and playing really nice trying to "win" me back. I don't buy her bullshit-like gifts and cards and texts- but I was feeling guilty that I wasn't giving her more of a chance to "make amends") and I had intended to bring her up to my father. Not to triangulate or gossip, but to try and sort out truth from fiction. But I didn't have to bring her up. Dad mentioned her and a visit she wanted to do with him. A visit she is completely manipulating for her own interests. I knew it. I knew she hadn't changed. Dad and I talked some more about my sister's "mystery illness" and how she was lying about a lot of it. How she was manipulating people's feelings and taking money. How she lies. How she has a personality disorder (his words, not mine. I try not to use any words that can be Googled and linked to narcissism with any one in my family. It's a way for me to try and protect my anonymity). I felt validated. I felt understood. I felt that I had some support. He told me to not contact her again until she "heard" and understood the boundaries that I'd set up (all of which he found to be reasonable.) I didn't need his validation and support, but man it felt good to hear.
So, progress. Not perfection, but progress (as other bloggers remind me). I don't feel so alone, a woman without a family. I feel good and this has renewed my strength and resolve.
My dad can still be an asshole, a giant asshole. But he's not a narcissist.
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
My Dad
My dad has a lot of narcissistic qualities. But he's not a narcissist. He can be quite the asshole. But he can also be really, really tender hearted. He's the poster child for the damaged human being, who has wrapped himself in barbed wire. He's depressed, chronically. He's grouchy, anal retentive, and can be mean. However, he encouraged me as a child. Demanded (sometimes harshly, but not always) that I stand on my own two feet. He expected me to succeed. He forced me to be a better person.
When I was little, my family was always divided: me and my dad, and my mom and my sister. It wasn't a natural division. It was like when you pair up for the science project and the two BFF grasp hands and laugh, and the rejects are left over and have to pair up. My mother and sister were joined at the hip from the beginning. It filtered down to the most ridiculous things. My sister, always, always had to sit by my mother. That included at any restaurant we were at, behind my mother's seat in the car, and next to her on the couch when we watched TV. It was always this way. It never ever changed. I occasionally asked to sit by my mom. It never ended well. My sister would through the HUGEST FIT and she would end up with my mother. I didn't always mind. But I did a lot. I always felt cast off. I always felt like the left overs. I never understood why it wasn't more equal.
Not that I didn't spend time with my mom, but it was always with my sister. My mother and I never spent time alone. Ever. In fact, it often was my sister, my mom, and me. We were always her companions, like those little dogs you see crazy women carrying around everywhere these days. I can only recall one or two "mother-daugher" moments. She didn't discuss my friends with me, or have heart-to-hearts about boys. She didn't ask about school or my theater or what I was reading or watching on TV. The only moment I remember with her was when I told her my body was "changing". She laughed and said she didn't believe me and demanded to "see". Apparantly, I didn't impress her much by her reaction. The other moment revolved around my period. When it came to puberty and periods, my mother solved the problem by buying me a book. She tossed it to me and told me to read it. She didn't answer any questions, she didn't talk to me about it. Nothing. When I got my period, she immediately informed my dad. I was mortified. Anyway, the moment came when I was struggling to understand how exactly a tampon was to be used before a friend's big pool party. She again handed me a diagram and left me to my devices. Hmmm. (I apologize for the personal nature of this paragraph). When I couldn't figure it out, she offered to do it for me. I sat on the side of the pool at the party.
Anyway, much of my time I was with my dad. Actually, much of my time I spent alone or with my sister. But my "assigned" parent was my dad. So, I wandered out to the garage at times. I learned to fish. I tried to be interested in him. I was never daddy's little girl. Ever. Once I made the mistake of calling him "daddy" (I'd heard my friends call their dads that). He raged against me for calling him such a childish nick name and demanded that I never call him that again.
We were not close, but I was closer to him than anyone else. He did teach me things. He wanted me to be self sufficient. He didn't want me to depend on anyone and made sure I could handle my own. I thought he was hard on me. He sometimes helped me with homework (my mother never did). He sometimes asked how I was doing. In fact, through the horribleness of my parents' divorce, he was the only one who asked how I as doing.
As I wrote in my last post, he was an abusive disciplinarian. He would strike me with a belt and leave welts. This punishment was handed out for many minor offenses. I feared him. He was explosive. More so towards my sister than me, but that almost was worse. He was angry. He never smiled. He was grouchy. He was sad. He was bitter. He was mean. He liked to tease. He told me to toughen up. He told me to quit crying. He told me to be stronger.
My dad had a good childhood, from what I'm told and can see. I loved my grandparents. My grandmother, while opinionated and stubborn, always seemed loving. And in fact, I often found her to be one of the most loving people in my life. She and I had a lot in common and she taught me a lot. My grandfather was one of the sweetest people I knew, from what I remember. But there was an incident in my dad's childhood that scarred him forever. This is not an incident that I wish to share on this blog, as it is not mine to share, but it damaged him beyond belief. Grandma says dad was always a very sad, unhappy boy. That he was always a stubborn and sad person. But I know that this incident changed him forever (and for the record, I don't believe that my grandmother knew about this incident. Of course, we've never talked about the specifics. My dad just told me that it happened, as way of explaining why he was such an ass. This was during my parents' divorce and I really didn't need to handle this bomb shell too). I believe, he felt my grandmother should have protected him and he harbors resentment to this day, but I could be wrong. I believe it was this incident that pushed him into a life-long depression that he has never, and most likely will never, come out of. A self-hating, angry, irritable depression that has made him difficult to love and be around.
But I do love my dad. I also live in fear of upsetting him. I never, ever feel comfortable speaking my mind to him. I'm guarded around him. I've only recently stood up to him, and my stomach almost loses it's contents every time I do. It's almost exhilarating in the risk when I say something to him, but more often, paralyzing. He is the only person in my family who understands me in the least bit, not that he really gets me at all. I know that he was not present through a lot of my childhood and just let my mother run the show. I know that he needed to step up, help me, and reach out. But he was too busy swimming in his own shit to save me.
