I think they must get these notions from the way they were raised, but I'm astonished how many parents seem to think it totally undermines their 'power' if they ever apologize about anything, or admit, in any way, shape or form, that they might just possibly have been wrong about something (am reminded here of my dad making a joke about that very thing, acting like the Fonz in Happy Days - he was constitutionally incapable of saying "I was wrong". Instead he would do this sort of false stutter thing, "I was wr.... I was wr-wr-wr..." but could never actually get the whole word out. It was sort of funny when my dad did this, but also annoying as shit, because it just distracted from the fact that he still never fucking apologized. So there was always this churny sort of sick feeling in your gut that he was pulling something over on you, in addition to being pissed about whatever it was he'd done to make you mad in the first place. Fucking bullshit. Damn, but the whole parenting thing is so fucked up! Alice Miller, people, read your Alice Miller. Break the goddamn chain. Do something fucking different for a change. Definition of insanity and all that... use that so-called 'intelligence', that oh-so-logical brain that you're always bragging about for something other than a frickin' doorstop already. Fer fuck's sake.)
And at the same time these flawless, above-reproach parents are so fucking harsh and critical - so judgmental, so fucking godlike in their absolute unwillingness to show any kind of leniency or understanding. They just come down like a hammer, smashing you into tiny pieces so that they can feel better about themselves for all the times they've been smashed down in their lives. Fucking stupid-ass pieces of shit.
Maybe this is where the whole concept of god comes from? I've often thought this, that people created god to explain all the things that don't make sense to them - a sort of celestial repository for all the unwanted thoughts, fears, needs, etc. Kind of like a mental attic, where all the old, unresolved emotional crap can pile up unnoticed and unheeded. "Give it to god, he'll take care of it."
And the god thing can be a way to mentally let parents off the hook - it displaces the unthinkable, unpalatable recognition that those who brought you into the world see you as no more than a verbal, emotional punching bag on which to take out their old hurts, wounds, resentments. God offers a convenient escape hatch from everything we can't face up to, we can hand him anything that's too big or scary to deal with on our own. That untouchable, unreachable 'parent' on high, on whom we can dump all our responsibilities and cares. A massive delusion, mass psychosis.
Wonder why they don't have it listed in the DSM? Answer: Religion is convenient for the power-mongers. It's an excellent way to keep the sheep distracted.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
will you miss her when she's gone?
The shrinks have a name for it: The False Self. It's the mask we put on to prove to other people that we're ok, that we can handle it, that we need nothing and no one and are utterly, totally, completely self-sufficient.
We never break down; we never fail; we never have moments of self-doubt or insecurity. We're always together, with it, controlled, on top of things.
"How are you?" "Fine." What the hell else are you supposed to say? Can I say, "I'm not fine"? Then what? Will you care? Will you just ignore me as if I'd never said a word? Does it make you uncomfortable? Is that my fucking job in life - to never fucking rock the boat? To never let you know that everything's not fine, that there's a crack in the varnish, a hole in the boat?
In fact, there are thousands of holes in the boat. So many they can never be repaired. She's sinking, slowly but surely, lower in the water every day. One day you'll look out there, toward the familiar profile of her gunwale against the sky, and there'll be nothing - just a blank space where she used to float. And you won't really feel anything, because you knew all about it - you expected it, all along, it was just a matter of time
Sure there's a brief lump in your throat, it takes you a while to adjust to the new view - that smooth expanse of nothingness where once there used to be a human being.
But you fill the gap quickly with the usual busyness and distraction, and before you know it she's but a faint memory, as if she never existed. Which she never did anyway, except as a sort of vague image in your mind's eye, an idea, a concept. She was never real to you in any way, shape or form. You always kept her at a distance, like the boat - a safe distance away from shore, so you'd never have to really see what terrible shape she was in, how her paint had peeled, her boards rotted, her oarlocks gone and her rope frayed and knotted from breaking so many times. Maybe she didn't sink - maybe she drifted away with the tide. Who knows.
***
The shrinks make it sound as if people with a False Self are an anomaly, are unusual, the exception to the rule.
I would argue that, no, it's just the opposite - we're expected to put on a false self by our whole culture. People spend their entire lives creating these images of who they think they should be, propping them up on the lawn like cardboard cutouts to distract everyone from what's really going on.
Those of us who try to be real, who bleed and cry and ask for help - we're merely seen as weak, as pathetic, as losers. People move away from us, embarrassed by our need and helplessness. They turn away in shame, afraid that somehow our bad luck will rub off on them and they'll catch it too, like some communicable disease.
***
The fact is, no one cares whether I sink or swim. People reach out, but it's always a one-shot deal - there's no continuity, no long-term connection. Relationships seem to be about as strong as wet tissue paper. The people who stay in relationships all seem to have made some kind of deal with the devil that I simply can't stomach: One or the other of them has to suck it up in a way that must be like swallowing broken glass every day. Every relationship I see seems to have some kind of massive power imbalance that totally fucking sucks.
I don't think I'm even capable of falling in love any more - I feel so completely disillusioned and let down about everything. Nothing makes sense; nothing adds up. I feel like I've been wandering, drifting most of my life, looking for some port to anchor in, a safe haven, a place to be out of the weather.
***
The thing is, when you grow up in a family where nobody has your back, nobody sticks up for you, nobody's there to catch you when you fall - you develop this prickly self-defensiveness born out of the inablity to ever truly relax, ever feel truly safe or at home with yourself.
Because no one seems to 'get' you, to be there for you, to understand or care about what you might be going through, even in the most superficial, "I'm curious about that" sort of way - well, you begin to feel like you don't exist. Like you're not there. Like no one can see or hear you.
And you begin to get angry about that, because people are always stepping on you, tripping over you, acting like you're this invisible person that no one can see.
At some point you begin to believe that there must be something severely wrong with you, like you're defective in some way, that you're just simply wrong. As if your very existence was a mistake, an error, something to be deleted from the ledger of life at someone's earliest convenience.
We never break down; we never fail; we never have moments of self-doubt or insecurity. We're always together, with it, controlled, on top of things.
"How are you?" "Fine." What the hell else are you supposed to say? Can I say, "I'm not fine"? Then what? Will you care? Will you just ignore me as if I'd never said a word? Does it make you uncomfortable? Is that my fucking job in life - to never fucking rock the boat? To never let you know that everything's not fine, that there's a crack in the varnish, a hole in the boat?
In fact, there are thousands of holes in the boat. So many they can never be repaired. She's sinking, slowly but surely, lower in the water every day. One day you'll look out there, toward the familiar profile of her gunwale against the sky, and there'll be nothing - just a blank space where she used to float. And you won't really feel anything, because you knew all about it - you expected it, all along, it was just a matter of time
Sure there's a brief lump in your throat, it takes you a while to adjust to the new view - that smooth expanse of nothingness where once there used to be a human being.
But you fill the gap quickly with the usual busyness and distraction, and before you know it she's but a faint memory, as if she never existed. Which she never did anyway, except as a sort of vague image in your mind's eye, an idea, a concept. She was never real to you in any way, shape or form. You always kept her at a distance, like the boat - a safe distance away from shore, so you'd never have to really see what terrible shape she was in, how her paint had peeled, her boards rotted, her oarlocks gone and her rope frayed and knotted from breaking so many times. Maybe she didn't sink - maybe she drifted away with the tide. Who knows.
