On Parenting My Parents When I Was a Child: Two Book Ends

As they are both no longer physically here, and I'm not doing much of anything these days thanks to the pandemic, this leaves me with plenty of time to just ruminate, and connect what dots I am able to, and just try to understand my trauma, and be in awe of the fact that I survived. I have a couplet of stories wherein I advocated for my parents, something neither of them ever did for me at a time in my life when it was truly necessary for my development:

Age 4-5

My mother's verbally abusive father was at our home. My dad and my grandfather both were outside doing yard work or some household repair. My grandfather was his usual verbally abusive, emotionally destructive self, verbally harassing my dad. All I knew at the time was he was being really mean to my dad. So, in response, I picked up the garden hose, and gave the old man a good dousing with some icy cold well water. This was long before RA had crippled him up, and he made chase after me, stopping once he got to our dining table, my hiding spot, a place he could not reach me. Dripping wet and seething with anger, he wanted my dad to punish me, and all dad did was shrug his shoulders and say, "tough luck, pops."

Age 12

At a family gathering at the home of dad's aunt (his mom's sister), my dad's mother decided (now that she had an audience) she was going to humiliate my mother for being fat. "I'll never understand how anyone could make love to a fat woman!" Which of course brought all conversation to a full stop. And not one of the adults in attendance, NOT EVEN MY DAD, interceded on mom's behalf. I gave it a moment, and then replied, "Well, grandma, I don't see anyone beating a path to YOUR door to make love to YOU." And much like in the first story, dad's mother asked if he was going to discipline me. Dad just shrugged his shoulders and say, "Why should I? She said the truth."

The parallels between the two stories is evenly balanced, and a consistent theme throughout my life--parenting my parents. And now, here I am in my 50s, and I need to parent MYSELF.

In Possession of My Tormentor's Weapon

In 1989, when I left home for the final time, and eventually married my ex, I grabbed a humble, well-worn wooden spoon. I have vivid memories of mom using it to stir bubbling pots of Sunday gravy, or mixing up batches of holiday cookies--and I'm realizing now, 900+ days since she died, that those were just surface memories and attachments I had with that spoon. 

Only recently did the other memories associated with that spoon bubble up from the depths of my subconsciousness, and I am remembering the spoon as an instrument of abuse. When enraged, she'd lash out and beat us with whatever she had in her hands at the time.

My sister always (ALWAYS!) would get stabbed during dinners, but for me, I usually got beat with the bristle end of a hair brush, or get beat with the wooden spoon, or a stinging open-handed slap--all met with m stony stoic silence until one day I snarled out the words, "Are you DONE?" And I don't think she ever beat me again after that.

I'm just now able to acknowledge my tormentor is physically gone, but her physical weapon remains in my kitchen--yet her psychological and emotional weapon remains deeply entrenched in my memories, my attachment style, persistent rumination, and fighting a constant battle against the negative inner dialogue and self-gaslighting. 

Somewhere I read CS Lewis said that it isn't JUST that his friend died--it's that the part of him that only his friend could bring out would never be brought out again.

Though not a friend--when mom died a big part of me died too, but which part? The dangerously vulnerable part? If so, I should be glad it won't be brought out again. But she is my mom, and she gave me life--something I had no choice in the matter, and I had no choice for 52 years but be resentful and resigned that the relationship never was AND NEVER WILL BE what I wanted and desperately needed it to be, and I just hope whatever I DID do for her/on her behalf was sufficient. And yet, all I still want to do is run away and hide.

Pieces

Thinking back on that quote attributed to CS Lewis regarding the death of a friend & grief. It isn’t just the death of his friend he grieved for, but also he grieved for that part of him that only his friend could bring out and which would never be brought out again. 

A refinement on a thought in another blog post—she is my mom and she gave me life—something I had zero choice in the matter, and I had no choice but be resentful & resigned that the relationship never was and never will be what I wanted & needed it to be. A sentiment in one of her last birthday cards to me, “Remember, this was a journey we took together” still resonates and makes me wonder how much of a choice does a zygote have?

I just hope whatever I did for her was sufficient. It HAS to be sufficient.