When I was little, my family was always divided: me and my dad, and my mom and my sister. It wasn't a natural division. It was like when you pair up for the science project and the two BFF grasp hands and laugh, and the rejects are left over and have to pair up. My mother and sister were joined at the hip from the beginning. It filtered down to the most ridiculous things. My sister, always, always had to sit by my mother. That included at any restaurant we were at, behind my mother's seat in the car, and next to her on the couch when we watched TV. It was always this way. It never ever changed. I occasionally asked to sit by my mom. It never ended well. My sister would through the HUGEST FIT and she would end up with my mother. I didn't always mind. But I did a lot. I always felt cast off. I always felt like the left overs. I never understood why it wasn't more equal.
Not that I didn't spend time with my mom, but it was always with my sister. My mother and I never spent time alone. Ever. In fact, it often was my sister, my mom, and me. We were always her companions, like those little dogs you see crazy women carrying around everywhere these days. I can only recall one or two "mother-daugher" moments. She didn't discuss my friends with me, or have heart-to-hearts about boys. She didn't ask about school or my theater or what I was reading or watching on TV. The only moment I remember with her was when I told her my body was "changing". She laughed and said she didn't believe me and demanded to "see". Apparantly, I didn't impress her much by her reaction. The other moment revolved around my period. When it came to puberty and periods, my mother solved the problem by buying me a book. She tossed it to me and told me to read it. She didn't answer any questions, she didn't talk to me about it. Nothing. When I got my period, she immediately informed my dad. I was mortified. Anyway, the moment came when I was struggling to understand how exactly a tampon was to be used before a friend's big pool party. She again handed me a diagram and left me to my devices. Hmmm. (I apologize for the personal nature of this paragraph). When I couldn't figure it out, she offered to do it for me. I sat on the side of the pool at the party.
Anyway, much of my time I was with my dad. Actually, much of my time I spent alone or with my sister. But my "assigned" parent was my dad. So, I wandered out to the garage at times. I learned to fish. I tried to be interested in him. I was never daddy's little girl. Ever. Once I made the mistake of calling him "daddy" (I'd heard my friends call their dads that). He raged against me for calling him such a childish nick name and demanded that I never call him that again.
We were not close, but I was closer to him than anyone else. He did teach me things. He wanted me to be self sufficient. He didn't want me to depend on anyone and made sure I could handle my own. I thought he was hard on me. He sometimes helped me with homework (my mother never did). He sometimes asked how I was doing. In fact, through the horribleness of my parents' divorce, he was the only one who asked how I as doing.
As I wrote in my last post, he was an abusive disciplinarian. He would strike me with a belt and leave welts. This punishment was handed out for many minor offenses. I feared him. He was explosive. More so towards my sister than me, but that almost was worse. He was angry. He never smiled. He was grouchy. He was sad. He was bitter. He was mean. He liked to tease. He told me to toughen up. He told me to quit crying. He told me to be stronger.
My dad had a good childhood, from what I'm told and can see. I loved my grandparents. My grandmother, while opinionated and stubborn, always seemed loving. And in fact, I often found her to be one of the most loving people in my life. She and I had a lot in common and she taught me a lot. My grandfather was one of the sweetest people I knew, from what I remember. But there was an incident in my dad's childhood that scarred him forever. This is not an incident that I wish to share on this blog, as it is not mine to share, but it damaged him beyond belief. Grandma says dad was always a very sad, unhappy boy. That he was always a stubborn and sad person. But I know that this incident changed him forever (and for the record, I don't believe that my grandmother knew about this incident. Of course, we've never talked about the specifics. My dad just told me that it happened, as way of explaining why he was such an ass. This was during my parents' divorce and I really didn't need to handle this bomb shell too). I believe, he felt my grandmother should have protected him and he harbors resentment to this day, but I could be wrong. I believe it was this incident that pushed him into a life-long depression that he has never, and most likely will never, come out of. A self-hating, angry, irritable depression that has made him difficult to love and be around.
But I do love my dad. I also live in fear of upsetting him. I never, ever feel comfortable speaking my mind to him. I'm guarded around him. I've only recently stood up to him, and my stomach almost loses it's contents every time I do. It's almost exhilarating in the risk when I say something to him, but more often, paralyzing. He is the only person in my family who understands me in the least bit, not that he really gets me at all. I know that he was not present through a lot of my childhood and just let my mother run the show. I know that he needed to step up, help me, and reach out. But he was too busy swimming in his own shit to save me.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Labels
Labels are a hot-button issue with ACoNs. We have been labeled and defined externally for all of our lives. Labels have been used to control, belittle, shame, and manipulate us. Labels that reflect more on the giver of the label than the person being labeled. Our narcs always profess to "know" us; to know us better than we know ourselves. And any attempt at self-identity is seen as rebellion. The narc laughs it off as if we are some adolescent teenager trying out a new hairdo. But they know us better, they know what is best for us. How could they not? They are the one who "created" us.
Part 1
NMIL and I were discussing potty training my son. She was busy labeling my son as developing late in this area. She consistently commented about it, asking if he was trained yet, sighing and saying "well, boys do train later." I reminded her that I wasn't pushing the issue. That I didn't care what he did. That it was his choice. He had the tools. I encouraged him. But the real choice was his. That there had been a lot of other things going on in his life, and this wasn't an issue with us. She stated that when her boys were little she used to let them go in the yard, and with summer coming this might be a way for DS to have "fun" training and....She trailed off and I knew what she was thinking. Oh, Jessie, would never let her son pee outside. She's too prim and proper.
She's always labeled me as a straight laced. She, the conservative Christian, has labeled me as uptight and strict. She takes my balking at her boundary pushing (whether it's pushing for physical closeness, sharing of food, expectations of basic manners) as having a stick up my ass. She has implied over and over that I am the wet blanket on her parade. That I am the downer at the party. She is the fun loving, easy going, light hearted person. I am as about much fun as the flu.