***
The shrinks make it sound as if people with a False Self are an anomaly, are unusual, the exception to the rule.
I would argue that, no, it's just the opposite - we're expected to put on a false self by our whole culture. People spend their entire lives creating these images of who they think they should be, propping them up on the lawn like cardboard cutouts to distract everyone from what's really going on.
Those of us who try to be real, who bleed and cry and ask for help - we're merely seen as weak, as pathetic, as losers. People move away from us, embarrassed by our need and helplessness. They turn away in shame, afraid that somehow our bad luck will rub off on them and they'll catch it too, like some communicable disease.
***
The fact is, no one cares whether I sink or swim. People reach out, but it's always a one-shot deal - there's no continuity, no long-term connection. Relationships seem to be about as strong as wet tissue paper. The people who stay in relationships all seem to have made some kind of deal with the devil that I simply can't stomach: One or the other of them has to suck it up in a way that must be like swallowing broken glass every day. Every relationship I see seems to have some kind of massive power imbalance that totally fucking sucks.
I don't think I'm even capable of falling in love any more - I feel so completely disillusioned and let down about everything. Nothing makes sense; nothing adds up. I feel like I've been wandering, drifting most of my life, looking for some port to anchor in, a safe haven, a place to be out of the weather.
***
The thing is, when you grow up in a family where nobody has your back, nobody sticks up for you, nobody's there to catch you when you fall - you develop this prickly self-defensiveness born out of the inablity to ever truly relax, ever feel truly safe or at home with yourself.
Because no one seems to 'get' you, to be there for you, to understand or care about what you might be going through, even in the most superficial, "I'm curious about that" sort of way - well, you begin to feel like you don't exist. Like you're not there. Like no one can see or hear you.
And you begin to get angry about that, because people are always stepping on you, tripping over you, acting like you're this invisible person that no one can see.
At some point you begin to believe that there must be something severely wrong with you, like you're defective in some way, that you're just simply wrong. As if your very existence was a mistake, an error, something to be deleted from the ledger of life at someone's earliest convenience.
mirror neurons, culture, childhood
I grew up with a father who was unkind to me, who treated me like a problem to be solved rather than a person. I was continually punished in subtle and not-so-subtle ways for the egregious, heinous sin of having dared to be born female.
My mother, on the other hand, was simply clueless. Half the time (or more than half) she didn't understand what she was seeing, so she mostly responded inappropriately. She 'succeeded' as well as she did (if you define 'succeeded' as 'survived the prevailing fucked-up patriarchal, misogynist, sexist culture with a roof over her head and plenty to eat') because she was able to conform to the cultural requirement of the 'good wife' - i.e., she didn't talk back to her husband, was meek and submissive (frightened, in other words, of losing her 'job') enough in the early years of their marriage to lull my father into a sense of complacency from which he never recovered. He also had an overdeveloped sense of responsibility fostered by his father, who believed strongly in that most poisonous of all cultural 'shoulds': the Protestant work ethic.
To this day I think the stern looks bestowed on me by my father in every picture I can find (and believe me, I've hunted for one where he appeared to be looking upon me with benevolence, with kindness, possibly even fondness, possibly even something so - alien? as a mere and simple friendly smile*, for fuck's sake. Nary a one. Art mimics life, or some damn thing like that) reflect my dad's belief that being a father = having a stern expression at all times. Photos of his dad, my grandfather, capture perfectly the expression that comes to mind when I think of the word 'patrician' - cold, aloof, unresponsive. Ack.
None of the men in my father's family really believe in the work ethic - they all rebel against it in more or less visible ways. But they sure talk the walk, whether or not they walk it. In other words, they follow the letter, but not the spirit of this 'moral principle'. And they for sure as hell pass on the guilt... if guilt were an Olympic event, who'd win, d'ya think? Protestants or Catholics? I'd say we give the C's a good run for their money.
I don't give a shit about the Protestant work ethic - in fact, if I'd been less terrorized/terrified by the whole thing as a child, I would have tried to talk them all out of it and persuade them to actually live life instead. Ach, well. Maybe in another incarnation.
So what I think, is: I was really smart, really sensitive. One parent modeled intentional cruelty, believing that to be simply 'the way of the world' ("It's a jungle out there," as he would have put it). He didn't much like women, and I, being a miniature woman-in-training, got the brunt of his resentment. He verbally backhanded me and mom every chance he got, until I learned to talk back to him - 'smart mouth', as one of my aunts (Dad's younger sister) called it.
But it was a survival technique, and a necessary one. The man who feared that I'd grow up to be yet another 'mouse' very nearly turned me into one by his very own goddamn oppressive 'parenting' techniques. Goddamn fucking clueless git.
Of course he was a mere scrap of a 23-year-old when I was born - skinny, scrawny, trying to be tough, trying to carry the world on his narrow shoulders. The scowls on the faces of the parental units in their wedding picture has never ceased to amaze me. These people do not look happy! They look like somebody lined them up at the business end of a shotgun...and I've always wondered if that was in fact the case.
But mom continues to insist on her rose-colored version of the story (I'll probably never know the truth, just my gut instinct. Course I could always find out the date of their marriage - hm, never thought of that before.)
***
Aside: This is not parent-blaming. That label is a cop-out, slapped on those of us who are struggling with old, parent-imposed baggage by others who were not handicapped in that way - people who, through no effort of their own, were privileged to be at the receiving end of a fairer deal. In other words, they were dealt a better hand in life. Once again, fundamental misattribution error at work, better known as 'people taking credit for things over which they had no control,' and for which they should be given no credit. Like being born white, rich, smart or beautiful. Check your privilege at the door, people.
People who say we're parent-blaming are also those most likely to perpetuate the same power-over, abusive shit on their own kids. Those of us accused of wallowing in self-pity are, often as not, actually trying to do something about it, namely, break the pattern.
And yes, part of the pattern is anger, and being angry. I am rightfully angry at having been born into a comfortable middle-class family and yet having been treated like some kind of - I can't even think of words to describe the feeling - serf. Like I was hobbled, ball and chain around my ankles, for the crime of being born a woman in a man's world. I got caught between a misogynist, sexist man who took out his resentments on me, but in such a way that it took me 40 years to catch on that he planted the seeds of self-hatred all those years ago, and a mother who has never, to this day, been able to face up to her childhood shit. So she perpetuates the patterns ad nauseum, "the sins of the [mothers] shall be visited on the [daughters], yea, unto the seventh generation," or whatever the hell the quote is.
***
A father who was a hammer (albeit a velvet-covered one, which just meant that the bruises were internal and couldn't be seen, kind of like the hit man who learns to 'leave no marks'), and a mother who was this squishy, unsupportive, unprotecting, terrified mouse (marshmallow?) who periodically morphed into a resentful, angry, passive-aggressive child who had no clue what she was dealing with, but faked it to the best of her ability.
