This one's messy, so hang on tight. If you're here for a cute story about the small humans in our house, try this old gem from the archives.
I've been trudging through the swamps of sadness feelings lately. It's intense. And sometimes not at all intense. Sometimes pretty boring, really, and frustrating, and all the defenses that have been so good at keeping me safe and goal-oriented and dimming all emotions start screaming in my ear "THIS IS NOT SAFE." But what they actually say is more along the lines of, "There's no point spending time on all this. Get over it." And usually that works pretty well to keep me quiet. But sometimes not. I'm perhaps starting to understand that even (especially?) in therapy, progress isn't linear. Or, as Daphne Merkin wrote in her op-ed for Couch (the NYT opinion page for essays related to therapy):
And then came the moment several years ago when I stopped trying to be an entertainer and took the risk of narrating my life more straightforwardly, in all its mundane details with interludes of stuckness, with the broken-record aspects left in, rather than edited out for a smoother delivery. [...] I did so in the full knowledge that I might end up boring [my therapist] to tears, even though he was paid to be attentive. It was just this possibility, of course, that I had always feared and endeavored to avoid. In doing so, it now seems to me, I was denying myself one of the things therapy allows for, which is precisely the repetitive nature of a person's inner life, the constant regurgitation of ancient grievances and conflicts. In ordinary, above-the-surface life, we're endlessly exhorted to move forward and not hang back, when the truth is that the psyche is not such an efficient piece of machinery and is marked by recursive clankings as much as anything else.
(Emphasis added.) I'm not quite there yet. But I can appreciate the idea of it.
Today I spent my 90 therapy minutes mostly feeling bad that Neil was working because he was obviously not feeling great, and then also talking about work forever because it's the easiest way to not talk about anything substantive, and then talking about how I was frustrated that I wasn't talking. It was a long 90 minutes. I jumped around because I was afraid and I had these pangs of really strong emotion. It was kinda like how I've written a whole bunch of words here and not actually started talking about what I came here to write about, which is my father. I've written about him before, like when he was sick and when he died. As the kids these days say, I was feelin' some kinda way when those things happened. But I was still pretty dissociated from all real emotional experiencing. Safer that way. Face forward, move slow, forge ahead.
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| Wee Chelsea and the adoring parental units. |
I can connect with the compassion for this human being, Thomas. I can appreciate to some extent that he had his own battles, and maybe he even did the best he could as a parent. Sometimes I can rationalize it all the way to saying I'm better off not having had him be a part of my life. Except, of course, he was. He was just present in a different way.
It takes a lot for me to get angry*. I could possibly win some sort of fancy tiara and scepter as the queen of internalizing. You give me a situation to feel angry about - one where the other person is completely in the wrong and I got hurt and whatnot? I can figure out how to make that shit all about me and how terrible I am in a split second, and start hating myself for it. I know, it's pretty amazing. You don't have to tell me.
Today Neil came up with the brilliant suggestion to write a list of things I'd be angry about if I were angry. Because, obviously, I'm not! Not me! But hypothetically, you know... Because following these paths is something we can do when we're in therapy. We can consider options and try on ways of being and see what fits. We can put aside all the defenses reminding us that this is really a terrible idea, it's not accomplishing anything, we should be over this by now, we should be good girls and be quiet and not make a scene, and remember that other people have it worse and be grateful and... whew those just roll off my brain so easily. Thanks, defenses, for keeping me safe. Now, get out the way.
So, here's what I'd be angry (and ranty) about if I were angry with my father:
Most of it falls under the broad umbrella of... you didn't get your shit together and show up as a parent.
You know what I've learned from my still-new-at-this role as a parent? I've learned that you have to be responsible. You don't have to be perfect. But you buckle them in, you take them to the doctor, you attempt to have something green at meal time, you pay the bills so the utilities stay on...
Wait, what's that? This doesn't apply to you because you split when your kids were 2 and 4? Then you, sir, could show up and be responsible by (at the minimum) paying child support. Money's tight, I get it.
Showing up as a parent means maybe you only buy half the heroin you hoped to buy and you send the rest of the money to take care of your kids.
Showing up means when your mom dies and you come to the funeral and you know you're going to see your kids, who are now something like 8 and 10 and haven't seen you in years, you get your daughter something better than a shitty pack of marbleized Bic ball-point pens. Better yet, you just spend time with your kids which would always trump gifts.
Showing up means remembering your kids at birthdays and holidays. Coming to graduation.
If I were angry, I'd be angry that Tom started a new life and raised other kids - step-kids, maybe even a half sibling or two? Maybe I'd be angry that I don't even know if I have half siblings out there somewhere. Maybe I'd be angry that you showed up for some other kids but not for me and my brother.
I'd be angry that you missed out on seeing your kids grow up and be productive and happy and helpful people.
I'd be angry that you sucked so much energy out of mom and our family.
I'd be angry for all the time I spent wondering if you were in prison again, or maybe dead.
I'd be angry for being the one who was called when you were sick, and again when you died. For the time I spent trying to balance school and work and taking care of a baby and then on top of that I had to balance trying to find your sister and calling the Denver coroner's office and keeping you on ice until something was figured out.
If I were angry, I'd be angry that you tried to reconnect when it was convenient for you, and I felt obligated to be the good daughter and forgive and love and accept and enjoy whatever semblance of a relationship I could have with you.
I'd be angry because in the hazy memories I have of spending any time with you, we always watched Batman and ate those matchstick potato chip things. I don't like Batman or matchstick potato chip things now, which is a shame because I could probably otherwise appreciate both of those things.
I'd be angry for the time when I was in Catholic School and I was the kid with the single mom and I felt like some charity case.
I'd be angry because your absence created this space that would later be filled by someone else with whom my relationship was not healthy or helpful.
If I were angry, maybe I'd wear it like a badge for a while, like my therapist gave me permission to do, and maybe I'd like it because I wouldn't just be making myself small over there in the corner figuring out new ways to turn the feelings inward and hate myself, or being so strong and great and put together all the time so I couldn't acknowledge pain or insecurity or anger even if I wanted to because I'm beyond that. Maybe.
*Unless you're my children who know exactly how to press the tiniest hidden buttons like the one where they come out of their room after bedtime for the kabillionth time and I Hulk out.
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