Once, DH made a nice meal for his family. His younger brother scooped up some of the fish onto his plate, took one bite and announced it was "gross". He scooped it back up and plopped it down in the serving dish. NMIL shouts "(SON) don't do that! Jessie doesn't like that!" All eyes go to me. I feel like a horrible person. Never mind that I didn't say anything about his behavior. Or that his behavior was grossly out of line. Or that basic manners should have dictated her "lesson" to him, not making me the bad guy in the situation. There I sat, the "manners police", red faced and embarrassed.
When I have balked at her invasion of my privacy (walking in on me, not wanting to change clothes in front of people, feeling the need to dress appropriately when I come down for breakfast) I'm seen as a prude. Old fashioned. Insecure about my body.
When I have expectations (age appropriate ones) for my sons at a restaurant, the whole family gets tense. I expect that my son doesn't run around. I've been the waitstaff concerned about tripping over a small child, spilling a hot plate of food on the kid. It's dangerous and not appropriate. But to the in-laws, I'm a hard ass. I bring tons of things for my kids to do (coloring books, etc.). The other kids bang knives and forks on the table. I'm restrictive and confining.
NMIL and her FOO love to laugh. Loudly. At everything. It's become such a joke with me as it often seems so forced and phony. They like to laugh at people. Always cackling at something. When BIL and SIL got married, they decided to have a "roast" at the rehearsal dinner. The family told wildly inappropriate stories that embarrassed and humilated BIL. But it was all in good fun, they claimed! When my wedding day came, DH was insistent that we not have a roast at our rehearsal. He fought it tooth and nail. But I know I got the blame. I was the one who was not willing to have any fun. I was the one who couldn't "laugh at myself". I look back at this now and wonder what they could've possibly been thinking. That at a moment when a couple should be lifted up, made to feel loved and supported they were torn down and embarrassed. On purpose. And it was all in fun. And I'm the bad guy.
Part 2
My mom and dad used to tell me I was bossy. They would watch me playing with the neighborhood kids and would tell me I was too bossy. I didn't think then, nor do I think now, that I was bossy. Somebody had to come up with something to play and I liked to come up with fun games. I was creative and the neighborhood kids often asked me to come up with something. They sought me out and came to my house to ask me to play. I know that I took others into consideration. I know that I would've been willing to do what someone else wanted to do. But my parents, observing from inside the house, passed judgement. Told me who I was. Told me not how to behave but that I was this label. My teachers at school found me to be "helpful". They often had me tutor other kids, lead discussion groups. To my teachers I was a "leader" but to my folks I was bossy.
I also was labeled as the "good kid". Always expected to follow the rules. Never allowed to get into trouble. Anything less than perfection was deemed a failure of huge proportions. Perfect was the standard not the goal. I was "responsible". Always the caretaker. Always expected to help out. I also was labeled a liar. I wasn't a liar. I did lie on occasion. Always out of fear of getting in trouble. I was so terrified of failing my parents, of making a mistake, that I would lie to cover it up. I was also oversensitive. I cried too easily. I took things too personally. When my father would "tease" me, I took it too personally.
Now, my parents label me as "anxious". Like I'm some sort of constant worrier and bundle of nerves. Yes, I suffer from anxiety. Yes, I have abandonment issues. I am, on occasion, overprotective of my kids. I'm terrified of loosing my kids or my husband. Of loosing the family I have wanted for so long. But I'm not jumping at my shadow. I'm not so overprotective that my kids don't do anything and live in a bubble. Far from it. They label me "anal" because I'm organized. They label me as uptight and rigid and inflexible because I plan things (like meals and activities) when they are here. Mostly, I'm uptight and rigid because I don't allow them to just take over and follow them around like a dog. All of my parents and step-parents are some of the most controlling, inflexible, rigid people I know. But they label me that way.
When I look at all of these labels, I see very few positive ones. I'm also struck by how differently these two families label me. Their perceptions of me seem so in opposition. And neither seems to fit. When I'm with my friends or with coworkers I'm rarely labeled in such negative ways. A lot of their criticisms of me are seen as positives. I don't feel like I have to be something I'm not. I don't feel like I'm smothering under a blanket of labels. Under a coating of projected personality flaws. I don't always feel I'm struggling to be myself.
I've been struggling with my identity for a long time now. Trying to figure out who I am and who I need to be. It was one of my first clues that something was really wrong: that I couldn't shake their perceptions of me, that I felt bogged down and couldn't be myself. That I felt like a false person with family. At first, I thought it was just that they wanted me to still be who they saw when I was a kid. That they hadn't accepted me as an adult. But they never knew me as a kid either. And now, I'm struggling to feel "grown up". I knew this girl. She always looked so put together. Carried a big girl purse and wore "womanly" jewelry. Not the simple girlish look I had. I told her I would've felt like an imposter wearing that stuff, even though I liked it, as I would feel like a little girl playing dress up in her mom's closet. I always felt like a little girl. Despite everything I had done and accomplished and taken on by myself. I was a little girl. And I want to be a grown up.
Part 1
NMIL and I were discussing potty training my son. She was busy labeling my son as developing late in this area. She consistently commented about it, asking if he was trained yet, sighing and saying "well, boys do train later." I reminded her that I wasn't pushing the issue. That I didn't care what he did. That it was his choice. He had the tools. I encouraged him. But the real choice was his. That there had been a lot of other things going on in his life, and this wasn't an issue with us. She stated that when her boys were little she used to let them go in the yard, and with summer coming this might be a way for DS to have "fun" training and....She trailed off and I knew what she was thinking. Oh, Jessie, would never let her son pee outside. She's too prim and proper.