(I felt like I was on a roll, then Blogger seized up while my best thoughts were churning around crying out to be put on 'paper', and now I seem to have lost my clarity. Dammit. Sigh. Just have to do the best I can.)
They were both too young, I can see that. But I can't forgive them for how they treated me. I should have had a bright future, all the hope and potential in the world. But they were both so caught up in their own dysfunctional shit that it's a wonder I didn't become a complete basket case. I think my only saving grace was my bright mind, which dragged my kicking, screaming, terrified child self into a safe, dark corner of books and stories, where no one could touch me.
***
What I remember is the scowls on my parents' faces. They seemed to think that parenting primarily entailed being very serious, which shows in many of the photos taken when I was little. Several pictures show me clowning in ways that seem guaranteed to irritate the shit out of any parent-in-training who's trying to impress friends/family with her/his fitness to be a parent. The only problem was, the more serious they got, the more I had to 'act out' to relieve the fucking endless tension...
And yes, they were broke. Miserably so. And I was no good as a clown - or, let's say, more accurately, my parents didn't 'get' my sense of humor. I didn't relate to them, nor they to me. I was this little alien being who'd somehow materialized into the wrong family, and never the twain did meet.
I won't even give them credit for 'doing their best' - yes, they did their best to jump through the cultural hurdles that time period imposed on new parents. But neither of them had the intuitive sense god gave a frickin' rock, so I was stuck with these two clueless wonders, each clueless in their own way.
***
I, however, was smart and sensitive, intuitive, perceptive and responsive in all the ways my parents were not. I made up for their shortcomings by becoming the ultimate conformist - I became whatever they needed me to be (yes, this is quite a common survival technique for children in fucked up families - not claiming to be special here), which in my case was mostly invisible. I was my mom's full-time job for the first three years of my life, until my brother came along, at which point he sucked up all the oxygen in the room, and mom was much more attuned to his needs, not to mention he was much more vocal - mom called him the 'fire engine', he had an ear-splitting wail that wouldn't quit til he got what he needed. I think I was much more intimidated by my mother's fear and anger, and so reacted to her unfriendly looks with fear and, eventually, silence. I literally lost my ability to express my needs. Also she must have been completely exhausted by raising two small children single-handedly (dad was never around, between bridge, poker, work and hanging out with his family), and probably was less 'fussy' with my brother because she simply didn't have the energy.
I was naturally much more quiet, and so became the Invisible one. I think that's why I so loved Kipling's story of the tiger, who faded invisibly into the grass, his stripes turning him into just another pattern of shadow and light. And Esme Weatherwax in the Pratchett books, who can 'fade' into the background til you're no longer aware of her presence. I think I have sometimes unnerved people with how quiet I can be (based on a few comments that come to mind) - even my breathing is affected sometimes, so shallow that I make no sound whatsoever. Yikes. Kind of scary when I start to put all the pieces together.
***
The anger is real, and valid. Fuck all y'all who judge without having walked the miles in these shoes.
I now care less about being angry because I finally understand what happened, and I got there at my speed, in my own way, and on my terms. That's the best part - I get to decide what matters to me, what's important to me. I don't have to listen to those doubting, damning, shaming voices any more. I can say FUCK 'em, without hesitation, regret or remorse.
I get to go at the speed that's comfortable for me, and not have to 'hurry up' or 'grow up' too fast because it's inconvenient or uncomfortable for somebody else to have to adapt to my pace.
I get to walk without tripping (and without being tripped by that fucker).
I get to talk when I see fit, not when it's deemed acceptable by somebody else.
It's all a power trip, a power game, and those of us on the 'downside' of said power shit are cursed to forever bear the double burden of both getting the short end of the stick and being blamed for it, too. Like an unruly slave who 'got out of line' would sometimes be labeled with some make-believe, phony-ass diagnosis of drapetomania, which basically meant she (the slave) wasn't puttin' up with none of that shit, and was bein' too damn uppity. But of course slaves were born to be slaves, of course they were, how could it be otherwise? So any resentment or resistance on their part had to be down to some kind of fucking mental disturbance. Yeah, right. Like how fucking are mentally disturbed are you going to be when I shove this shotgun up your ass and pull the fucking trigger??? I'd say, all parts of y'all goin' to be seriously disturbed by that shit. So get over yourself already. You're not so special - you jest ain't been stomped hard enough in this lifetime to see what the hell all the fuckin' racket's about. To you it's just meaningless noise. But to the rest of us it actually means something, and reason we won't 'quieten down' is 'cause we want ya'll to fuckin' listen up already.
Anyway. Damn, but it felt good to write all that down! I wonder how many violent fantasies are basically revenge fantasies toward the various oppressors in one's life? I noticed myself thinking that while watching the Harry Potter movies - being especially taken by the stark contrasts between the 'good' guys and 'bad' guys - the whole good vs. evil thing. Especially watching the bullies (and there are many of them in these stories) get their comeuppance. Credits to Alice Miller. If only the rest of the culture would catch on to what is right in front of our noises: Mean, thoughtless parents produce children who become cruel, vicious, bullying parents in their own turn. And the cycle goes on, and on.
(Encountered an article today that said that the part of the central nervous system that processes physical pain is the same network that processes feelings of humiliation. Which might explain why so many people react violently to being humiliated! Makes sense - if we are affiliative creatures who depend on bonds of kinship and friendship for our sense of safety, security and belonging in a world where to be alone means to be shunned - naked and alone out on that savannah where there be tigers, and you'll get et if'n you ain't careful. You therefore want to be safely protected by others of your kind! Why the hell else do we have the most highly developed social networking skills of all god's critters? Answer: We're a tribal species. We need other people to survive, we soft-skinned, shell-less, dull-toothed and relatively slow bipeds. Pain and humiliation go against the bonding process, triggering all kinds of negative chemical reactions in the body. 'Not good,' as Cap'n Jack would say. So we have all kinds of incentive to avoid situations which cause us either physical or emotional pain, because they signal a rift between us and those we need most: Our kin. And thus it makes sense that the nervous system processes both humiliation and physical pain along the system pathway: They're both signals of something gone wrong in a social situation. Argh - getting bleary, need sleep. 'Pologies for any incoherence.)
***
Anger is part of the process (at least when you come from a family that doesn't support individual growth) of splitting away from the parent plant (the 'family') and becoming one's own person.
Anger happens when you finally get enough distance and enough life experience to realize that they way your folks did things isn't the only way, and that many of the things they did and said were damaging and destructive, if not simply outright cruel.
Anger is the fuel that keeps you motivated; that keeps you hunting for reasons, for solutions, for ways to make things work. To solve the 'problem' that you've been made out to be; to stop feeling like 'the problem' and put the blame to rest squarely where it belonged all along: On the shoulders of those who should have been fucking paying attention, but weren't.
So. Now I get to clean up the mess, deal with the consequences. And as my anger slowly dies down into a heap of coals with the occasional flare-up, I get to experiment with different ways of being and doing that my parents never showed me and/or didn't know about. I get to discover new paths, new ways. I get to decide for myself what's important, what matters. I am no longer in thrall to their angry glares, resentful scowls, judgmental looks. They have no power over me any more.
