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.