She's always labeled me as a straight laced. She, the conservative Christian, has labeled me as uptight and strict. She takes my balking at her boundary pushing (whether it's pushing for physical closeness, sharing of food, expectations of basic manners) as having a stick up my ass. She has implied over and over that I am the wet blanket on her parade. That I am the downer at the party. She is the fun loving, easy going, light hearted person. I am as about much fun as the flu.
Once, DH made a nice meal for his family. His younger brother scooped up some of the fish onto his plate, took one bite and announced it was "gross". He scooped it back up and plopped it down in the serving dish. NMIL shouts "(SON) don't do that! Jessie doesn't like that!" All eyes go to me. I feel like a horrible person. Never mind that I didn't say anything about his behavior. Or that his behavior was grossly out of line. Or that basic manners should have dictated her "lesson" to him, not making me the bad guy in the situation. There I sat, the "manners police", red faced and embarrassed.
When I have balked at her invasion of my privacy (walking in on me, not wanting to change clothes in front of people, feeling the need to dress appropriately when I come down for breakfast) I'm seen as a prude. Old fashioned. Insecure about my body.
When I have expectations (age appropriate ones) for my sons at a restaurant, the whole family gets tense. I expect that my son doesn't run around. I've been the waitstaff concerned about tripping over a small child, spilling a hot plate of food on the kid. It's dangerous and not appropriate. But to the in-laws, I'm a hard ass. I bring tons of things for my kids to do (coloring books, etc.). The other kids bang knives and forks on the table. I'm restrictive and confining.
NMIL and her FOO love to laugh. Loudly. At everything. It's become such a joke with me as it often seems so forced and phony. They like to laugh at people. Always cackling at something. When BIL and SIL got married, they decided to have a "roast" at the rehearsal dinner. The family told wildly inappropriate stories that embarrassed and humilated BIL. But it was all in good fun, they claimed! When my wedding day came, DH was insistent that we not have a roast at our rehearsal. He fought it tooth and nail. But I know I got the blame. I was the one who was not willing to have any fun. I was the one who couldn't "laugh at myself". I look back at this now and wonder what they could've possibly been thinking. That at a moment when a couple should be lifted up, made to feel loved and supported they were torn down and embarrassed. On purpose. And it was all in fun. And I'm the bad guy.
Part 2
My mom and dad used to tell me I was bossy. They would watch me playing with the neighborhood kids and would tell me I was too bossy. I didn't think then, nor do I think now, that I was bossy. Somebody had to come up with something to play and I liked to come up with fun games. I was creative and the neighborhood kids often asked me to come up with something. They sought me out and came to my house to ask me to play. I know that I took others into consideration. I know that I would've been willing to do what someone else wanted to do. But my parents, observing from inside the house, passed judgement. Told me who I was. Told me not how to behave but that I was this label. My teachers at school found me to be "helpful". They often had me tutor other kids, lead discussion groups. To my teachers I was a "leader" but to my folks I was bossy.
I also was labeled as the "good kid". Always expected to follow the rules. Never allowed to get into trouble. Anything less than perfection was deemed a failure of huge proportions. Perfect was the standard not the goal. I was "responsible". Always the caretaker. Always expected to help out. I also was labeled a liar. I wasn't a liar. I did lie on occasion. Always out of fear of getting in trouble. I was so terrified of failing my parents, of making a mistake, that I would lie to cover it up. I was also oversensitive. I cried too easily. I took things too personally. When my father would "tease" me, I took it too personally.
Now, my parents label me as "anxious". Like I'm some sort of constant worrier and bundle of nerves. Yes, I suffer from anxiety. Yes, I have abandonment issues. I am, on occasion, overprotective of my kids. I'm terrified of loosing my kids or my husband. Of loosing the family I have wanted for so long. But I'm not jumping at my shadow. I'm not so overprotective that my kids don't do anything and live in a bubble. Far from it. They label me "anal" because I'm organized. They label me as uptight and rigid and inflexible because I plan things (like meals and activities) when they are here. Mostly, I'm uptight and rigid because I don't allow them to just take over and follow them around like a dog. All of my parents and step-parents are some of the most controlling, inflexible, rigid people I know. But they label me that way.
When I look at all of these labels, I see very few positive ones. I'm also struck by how differently these two families label me. Their perceptions of me seem so in opposition. And neither seems to fit. When I'm with my friends or with coworkers I'm rarely labeled in such negative ways. A lot of their criticisms of me are seen as positives. I don't feel like I have to be something I'm not. I don't feel like I'm smothering under a blanket of labels. Under a coating of projected personality flaws. I don't always feel I'm struggling to be myself.
I've been struggling with my identity for a long time now. Trying to figure out who I am and who I need to be. It was one of my first clues that something was really wrong: that I couldn't shake their perceptions of me, that I felt bogged down and couldn't be myself. That I felt like a false person with family. At first, I thought it was just that they wanted me to still be who they saw when I was a kid. That they hadn't accepted me as an adult. But they never knew me as a kid either. And now, I'm struggling to feel "grown up". I knew this girl. She always looked so put together. Carried a big girl purse and wore "womanly" jewelry. Not the simple girlish look I had. I told her I would've felt like an imposter wearing that stuff, even though I liked it, as I would feel like a little girl playing dress up in her mom's closet. I always felt like a little girl. Despite everything I had done and accomplished and taken on by myself. I was a little girl. And I want to be a grown up.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Choosing An Identity
This topic had been on my "list of things to write about" for awhile now, but this morning I saw something on Jonsi's blog about why she choose her name and I felt compelled to do the Post now. Thanks Jonsi for the inspiration!
Choosing my "pen name" for this Blog was surprisingly emotional for me. It took me days. I struggled with the courage to even do it. It was like the first step in this process and it scared the crap out of me. I can remember shaking as I punched things into Google, looking for the right name. I somehow knew that once I made that choice I would be committed. Something in me would be reborn. I can only imagine how many other people would find this truely ridiculous. But for me, it was about finding my identity.