But it's like an earthquake - there are aftershocks in the form of relapses, regressions, etc., as I (mainly by trial and error) discover what actually works. I have to try out new anger techniques on strangers, then bring them closer and closer to home as I discover who my true friends are by testing the strength of our relationships. Adjusting the distance between me and others to match my comfort level, my willingness to trust based on my new standards, based on my rules.
(Sanctimonious, that's the word I was looking for earlier. Can't remember now where I meant to put it, so will store it here for later. Need a nap now.)
*Edited to add: I've remembered a photo where dad and I are clowning around and he's grinning a goofy grin at me. I remember there was this brief stretch where I was finally ok with dad because I'd become pretty, in spite of his constant backhanded remarks throughout my teenage years.
I have to say it felt kind of creepy - like being hit on by your own dad. I mean it would have been one thing if he'd been truly, genuinely friendly to me my whole life, and had made me feel like he liked me just the way I was. But in reality he could be unspeakably cruel and thoughtless - saying things that absolutely mortified me, cut me to the bone so that I felt like nothing and no one. He made it seem that I was unattractive but that it didn't matter - "We aren't here for decorative purposes," he'd say, as if that would somehow relieve the pain.
I didn't actually think I was ugly - I didn't think I was anything, really, not even plain. I just felt like - nothing. Like no one could see me. I remember gazing into the mirror by candlelight one night when I was about twelve, admiring my perfect skin, my gorgeous eyes, my pretty smile. And feeling unappreciated and resenting already that my youth and beauty were being wasted on someone so incapable of seeing me. I felt lost, already, even then - I feared that no one would ever see my beauty, no one would ever appreciate me for who I was.
When dad finally decided I was not so bad to look at after all, in my late teens or early 20s, it was too little, too late - I already felt betrayed and abandoned. I remember meeting him at a bar somewhere and thinking, Wow, this should be really cool, he's treating me like a grownup.
But it just felt kind of skeezy - I wondered if the people in the bar thought that I was some young chick my dad was cheating with, and if my dad was somehow kind of getting off on the idea that people might think I was his girlfriend rather than his daughter - it was pretty fucking weird, really. I remember feeling kind of shocked that this was my fucking father acting this way, and putting kind of a mental distance between me and him so that I wouldn't have to think about it too hard. It was really kind of gross.
My mother, on the other hand, was simply clueless. Half the time (or more than half) she didn't understand what she was seeing, so she mostly responded inappropriately. She 'succeeded' as well as she did (if you define 'succeeded' as 'survived the prevailing fucked-up patriarchal, misogynist, sexist culture with a roof over her head and plenty to eat') because she was able to conform to the cultural requirement of the 'good wife' - i.e., she didn't talk back to her husband, was meek and submissive (frightened, in other words, of losing her 'job') enough in the early years of their marriage to lull my father into a sense of complacency from which he never recovered. He also had an overdeveloped sense of responsibility fostered by his father, who believed strongly in that most poisonous of all cultural 'shoulds': the Protestant work ethic.
To this day I think the stern looks bestowed on me by my father in every picture I can find (and believe me, I've hunted for one where he appeared to be looking upon me with benevolence, with kindness, possibly even fondness, possibly even something so - alien? as a mere and simple friendly smile*, for fuck's sake. Nary a one. Art mimics life, or some damn thing like that) reflect my dad's belief that being a father = having a stern expression at all times. Photos of his dad, my grandfather, capture perfectly the expression that comes to mind when I think of the word 'patrician' - cold, aloof, unresponsive. Ack.
None of the men in my father's family really believe in the work ethic - they all rebel against it in more or less visible ways. But they sure talk the walk, whether or not they walk it. In other words, they follow the letter, but not the spirit of this 'moral principle'. And they for sure as hell pass on the guilt... if guilt were an Olympic event, who'd win, d'ya think? Protestants or Catholics? I'd say we give the C's a good run for their money.
I don't give a shit about the Protestant work ethic - in fact, if I'd been less terrorized/terrified by the whole thing as a child, I would have tried to talk them all out of it and persuade them to actually live life instead. Ach, well. Maybe in another incarnation.
So what I think, is: I was really smart, really sensitive. One parent modeled intentional cruelty, believing that to be simply 'the way of the world' ("It's a jungle out there," as he would have put it). He didn't much like women, and I, being a miniature woman-in-training, got the brunt of his resentment. He verbally backhanded me and mom every chance he got, until I learned to talk back to him - 'smart mouth', as one of my aunts (Dad's younger sister) called it.
But it was a survival technique, and a necessary one. The man who feared that I'd grow up to be yet another 'mouse' very nearly turned me into one by his very own goddamn oppressive 'parenting' techniques. Goddamn fucking clueless git.
Of course he was a mere scrap of a 23-year-old when I was born - skinny, scrawny, trying to be tough, trying to carry the world on his narrow shoulders. The scowls on the faces of the parental units in their wedding picture has never ceased to amaze me. These people do not look happy! They look like somebody lined them up at the business end of a shotgun...and I've always wondered if that was in fact the case.
But mom continues to insist on her rose-colored version of the story (I'll probably never know the truth, just my gut instinct. Course I could always find out the date of their marriage - hm, never thought of that before.)
***
Aside: This is not parent-blaming. That label is a cop-out, slapped on those of us who are struggling with old, parent-imposed baggage by others who were not handicapped in that way - people who, through no effort of their own, were privileged to be at the receiving end of a fairer deal. In other words, they were dealt a better hand in life. Once again, fundamental misattribution error at work, better known as 'people taking credit for things over which they had no control,' and for which they should be given no credit. Like being born white, rich, smart or beautiful. Check your privilege at the door, people.
People who say we're parent-blaming are also those most likely to perpetuate the same power-over, abusive shit on their own kids. Those of us accused of wallowing in self-pity are, often as not, actually trying to do something about it, namely, break the pattern.
And yes, part of the pattern is anger, and being angry. I am rightfully angry at having been born into a comfortable middle-class family and yet having been treated like some kind of - I can't even think of words to describe the feeling - serf. Like I was hobbled, ball and chain around my ankles, for the crime of being born a woman in a man's world. I got caught between a misogynist, sexist man who took out his resentments on me, but in such a way that it took me 40 years to catch on that he planted the seeds of self-hatred all those years ago, and a mother who has never, to this day, been able to face up to her childhood shit. So she perpetuates the patterns ad nauseum, "the sins of the [mothers] shall be visited on the [daughters], yea, unto the seventh generation," or whatever the hell the quote is.
***
A father who was a hammer (albeit a velvet-covered one, which just meant that the bruises were internal and couldn't be seen, kind of like the hit man who learns to 'leave no marks'), and a mother who was this squishy, unsupportive, unprotecting, terrified mouse (marshmallow?) who periodically morphed into a resentful, angry, passive-aggressive child who had no clue what she was dealing with, but faked it to the best of her ability.
(I felt like I was on a roll, then Blogger seized up while my best thoughts were churning around crying out to be put on 'paper', and now I seem to have lost my clarity. Dammit. Sigh. Just have to do the best I can.)