I wanted a name that describe what I was trying to accomplish. When I came across the name Sheridan, I found that it meant "seeker". I had been seeking the truth, seeking me, seeking a way out of this hell hole, so this seemed perfect. (Side note, as I google it today, I find it means "life long treasure". Hmm. Interesting). Jesse (I changed it to the -ie) meant gift, offering to God, and one who is. Perfect. This blog was my prayer to God, my offering for change, and my attempt to just be. I liked how the two names sounded together, as it implied a bit of the location that I'm in (my identity does have lots of influence from where I'm from). I also liked that it sounded a bit like an outlaw. Some gunslinger from the West. I felt like an outlaw. But one of those who steals from the rich and gives to the poor.
And just a random thought on the issue of names. I spent a lot of time finding the perfect names for my sons. I wanted them to have names with limitless possibilites. It was important to me that they have names which grounded them in a sense of family, provided them a foundation (we gave them each a family members name whom we loved), but also a name that would allow them to be whomever they chose to be. A name that sounded good on a toddler but wouldn't embarrass a grown man. A name that could be for a lawyer or an artist. A name unique enough to not be "one of the herd" but not so crazy that they stood out like a freak. Of course, NM suggested variants of her name if the babies had been girls. I thought, how weird. I NEVER would've suggested or implied that someone name a baby after me. Besides the obvious that I didn't like her name, nor did she deserve this honor, but that she would even have the arrogance to suggest it blew me away. NMIL had the middle name of my first born son all picked out already. It was a "tradition" and it never occured to her that we wouldn't use it. I remember her telling us that she had paperwork for us to give the baby on why we gave it this "tradtional" name. I remember being blown away that she would just make this assumption. This story is such a hallmark of my NMIL. Most of the time, it NEVER OCCURS to her that someone would have other ideas, thoughts, or opinions. I think having so many sons, she just herded them around and they followed her like mindless robots. She just the expectation that everyone will fall in line. Maybe that's why she's not more underhanded. She's never really had to use such tactics to keep the troops in line. They've been so brainwashed, they do it naturally. Until now.
Anyway, sorry for my rambling. I tend to get off track. But back to the thoughts on identity. I don't remember my parents allowing me hardly any opportunity to develop one as a kid. Maybe not that they didn't allow it, but they certainly didn't encourage it. Like NMIL, I don't think it occurred to them to cultivate my own personal sense of identity. I just was to be what they had been. This was how it was, how it'd always been, and how it would always be. Little clones producing more little clones. It's not that they stifled my "other" interests. They just didn't acknowledge them. They went through the motions, but never encouraged them. They didn't really pay any attention to them at all, beside the obligatory parental requirements.
My family did have labels for me. I was "smart". I was thinking the other day that this was one of the positive things I took from my childhood. At least I knew I was smart. I had the achievement tests to prove it. But as I really thought about how my parents viewed my intelligence, it was never as a credit to my character. First and foremost, my intelligence shackled me to expectations of perfection. I was not allowed to get anything but As. I was better than that. I didn't matter that I really did struggle in some subjects. I was too intelligent for that (and not that they helped me, or asked about school, or knew what in the hell I was doing beyond the end result). I could bring home straight As forever, but man, that one B...well, that would be the end of the world. Dad also used to say that I was book smart, but naive. "Some of the people who are the smartest with books, are the dumbest in the real world." While this may be true, he always used it to take me down a peg. My mother was jealous of my intelligence. She still is. My intelligence was a direct insult to her. As if I did it to her on purpose. She liked to throw it in my face that I somehow had something she didn't and I should feel sorry for her for it. Still to this day, she likes to "correct" me (although she's usually wrong) and when backed into a corner, she'll pull the whole "you're calling me stupid" card out. I don't remember ever being told I was pretty. I did get compliments for my outfits (usually one that NM picked out or if my hair looked nice. But I always got the distinct impression that I was not the pretty sister. Good behavior, good grades, basically anything beyond perfection were critized and judged. However, when I attained these goals, they were treated as if I'd just done what any kid would be expected to do. My opinion was rarely asked, by parents never knew what I thought, and I get the distinct impression that I annoyed them more than anything.
Today, I'm often labeled my family as controlling, anxious, oversensitive (I got this ALL the time as a kid too. I was not allowed to be upset about anything), inflexiable, anal, a worry wort, and compulsive. They see me as an organizational freak who must control everything and won't allow any dissension (projecting much?). I am the "bad" family member. They one who isn't there enough, doesn't call enough, doesn't do enough. The laughable part is that I AM that family member. I always call, check in, send cards, remember birthdays, acknowledge accomplishments, put thought into gifts, send thank you cards. I get the distinct feeling that with them, I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't. My dad likes to see my efforts at being a good hostess (providing dinner at a good time, showing were things are, providing entertainment) as controlling. I'm anal if I announce that we should head to dinner by a particular time. I'm anal because I planned the friggin meals (someone has to buy all the groceries for 10 people, so yeah, I had to plan it.) Here I think I'm being thoughtful and making things easy, but no, I'm anal and a control freak. Any advice that I won't take is because I'm a control freak. NM's husband loves to point out that he thinks I'm a compulsively anal control freak. If I state that my son likes something a certain way, he'll say "I wonder who he gets THAT from".