They were both too young, I can see that. But I can't forgive them for how they treated me. I should have had a bright future, all the hope and potential in the world. But they were both so caught up in their own dysfunctional shit that it's a wonder I didn't become a complete basket case. I think my only saving grace was my bright mind, which dragged my kicking, screaming, terrified child self into a safe, dark corner of books and stories, where no one could touch me.
***
What I remember is the scowls on my parents' faces. They seemed to think that parenting primarily entailed being very serious, which shows in many of the photos taken when I was little. Several pictures show me clowning in ways that seem guaranteed to irritate the shit out of any parent-in-training who's trying to impress friends/family with her/his fitness to be a parent. The only problem was, the more serious they got, the more I had to 'act out' to relieve the fucking endless tension...
And yes, they were broke. Miserably so. And I was no good as a clown - or, let's say, more accurately, my parents didn't 'get' my sense of humor. I didn't relate to them, nor they to me. I was this little alien being who'd somehow materialized into the wrong family, and never the twain did meet.
I won't even give them credit for 'doing their best' - yes, they did their best to jump through the cultural hurdles that time period imposed on new parents. But neither of them had the intuitive sense god gave a frickin' rock, so I was stuck with these two clueless wonders, each clueless in their own way.
***
I, however, was smart and sensitive, intuitive, perceptive and responsive in all the ways my parents were not. I made up for their shortcomings by becoming the ultimate conformist - I became whatever they needed me to be (yes, this is quite a common survival technique for children in fucked up families - not claiming to be special here), which in my case was mostly invisible. I was my mom's full-time job for the first three years of my life, until my brother came along, at which point he sucked up all the oxygen in the room, and mom was much more attuned to his needs, not to mention he was much more vocal - mom called him the 'fire engine', he had an ear-splitting wail that wouldn't quit til he got what he needed. I think I was much more intimidated by my mother's fear and anger, and so reacted to her unfriendly looks with fear and, eventually, silence. I literally lost my ability to express my needs. Also she must have been completely exhausted by raising two small children single-handedly (dad was never around, between bridge, poker, work and hanging out with his family), and probably was less 'fussy' with my brother because she simply didn't have the energy.
I was naturally much more quiet, and so became the Invisible one. I think that's why I so loved Kipling's story of the tiger, who faded invisibly into the grass, his stripes turning him into just another pattern of shadow and light. And Esme Weatherwax in the Pratchett books, who can 'fade' into the background til you're no longer aware of her presence. I think I have sometimes unnerved people with how quiet I can be (based on a few comments that come to mind) - even my breathing is affected sometimes, so shallow that I make no sound whatsoever. Yikes. Kind of scary when I start to put all the pieces together.
***
The anger is real, and valid. Fuck all y'all who judge without having walked the miles in these shoes.
I now care less about being angry because I finally understand what happened, and I got there at my speed, in my own way, and on my terms. That's the best part - I get to decide what matters to me, what's important to me. I don't have to listen to those doubting, damning, shaming voices any more. I can say FUCK 'em, without hesitation, regret or remorse.
I get to go at the speed that's comfortable for me, and not have to 'hurry up' or 'grow up' too fast because it's inconvenient or uncomfortable for somebody else to have to adapt to my pace.
I get to walk without tripping (and without being tripped by that fucker).
I get to talk when I see fit, not when it's deemed acceptable by somebody else.
It's all a power trip, a power game, and those of us on the 'downside' of said power shit are cursed to forever bear the double burden of both getting the short end of the stick and being blamed for it, too. Like an unruly slave who 'got out of line' would sometimes be labeled with some make-believe, phony-ass diagnosis of drapetomania, which basically meant she (the slave) wasn't puttin' up with none of that shit, and was bein' too damn uppity. But of course slaves were born to be slaves, of course they were, how could it be otherwise? So any resentment or resistance on their part had to be down to some kind of fucking mental disturbance. Yeah, right. Like how fucking are mentally disturbed are you going to be when I shove this shotgun up your ass and pull the fucking trigger??? I'd say, all parts of y'all goin' to be seriously disturbed by that shit. So get over yourself already. You're not so special - you jest ain't been stomped hard enough in this lifetime to see what the hell all the fuckin' racket's about. To you it's just meaningless noise. But to the rest of us it actually means something, and reason we won't 'quieten down' is 'cause we want ya'll to fuckin' listen up already.
Anyway. Damn, but it felt good to write all that down! I wonder how many violent fantasies are basically revenge fantasies toward the various oppressors in one's life? I noticed myself thinking that while watching the Harry Potter movies - being especially taken by the stark contrasts between the 'good' guys and 'bad' guys - the whole good vs. evil thing. Especially watching the bullies (and there are many of them in these stories) get their comeuppance. Credits to Alice Miller. If only the rest of the culture would catch on to what is right in front of our noises: Mean, thoughtless parents produce children who become cruel, vicious, bullying parents in their own turn. And the cycle goes on, and on.
(Encountered an article today that said that the part of the central nervous system that processes physical pain is the same network that processes feelings of humiliation. Which might explain why so many people react violently to being humiliated! Makes sense - if we are affiliative creatures who depend on bonds of kinship and friendship for our sense of safety, security and belonging in a world where to be alone means to be shunned - naked and alone out on that savannah where there be tigers, and you'll get et if'n you ain't careful. You therefore want to be safely protected by others of your kind! Why the hell else do we have the most highly developed social networking skills of all god's critters? Answer: We're a tribal species. We need other people to survive, we soft-skinned, shell-less, dull-toothed and relatively slow bipeds. Pain and humiliation go against the bonding process, triggering all kinds of negative chemical reactions in the body. 'Not good,' as Cap'n Jack would say. So we have all kinds of incentive to avoid situations which cause us either physical or emotional pain, because they signal a rift between us and those we need most: Our kin. And thus it makes sense that the nervous system processes both humiliation and physical pain along the system pathway: They're both signals of something gone wrong in a social situation. Argh - getting bleary, need sleep. 'Pologies for any incoherence.)
***
Anger is part of the process (at least when you come from a family that doesn't support individual growth) of splitting away from the parent plant (the 'family') and becoming one's own person.
Anger happens when you finally get enough distance and enough life experience to realize that they way your folks did things isn't the only way, and that many of the things they did and said were damaging and destructive, if not simply outright cruel.
Anger is the fuel that keeps you motivated; that keeps you hunting for reasons, for solutions, for ways to make things work. To solve the 'problem' that you've been made out to be; to stop feeling like 'the problem' and put the blame to rest squarely where it belonged all along: On the shoulders of those who should have been fucking paying attention, but weren't.
So. Now I get to clean up the mess, deal with the consequences. And as my anger slowly dies down into a heap of coals with the occasional flare-up, I get to experiment with different ways of being and doing that my parents never showed me and/or didn't know about. I get to discover new paths, new ways. I get to decide for myself what's important, what matters. I am no longer in thrall to their angry glares, resentful scowls, judgmental looks. They have no power over me any more.
But it's like an earthquake - there are aftershocks in the form of relapses, regressions, etc., as I (mainly by trial and error) discover what actually works. I have to try out new anger techniques on strangers, then bring them closer and closer to home as I discover who my true friends are by testing the strength of our relationships. Adjusting the distance between me and others to match my comfort level, my willingness to trust based on my new standards, based on my rules.