My in-laws also have labels for me. I'm rigid, inflexible, organized (this is one they actually admire, except when it puts them at a disadvantage or makes them feel jealous), stuck-up, snobby, and just plain odd. They have no idea who the real me is, other than what they've decided me to be. They very rarely ask my opinion, unless they already know it will be similar to theirs. They fully ignore any topics in which I'd have a differing thought. In the early days, anything I brought up about myself was turned back to them. I'd tell NMIL that I had danced as a kid. "OH, you did. Well (DH) won a dance contest once!" And then on and on about the dance contest...once...that she didn't even go to. And for the record, husband is a good dancer, but not a dance contest winner. I used to write and was in speech, well hubby was a speaker at a state contest. I used to think she was just trying to connect. Now, I think she had to one-up me. The things she does take an interest in, she covets. I like to wrap Christmas gifts. I like to take a glass of wine, watch a Christmas movie, and layer ribbons, wrapping, etc. I find it relaxing (I'm fully aware most people don't). Kind of like arts and crafts. NMIL's packages always looked like they'd been through the garbage disposal. But what do you know, now she spends all this time on her gifts. They still look like they've been through the garbage disposal, but it looks like she did it on purpose. Anything that I do well, she has to do to. If I have a nice pair of earrings, she exclaims that she wants them too. She's always asking where I bought stuff. I know, imitation is the greatest form of flattery. Except when you feel like someone's trying to steal any sense of identity away. And if she can't compete directly, she just figures out a way to minimize what I do. She can't ever just thank me for the damn Christmas card. She has to comment on how she simply just didn't have time (the woman who is retired, has no kids at home, no hobbies, didn't have time.) My favorite was when she heard through friends that I make a good lasagna. So, I made it for her once. I thought I was being NICE. Her comment: "Well, you make a good lasagna...BUT I MAKE REALLY GOOD SPAGHETTI". WTF is that? I'm still trying to explain to husband why this comment irritated me so bad, and continues to irritate me. Needless to say, I haven't cooked for her since.
But I think the worse for me with the in-laws (and my family in general) that they don't know me at all. With the in-laws I feel like a bunch of "tags" (I think Jonsi referred to it this way). Mom of their grandkids, wife of their son. I'm a label. I fill the slot (not that I fill it well, and in fact, I often feel like the round peg in the square hole). Anything that they don't like about me, they simply ignore. I'm a 2-dimensional character that they don't give a crap to really know. I am not appreciated, loved, or accepted for me. My family doesn't know who the hell I am. Again, labels, projections, images in their head, is all I am. I can't be me, I can't share me, because they'll use it against me. Use it to hurt me. Use it to further their own little agendas.
So, I'm searching. Who the fuck am I? What is my identity? What can I live with in myself? It's weird to be 30-something and finally trying to decide what I am. To quit being the labels and just be human.
Choosing my "pen name" for this Blog was surprisingly emotional for me. It took me days. I struggled with the courage to even do it. It was like the first step in this process and it scared the crap out of me. I can remember shaking as I punched things into Google, looking for the right name. I somehow knew that once I made that choice I would be committed. Something in me would be reborn. I can only imagine how many other people would find this truely ridiculous. But for me, it was about finding my identity.
I wanted a name that describe what I was trying to accomplish. When I came across the name Sheridan, I found that it meant "seeker". I had been seeking the truth, seeking me, seeking a way out of this hell hole, so this seemed perfect. (Side note, as I google it today, I find it means "life long treasure". Hmm. Interesting). Jesse (I changed it to the -ie) meant gift, offering to God, and one who is. Perfect. This blog was my prayer to God, my offering for change, and my attempt to just be. I liked how the two names sounded together, as it implied a bit of the location that I'm in (my identity does have lots of influence from where I'm from). I also liked that it sounded a bit like an outlaw. Some gunslinger from the West. I felt like an outlaw. But one of those who steals from the rich and gives to the poor.
And just a random thought on the issue of names. I spent a lot of time finding the perfect names for my sons. I wanted them to have names with limitless possibilites. It was important to me that they have names which grounded them in a sense of family, provided them a foundation (we gave them each a family members name whom we loved), but also a name that would allow them to be whomever they chose to be. A name that sounded good on a toddler but wouldn't embarrass a grown man. A name that could be for a lawyer or an artist. A name unique enough to not be "one of the herd" but not so crazy that they stood out like a freak. Of course, NM suggested variants of her name if the babies had been girls. I thought, how weird. I NEVER would've suggested or implied that someone name a baby after me. Besides the obvious that I didn't like her name, nor did she deserve this honor, but that she would even have the arrogance to suggest it blew me away. NMIL had the middle name of my first born son all picked out already. It was a "tradition" and it never occured to her that we wouldn't use it. I remember her telling us that she had paperwork for us to give the baby on why we gave it this "tradtional" name. I remember being blown away that she would just make this assumption. This story is such a hallmark of my NMIL. Most of the time, it NEVER OCCURS to her that someone would have other ideas, thoughts, or opinions. I think having so many sons, she just herded them around and they followed her like mindless robots. She just the expectation that everyone will fall in line. Maybe that's why she's not more underhanded. She's never really had to use such tactics to keep the troops in line. They've been so brainwashed, they do it naturally. Until now.
Anyway, sorry for my rambling. I tend to get off track. But back to the thoughts on identity. I don't remember my parents allowing me hardly any opportunity to develop one as a kid. Maybe not that they didn't allow it, but they certainly didn't encourage it. Like NMIL, I don't think it occurred to them to cultivate my own personal sense of identity. I just was to be what they had been. This was how it was, how it'd always been, and how it would always be. Little clones producing more little clones. It's not that they stifled my "other" interests. They just didn't acknowledge them. They went through the motions, but never encouraged them. They didn't really pay any attention to them at all, beside the obligatory parental requirements.
My family did have labels for me. I was "smart". I was thinking the other day that this was one of the positive things I took from my childhood. At least I knew I was smart. I had the achievement tests to prove it. But as I really thought about how my parents viewed my intelligence, it was never as a credit to my character. First and foremost, my intelligence shackled me to expectations of perfection. I was not allowed to get anything but As. I was better than that. I didn't matter that I really did struggle in some subjects. I was too intelligent for that (and not that they helped me, or asked about school, or knew what in the hell I was doing beyond the end result). I could bring home straight As forever, but man, that one B...well, that would be the end of the world. Dad also used to say that I was book smart, but naive. "Some of the people who are the smartest with books, are the dumbest in the real world." While this may be true, he always used it to take me down a peg. My mother was jealous of my intelligence. She still is. My intelligence was a direct insult to her. As if I did it to her on purpose. She liked to throw it in my face that I somehow had something she didn't and I should feel sorry for her for it. Still to this day, she likes to "correct" me (although she's usually wrong) and when backed into a corner, she'll pull the whole "you're calling me stupid" card out. I don't remember ever being told I was pretty. I did get compliments for my outfits (usually one that NM picked out or if my hair looked nice. But I always got the distinct impression that I was not the pretty sister. Good behavior, good grades, basically anything beyond perfection were critized and judged. However, when I attained these goals, they were treated as if I'd just done what any kid would be expected to do. My opinion was rarely asked, by parents never knew what I thought, and I get the distinct impression that I annoyed them more than anything.