(Sanctimonious, that's the word I was looking for earlier. Can't remember now where I meant to put it, so will store it here for later. Need a nap now.)
*Edited to add: I've remembered a photo where dad and I are clowning around and he's grinning a goofy grin at me. I remember there was this brief stretch where I was finally ok with dad because I'd become pretty, in spite of his constant backhanded remarks throughout my teenage years.
I have to say it felt kind of creepy - like being hit on by your own dad. I mean it would have been one thing if he'd been truly, genuinely friendly to me my whole life, and had made me feel like he liked me just the way I was. But in reality he could be unspeakably cruel and thoughtless - saying things that absolutely mortified me, cut me to the bone so that I felt like nothing and no one. He made it seem that I was unattractive but that it didn't matter - "We aren't here for decorative purposes," he'd say, as if that would somehow relieve the pain.
I didn't actually think I was ugly - I didn't think I was anything, really, not even plain. I just felt like - nothing. Like no one could see me. I remember gazing into the mirror by candlelight one night when I was about twelve, admiring my perfect skin, my gorgeous eyes, my pretty smile. And feeling unappreciated and resenting already that my youth and beauty were being wasted on someone so incapable of seeing me. I felt lost, already, even then - I feared that no one would ever see my beauty, no one would ever appreciate me for who I was.
When dad finally decided I was not so bad to look at after all, in my late teens or early 20s, it was too little, too late - I already felt betrayed and abandoned. I remember meeting him at a bar somewhere and thinking, Wow, this should be really cool, he's treating me like a grownup.
But it just felt kind of skeezy - I wondered if the people in the bar thought that I was some young chick my dad was cheating with, and if my dad was somehow kind of getting off on the idea that people might think I was his girlfriend rather than his daughter - it was pretty fucking weird, really. I remember feeling kind of shocked that this was my fucking father acting this way, and putting kind of a mental distance between me and him so that I wouldn't have to think about it too hard. It was really kind of gross.
Friday, September 11, 2009
getting closer to the source
This is a bit exhausting - still trying to piece together and make sense of, single-handedly, without evidence and/or support from anyone in the family (i.e., no witnesses) what actually happened in my childhood to lead to the experiences I have today of trauma, sleeplessness, social anxiety and various other high stress-related symptoms and behaviors.
I feel like I'm trying to assemble a puzzle while having no idea whatsoever what the finished picture will look like, and trying to find the pieces by feel rather than by sight. In other words, everything seems to take at least 70 times longer than it 'ought' too...
Sigh. Well, at least I'm making progress. I'm no longer leaning on my old friend Jack, which means my body is not dealing with the ravages of alcohol on top of everything else. I'm sleeping better, with fewer nightmares and more continous, uninterrupted hours of sleep. I still have strange dreams, and still have trouble going to bed at any sort of 'normal' time of night, but I'm less fearful of actually falling asleep. I've learned how to get through the peri-panic moments so that I don't get sucked down the rabbit hole of dread. I've established enough contacts with people I trust so that I can call somebody if I really get stuck. So I don't feel so alone with it any more.
And now I'm beginning the process of trying to re-assemble the rest of my life, all the things that have been on hold for the last 10 years while I tried to figure out what the hell was going on, what it was inside me that continually undermined and sabotaged my best efforts to 'get ahead'.
Well, I'm not going to make a list - it's too long, and still in progress. And honestly, I don't need it. It would just be for show. But time is too short now to waste on such a project, and it's become clear that no one will ever read, understand or care about it besides me anyway. So why bother?
That last statement seems like it ought to feel depressing to write, but in fact it doesn't. It feels like a mere, bald, plain statement of fact.
And in fact I don't need such lists, such affirmations any more. Because I have the more real, solid evidence of having been hugged and encouraged and supported enough by my many friends who've come through for me in ways I never expected. Healing is well under way.
It's interesting to see what path things take. I no longer feel like I have any 'control' over any of it - it's more like I'm simply removing impediments to the growth of this plant/being named Grasshopper. And then seeing who she turns out to be when her flower (beautiful sunflower!) finally, finally, after all these years, gets her chance to bloom.
***
The anger is gradually subsiding - it was a knife, necessary to the process of cleaving away all the dead wood that barred my path for so many years. There's still a fair percentage of my daily energy going to maintaining that clear path - like a samurai machete-wielding goddess, I hack my way through the mental monsters and demons that plague me. But I do so with a single-mindedness that would do any cape-wearing hero proud: I no longer flinch or apologize, but simply get on with my business, do what I have to do.
Sometimes my 'goddess' is Wonder Woman with her bullet-deflecting wristlets; sometimes she's a big, black Jemima figure with a headscarf and overalls, shotgun on her hip and pitchfork at the ready. A no-nonsense, fierce, don't-mess-with-me mama who keeps a cigar in her pocket and can break any man in half over her knee. (Queen Latifah seems to embody, at least in her films, this fierce mother-bear protectiveness that I so missed having in my childhood.)
Whoever and whatever she is, she's fierce and strong and takes good care of me. She keeps me safe, fends off the bad guys, and sometimes scares the shit out of me with her directness and her total and complete unwillingness to take no crap from nobody, nohow.
***
The critical, judgmental voices are getting quieter and quieter, smaller and harder to decipher, like that 'wah-wah-wah' sound used to represent adult voices in the old Charlie Brown cartoons.
I feel more and more comfortable telling them to just shut the fuck up, and feel less and less remorse about having done so.
If anything encroaches on my peace and serenity, I just tell it to fuck off. It's amazing how well it works, and how blissfully, blessedly silent the internal, nagging voices are becoming.
I'm less and less hyper-vigilant - less triggered by loud voices and random scowly faces caught out of the corner of my eye.
I've adopted a total acceptance policy (been using it for quite some time, actually, but it's gradually spreading to encompass every area of my life), what some might refer to as 'radical acceptance' (yes, I know there's a book by that name.)
So if I find myself doing some kind of OCD behavior, rather than judging it, I simply accept it, encourage it, even, and ask it what it's doing. I get curious about it, and try to find out why I might be doing that particular thing (like checking that the back door is locked 20 times before I can actually go out the front door. Answer? It has to do with security, or lack thereof, and having lost many things of great sentimental value to a burglary about 10 years ago. When something traumatic happens and you don't have the emotional resources to help you cope with it at the time that it happens, you tend to store the memories away until such time as you feel safe enough to look at them and help them heal. Meantime, the 'trauma' can leak out in all kinds of weird ways that you may or may not associate with the original source of the problem.)
Today's google search link harvest:
I feel like I'm trying to assemble a puzzle while having no idea whatsoever what the finished picture will look like, and trying to find the pieces by feel rather than by sight. In other words, everything seems to take at least 70 times longer than it 'ought' too...