Today, I'm often labeled my family as controlling, anxious, oversensitive (I got this ALL the time as a kid too. I was not allowed to be upset about anything), inflexiable, anal, a worry wort, and compulsive. They see me as an organizational freak who must control everything and won't allow any dissension (projecting much?). I am the "bad" family member. They one who isn't there enough, doesn't call enough, doesn't do enough. The laughable part is that I AM that family member. I always call, check in, send cards, remember birthdays, acknowledge accomplishments, put thought into gifts, send thank you cards. I get the distinct feeling that with them, I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't. My dad likes to see my efforts at being a good hostess (providing dinner at a good time, showing were things are, providing entertainment) as controlling. I'm anal if I announce that we should head to dinner by a particular time. I'm anal because I planned the friggin meals (someone has to buy all the groceries for 10 people, so yeah, I had to plan it.) Here I think I'm being thoughtful and making things easy, but no, I'm anal and a control freak. Any advice that I won't take is because I'm a control freak. NM's husband loves to point out that he thinks I'm a compulsively anal control freak. If I state that my son likes something a certain way, he'll say "I wonder who he gets THAT from".
My in-laws also have labels for me. I'm rigid, inflexible, organized (this is one they actually admire, except when it puts them at a disadvantage or makes them feel jealous), stuck-up, snobby, and just plain odd. They have no idea who the real me is, other than what they've decided me to be. They very rarely ask my opinion, unless they already know it will be similar to theirs. They fully ignore any topics in which I'd have a differing thought. In the early days, anything I brought up about myself was turned back to them. I'd tell NMIL that I had danced as a kid. "OH, you did. Well (DH) won a dance contest once!" And then on and on about the dance contest...once...that she didn't even go to. And for the record, husband is a good dancer, but not a dance contest winner. I used to write and was in speech, well hubby was a speaker at a state contest. I used to think she was just trying to connect. Now, I think she had to one-up me. The things she does take an interest in, she covets. I like to wrap Christmas gifts. I like to take a glass of wine, watch a Christmas movie, and layer ribbons, wrapping, etc. I find it relaxing (I'm fully aware most people don't). Kind of like arts and crafts. NMIL's packages always looked like they'd been through the garbage disposal. But what do you know, now she spends all this time on her gifts. They still look like they've been through the garbage disposal, but it looks like she did it on purpose. Anything that I do well, she has to do to. If I have a nice pair of earrings, she exclaims that she wants them too. She's always asking where I bought stuff. I know, imitation is the greatest form of flattery. Except when you feel like someone's trying to steal any sense of identity away. And if she can't compete directly, she just figures out a way to minimize what I do. She can't ever just thank me for the damn Christmas card. She has to comment on how she simply just didn't have time (the woman who is retired, has no kids at home, no hobbies, didn't have time.) My favorite was when she heard through friends that I make a good lasagna. So, I made it for her once. I thought I was being NICE. Her comment: "Well, you make a good lasagna...BUT I MAKE REALLY GOOD SPAGHETTI". WTF is that? I'm still trying to explain to husband why this comment irritated me so bad, and continues to irritate me. Needless to say, I haven't cooked for her since.
But I think the worse for me with the in-laws (and my family in general) that they don't know me at all. With the in-laws I feel like a bunch of "tags" (I think Jonsi referred to it this way). Mom of their grandkids, wife of their son. I'm a label. I fill the slot (not that I fill it well, and in fact, I often feel like the round peg in the square hole). Anything that they don't like about me, they simply ignore. I'm a 2-dimensional character that they don't give a crap to really know. I am not appreciated, loved, or accepted for me. My family doesn't know who the hell I am. Again, labels, projections, images in their head, is all I am. I can't be me, I can't share me, because they'll use it against me. Use it to hurt me. Use it to further their own little agendas.
So, I'm searching. Who the fuck am I? What is my identity? What can I live with in myself? It's weird to be 30-something and finally trying to decide what I am. To quit being the labels and just be human.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Memories
It surprises me that I can think of so few memories of my childhood (pre-divorce) with my parents. I have a great memory. I can recall in vivid detail some memories of my life. I can recall with great clarity staring at the yellow school buses in the dark, mangled by rain in my vision as Mom told me my Dad was moving out. I remember my(now) husband sitting on the steps of his house, in my rearview mirror, as I drove away when he would be moving the next day. I can remember, vividly, my desire to be an OB. And I remember vividly my realization that it meant I also must be a GYN (and what the hell a GYN actually did). I remember outings and vacations, but the pop into my memory in images of the photo albums that I have. I don't have the actual memory, just the image I've memorized from the album. Sure looks like we had fun.
But I don't remember a lot of things with my NM. I remember she cleaned alot. And mowed the lawn. And had a lot of things to get done. I always liked it when she spent the afternoon cleaning and cooking a nice meal and offered us warm chocolate chip cookies. It was such a treat and I remember feeling so cared for. I remember her being brisk, and cold, and distant. I remember her putting me in charge a lot.
I remember that she picked out my clothes a lot. That I didn't have a lot of choice about personal style. She decided that for me. In fact, sis and I were often part of a coordinated set. I don't remember her taking any real interest in me. I don't remember her asking me how my day at school was. I don't remember her ever taken my part with a teacher, or going to school to defend me, or even being really interested at all. As long as I excelled, behaved well, caused no problems, it was all good. She didn't bring me flowers to my school players. She often expressed that it was difficult to get time off of work. I remember one time fighting over a part in the school play with my teacher. The teacher had been nagged by another parent to split the part-there were four performances-because she felt her daughter should've gotten the part (you know, give another kid a chance to be the lead). I remember arguing with my teacher that this wasn't fair. Not because it wasn't fair to yank the part from me after I'd had it for weeks, but because my mom didn't know what show she could attend and I wanted her to see me perform. And I was 11.
I remember that mom always ticked the boxes of being a good mom (again, credit to Kara "The North Wind). Buy nice school clothes, tick. Enroll in dance lessons, tick. Attend parent teacher confrences, tick. But she never seemed interested. I don't remember a lot of love, or affection, or consideration for me. I wondered for a long time if this behavior from her started only as I reached adulthood. But I can see so many mini-signs as I grew up. We went on vacations, we rode bikes together, we went shopping (mainly I watched her shop). But we didn't have a relationship. We didn't have a connection, at all. She didn't really know me then, and she sure as hell doesn't know me now. And in fact, I don't think it would've even accord to her to think about me as an individual. I was just a kid, what did I know.
I do remember that she favored my sister. Always. She let her get away with murder and she expected me to do the same. She made me her "littler helper." I was her assistant, and that made me feel important. But I often felt more like a pet than a human being. I remember her braiding my hair into tight braids because that was what was easiest for her. I remember her picking out every outfit I had for a special occasion, with out me. I remember always feeling that I needed to be with my family. I always felt, even at 8,9, 10 that going out with friends, was somehow a betrayal. I remember she never helped me with my homework or inquired about what I needed. All so distant.
I remember one time in the summer (Sis and I spent summers pretty much locked in our house. We weren't allowed to go outside because it scared NM who was at work.) I babysat, cleaned, did chores, and sat around. I had started to start suppers for her before she came home. She would call on the phone and give me the instructions on what to do. Brown the hamburger. Boil noodles. Pretty soon I became adept and could cook whole meals. I noticed that her kitchen was a bit disorganized and disheveled. Not horrible so. So, I thought, in my little innocent mind, that I would clean an organize her cupboards. I didn't rearrange things terrible. I didn't overhaul the whole thing. But I wiped the drawers and the cupboards. Lined up the spices. Put like things with like and moved a few things to where they would be easier to access. NM flew into a rage. Not at me directly. She screamed at my Dad about what a horrible person I was. How dare I arrange HER kitchen? I had screwed up all of HER things. Where did I get off thinking I needed to do that? Yup, that was mom. No good deed went unpunished.
But I don't remember a lot of things with my NM. I remember she cleaned alot. And mowed the lawn. And had a lot of things to get done. I always liked it when she spent the afternoon cleaning and cooking a nice meal and offered us warm chocolate chip cookies. It was such a treat and I remember feeling so cared for. I remember her being brisk, and cold, and distant. I remember her putting me in charge a lot.
I remember that she picked out my clothes a lot. That I didn't have a lot of choice about personal style. She decided that for me. In fact, sis and I were often part of a coordinated set. I don't remember her taking any real interest in me. I don't remember her asking me how my day at school was. I don't remember her ever taken my part with a teacher, or going to school to defend me, or even being really interested at all. As long as I excelled, behaved well, caused no problems, it was all good. She didn't bring me flowers to my school players. She often expressed that it was difficult to get time off of work. I remember one time fighting over a part in the school play with my teacher. The teacher had been nagged by another parent to split the part-there were four performances-because she felt her daughter should've gotten the part (you know, give another kid a chance to be the lead). I remember arguing with my teacher that this wasn't fair. Not because it wasn't fair to yank the part from me after I'd had it for weeks, but because my mom didn't know what show she could attend and I wanted her to see me perform. And I was 11.
I remember that mom always ticked the boxes of being a good mom (again, credit to Kara "The North Wind). Buy nice school clothes, tick. Enroll in dance lessons, tick. Attend parent teacher confrences, tick. But she never seemed interested. I don't remember a lot of love, or affection, or consideration for me. I wondered for a long time if this behavior from her started only as I reached adulthood. But I can see so many mini-signs as I grew up. We went on vacations, we rode bikes together, we went shopping (mainly I watched her shop). But we didn't have a relationship. We didn't have a connection, at all. She didn't really know me then, and she sure as hell doesn't know me now. And in fact, I don't think it would've even accord to her to think about me as an individual. I was just a kid, what did I know.
I do remember that she favored my sister. Always. She let her get away with murder and she expected me to do the same. She made me her "littler helper." I was her assistant, and that made me feel important. But I often felt more like a pet than a human being. I remember her braiding my hair into tight braids because that was what was easiest for her. I remember her picking out every outfit I had for a special occasion, with out me. I remember always feeling that I needed to be with my family. I always felt, even at 8,9, 10 that going out with friends, was somehow a betrayal. I remember she never helped me with my homework or inquired about what I needed. All so distant.
I remember one time in the summer (Sis and I spent summers pretty much locked in our house. We weren't allowed to go outside because it scared NM who was at work.) I babysat, cleaned, did chores, and sat around. I had started to start suppers for her before she came home. She would call on the phone and give me the instructions on what to do. Brown the hamburger. Boil noodles. Pretty soon I became adept and could cook whole meals. I noticed that her kitchen was a bit disorganized and disheveled. Not horrible so. So, I thought, in my little innocent mind, that I would clean an organize her cupboards. I didn't rearrange things terrible. I didn't overhaul the whole thing. But I wiped the drawers and the cupboards. Lined up the spices. Put like things with like and moved a few things to where they would be easier to access. NM flew into a rage. Not at me directly. She screamed at my Dad about what a horrible person I was. How dare I arrange HER kitchen? I had screwed up all of HER things. Where did I get off thinking I needed to do that? Yup, that was mom. No good deed went unpunished.
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