Sigh. Well, at least I'm making progress. I'm no longer leaning on my old friend Jack, which means my body is not dealing with the ravages of alcohol on top of everything else. I'm sleeping better, with fewer nightmares and more continous, uninterrupted hours of sleep. I still have strange dreams, and still have trouble going to bed at any sort of 'normal' time of night, but I'm less fearful of actually falling asleep. I've learned how to get through the peri-panic moments so that I don't get sucked down the rabbit hole of dread. I've established enough contacts with people I trust so that I can call somebody if I really get stuck. So I don't feel so alone with it any more.
And now I'm beginning the process of trying to re-assemble the rest of my life, all the things that have been on hold for the last 10 years while I tried to figure out what the hell was going on, what it was inside me that continually undermined and sabotaged my best efforts to 'get ahead'.
Well, I'm not going to make a list - it's too long, and still in progress. And honestly, I don't need it. It would just be for show. But time is too short now to waste on such a project, and it's become clear that no one will ever read, understand or care about it besides me anyway. So why bother?
That last statement seems like it ought to feel depressing to write, but in fact it doesn't. It feels like a mere, bald, plain statement of fact.
And in fact I don't need such lists, such affirmations any more. Because I have the more real, solid evidence of having been hugged and encouraged and supported enough by my many friends who've come through for me in ways I never expected. Healing is well under way.
It's interesting to see what path things take. I no longer feel like I have any 'control' over any of it - it's more like I'm simply removing impediments to the growth of this plant/being named Grasshopper. And then seeing who she turns out to be when her flower (beautiful sunflower!) finally, finally, after all these years, gets her chance to bloom.
***
The anger is gradually subsiding - it was a knife, necessary to the process of cleaving away all the dead wood that barred my path for so many years. There's still a fair percentage of my daily energy going to maintaining that clear path - like a samurai machete-wielding goddess, I hack my way through the mental monsters and demons that plague me. But I do so with a single-mindedness that would do any cape-wearing hero proud: I no longer flinch or apologize, but simply get on with my business, do what I have to do.
Sometimes my 'goddess' is Wonder Woman with her bullet-deflecting wristlets; sometimes she's a big, black Jemima figure with a headscarf and overalls, shotgun on her hip and pitchfork at the ready. A no-nonsense, fierce, don't-mess-with-me mama who keeps a cigar in her pocket and can break any man in half over her knee. (Queen Latifah seems to embody, at least in her films, this fierce mother-bear protectiveness that I so missed having in my childhood.)
Whoever and whatever she is, she's fierce and strong and takes good care of me. She keeps me safe, fends off the bad guys, and sometimes scares the shit out of me with her directness and her total and complete unwillingness to take no crap from nobody, nohow.
***
The critical, judgmental voices are getting quieter and quieter, smaller and harder to decipher, like that 'wah-wah-wah' sound used to represent adult voices in the old Charlie Brown cartoons.
I feel more and more comfortable telling them to just shut the fuck up, and feel less and less remorse about having done so.
If anything encroaches on my peace and serenity, I just tell it to fuck off. It's amazing how well it works, and how blissfully, blessedly silent the internal, nagging voices are becoming.
I'm less and less hyper-vigilant - less triggered by loud voices and random scowly faces caught out of the corner of my eye.
I've adopted a total acceptance policy (been using it for quite some time, actually, but it's gradually spreading to encompass every area of my life), what some might refer to as 'radical acceptance' (yes, I know there's a book by that name.)
So if I find myself doing some kind of OCD behavior, rather than judging it, I simply accept it, encourage it, even, and ask it what it's doing. I get curious about it, and try to find out why I might be doing that particular thing (like checking that the back door is locked 20 times before I can actually go out the front door. Answer? It has to do with security, or lack thereof, and having lost many things of great sentimental value to a burglary about 10 years ago. When something traumatic happens and you don't have the emotional resources to help you cope with it at the time that it happens, you tend to store the memories away until such time as you feel safe enough to look at them and help them heal. Meantime, the 'trauma' can leak out in all kinds of weird ways that you may or may not associate with the original source of the problem.)
Today's google search link harvest:
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
why
do I feel suicidal every time I'm around my family? If I even speak to one of them, I find myself blurting out things like, "I may not be around much longer", "I can't take it any more". It's like I just can't hold it inside any longer - the pain of being unheard for my entire life. I keep saying it's as if I were bleeding to death alongside a road and nobody stopped to help me - that's what my family feels like. Only the bleeding is all internal, invisible (at least to them), and no one notices til it's too late. It reminds me of when I had gallstones and hadn't eaten for two weeks because of the pain and I had to harass the doctor to pay any attention to me because I 'looked too healthy'. Fuck. It was all I could do to not grab the asshole by the lapels and shake him.
"Look, I know I'm not as important as that heart attack you're dealing with down the hall," I said, "but I haven't eaten in two weeks and every time I eat there's this excruciating pain, unlike any pain I've ever had in my life. I know I look perfectly healthy, but I'm not - there's something wrong." The very first guy I saw at my first emergency room said something about, "Well, it could be gallstones, but you just don't fit the profile." Fuck. Why can't these idiots look past their stupid assumptions and see what's right in front of their noses?
I finally persuaded him to at least refer me for an ultrasound (what the fuck am I paying you assholes all this money for, anyway? Jesus fucking christ.) Sure enough, gallstones. Though there was a weird moment where the lab tech called another tech into the room to say, "Look, her liver's way up here!" And blah blah blah - I guess I was otherwise extremely healthy, and they'd never really seen a normal, healthy body before under their scans - most of the women who came in were 'fair, fat and forty', which is the standard profile for people who tend to get gallstones.
Anyway. The whole point is, nobody ever believed me. I was not a hypochondriac; I hardly ever came in at all, except for routine exams and pap smears. My so-called 'regular doctor' practically didn't know who I was, I came in so infrequently. And yet the one and only time I came in with a serious complaint, they treated me like - I don't know what. Like I didn't know what was going on with my own fucking body. Jesus. The hubris, the arrogance. I've encountered this so many times now with the medical profession, whether standard or alternative, and with dentists as well. In fact anybody with any 'credentials' seems to be almost entirely about 'proving' themselves, something to do with ego. Truly, nobody ever grows up. We're all just children in oversized bodies. Sigh.
And my family is the same: I don't know if it's because of all my years of silence and only speaking up now, but it's as if I've lied, or cheated, or - I don't know what. They just won't listen, won't hear. I've read recently that people resist having their motives questioned, their - whatsit - morality? or something - impugned. Their 'honor', maybe? Dunno. Seems like truth doesn't matter to most people at all - it's all about image, the mirage, the projection. Like the Wizard of Oz, once again. All smoke and mirrors, no substance. Fuck.
It's that invisible feeling - like I don't matter, like nobody cares, nobody hears. No matter how loud I shout or scream, all they hear is that I'm being inconvenient for them. They don't appear to hear, see or otherwise perceive the pain. They're like that 'deaf, dumb and blind kid,' only they don't even play a mean pinball... (song reference.)
Feeling like you don't exist. Like the pain inside of you will just explode - like you'll explode - your mind, your body. Like a gasket, or some gizmo that's been under pressure too long and has worn out. Something just gives out - heart, mind, soul, spirit. Something.
But I don't want to go. I don't want to die. I just don't want to deal with them any more. I want them to go away and leave me alone. The problem is, they're only too happy to do just that. In fact it's just more of the same - I can't even appreciate it as the cessation of an unpleasant noise because there never was any noise to begin with - just the deafening SILENCE.
Silence. Fucking SILENCE. By speaking my truth, I've alienated them all - they've closed ranks, shut me out, now more than ever. But it's not the blessed relief of silence after too much noise - no, it's the further pain of being totally ignored on top of never having been taken seriously in the first place.
If anybody from the family ever reads this and cares enough to try to understand, THIS is where the pain comes from: The silence of having nobody to care, nobody to listen. Having everybody walk away and turn their backs on you every single time you express any kind of emotional need that makes them the least bit uncomfortable.
***
From an article on the powerful long-term effects of prolonged emotional invalidation:
The culture at large is complicit in these games of dominance and manipulation: A culture that believes in 'might makes right' and 'survival of the fittest' isn't going to have much compassion for those who lose at the game of life. Contempt is what you'll get, adding insult to the injury of already having 'failed' in the eyes of so many who look on and judge those of us who, by nature, inclination, temperament, circumstance or some combination thereof, are not suited to 'winning' the so-called game. Particularly if you're a woman, where, in this 'game', you're not even a player, not even on a 'team' at all, but are instead the ultimate object of derision: The ball. To be kicked and abused at will. Merely a means by which the 'teams' compete with one another. You (the woman) in and of yourself have no intrinsic value or merit other than as a means of manipulating the other guy into feeling more or less superior.
The enforcers in this game are the Pshrynks. They take the role of referee, and like all refs, are never truly impartial - they have their favorites, preferences, biases. They see what they want to see. More ideas on how we are blamed for 'playing the victim' by all parties: Beyond the Psychiatric Box.
The rich get richer and the poor get poorer.
"Look, I know I'm not as important as that heart attack you're dealing with down the hall," I said, "but I haven't eaten in two weeks and every time I eat there's this excruciating pain, unlike any pain I've ever had in my life. I know I look perfectly healthy, but I'm not - there's something wrong." The very first guy I saw at my first emergency room said something about, "Well, it could be gallstones, but you just don't fit the profile." Fuck. Why can't these idiots look past their stupid assumptions and see what's right in front of their noses?
I finally persuaded him to at least refer me for an ultrasound (what the fuck am I paying you assholes all this money for, anyway? Jesus fucking christ.) Sure enough, gallstones. Though there was a weird moment where the lab tech called another tech into the room to say, "Look, her liver's way up here!" And blah blah blah - I guess I was otherwise extremely healthy, and they'd never really seen a normal, healthy body before under their scans - most of the women who came in were 'fair, fat and forty', which is the standard profile for people who tend to get gallstones.
Anyway. The whole point is, nobody ever believed me. I was not a hypochondriac; I hardly ever came in at all, except for routine exams and pap smears. My so-called 'regular doctor' practically didn't know who I was, I came in so infrequently. And yet the one and only time I came in with a serious complaint, they treated me like - I don't know what. Like I didn't know what was going on with my own fucking body. Jesus. The hubris, the arrogance. I've encountered this so many times now with the medical profession, whether standard or alternative, and with dentists as well. In fact anybody with any 'credentials' seems to be almost entirely about 'proving' themselves, something to do with ego. Truly, nobody ever grows up. We're all just children in oversized bodies. Sigh.
And my family is the same: I don't know if it's because of all my years of silence and only speaking up now, but it's as if I've lied, or cheated, or - I don't know what. They just won't listen, won't hear. I've read recently that people resist having their motives questioned, their - whatsit - morality? or something - impugned. Their 'honor', maybe? Dunno. Seems like truth doesn't matter to most people at all - it's all about image, the mirage, the projection. Like the Wizard of Oz, once again. All smoke and mirrors, no substance. Fuck.
It's that invisible feeling - like I don't matter, like nobody cares, nobody hears. No matter how loud I shout or scream, all they hear is that I'm being inconvenient for them. They don't appear to hear, see or otherwise perceive the pain. They're like that 'deaf, dumb and blind kid,' only they don't even play a mean pinball... (song reference.)
Feeling like you don't exist. Like the pain inside of you will just explode - like you'll explode - your mind, your body. Like a gasket, or some gizmo that's been under pressure too long and has worn out. Something just gives out - heart, mind, soul, spirit. Something.
But I don't want to go. I don't want to die. I just don't want to deal with them any more. I want them to go away and leave me alone. The problem is, they're only too happy to do just that. In fact it's just more of the same - I can't even appreciate it as the cessation of an unpleasant noise because there never was any noise to begin with - just the deafening SILENCE.
Silence. Fucking SILENCE. By speaking my truth, I've alienated them all - they've closed ranks, shut me out, now more than ever. But it's not the blessed relief of silence after too much noise - no, it's the further pain of being totally ignored on top of never having been taken seriously in the first place.
If anybody from the family ever reads this and cares enough to try to understand, THIS is where the pain comes from: The silence of having nobody to care, nobody to listen. Having everybody walk away and turn their backs on you every single time you express any kind of emotional need that makes them the least bit uncomfortable.
***
From an article on the powerful long-term effects of prolonged emotional invalidation:
"We regularly invalidate others because we ourselves were, and are often invalidated, so it has become habitual. Below are a few of the many ways we are invalidated:***You Can't Heal an Emotional Wound with Logic
- We are told we shouldn't feel the way we feel
- We are dictated not to feel the way we feel
- We are told we are too sensitive, too "dramatic"
- We are ignored
- We are judged
- We are led to believe there is something wrong with us for feeling how we feel
People with high IQ and low EQ tend to use logic to address emotional issues. They may say, "You are not being rational. There is no reason for you to feel the way you do. Let's look at the facts." Businesses, for example, and "professionals" are traditionally out of balance towards logic at the expense of emotions. This tends to alienate people and diminish their potential.
Actually, all emotions do have a basis in reality, and feelings are facts, fleeting though they may be. But trying to dress an emotional wound, with logic tends to either confuse, sadden or infuriate a person. Or it may eventually isolate them from their feelings, with a resulting loss of major part of their natural intelligence."
The culture at large is complicit in these games of dominance and manipulation: A culture that believes in 'might makes right' and 'survival of the fittest' isn't going to have much compassion for those who lose at the game of life. Contempt is what you'll get, adding insult to the injury of already having 'failed' in the eyes of so many who look on and judge those of us who, by nature, inclination, temperament, circumstance or some combination thereof, are not suited to 'winning' the so-called game. Particularly if you're a woman, where, in this 'game', you're not even a player, not even on a 'team' at all, but are instead the ultimate object of derision: The ball. To be kicked and abused at will. Merely a means by which the 'teams' compete with one another. You (the woman) in and of yourself have no intrinsic value or merit other than as a means of manipulating the other guy into feeling more or less superior.
The enforcers in this game are the Pshrynks. They take the role of referee, and like all refs, are never truly impartial - they have their favorites, preferences, biases. They see what they want to see. More ideas on how we are blamed for 'playing the victim' by all parties: Beyond the Psychiatric Box.
The rich get richer and the poor get poorer.
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