Category Archives: Family

Grow Up or Throw Up

 A child raised by angry parents spends a lot of time wondering what they did wrong.

“You did nothing wrong,” a rare, compassionate friend of the parents might eventually tell the kid.  “I love your parents, you know they’re my best friends, but they are unhappy people.  Unhappy people get mad a lot.  There is nothing you could have done differently.  It’s not you, it’s important for you to know that.  It’s just that your parents have their own frustrations that have nothing to do with you and they often took them out on you.”

Holy shit, you think, I’m fifty years old and just finding this out.  Wow.

My father remained in his terrible twos until he was eighty and hours from death.  Then it hit him.  “Goddamn it,” he wheezed, “I’ve been a horse’s ass.”  Never heard him use the phrase before, but he was at a loss, I suppose, to explain why he’d been such an implacably choleric two year-old his whole life.   A few moments later, there it was again: “I feel like a horse’s ass.”

It hit me recently, how destructive, if understandable, my anger at my father was.  Once I realized how much it hurt me to carry it, how reasonable I was to feel hurt by his actions and refusals, how incapable he was of doing any better, I was able to start letting go of it. Not of the damage his rage had done, only a bit of that ever slipped away, and it waits like a nightmare to leap out at me in moments of weakness, but I was done with my need to carry anger at a father who was not able to do any better than he did.

“He was a grown man, a father, he lived an otherwise responsible and moral life, why let him off the hook after he cursed at you and your sister every night, screamed and threatened and undermined, did his best to make you cower, even if you didn’t cower, even if you turned the rage against yourself sometimes, even as you banged your head against a wall.  Why let him off the hook for what he did?” says an angry friend.

Because he’s dead, dude.  Because, based on what was done to him when he was a baby, he couldn’t have done otherwise.  Because, lucky for me, and for him, I had let go of that anger at him by the time I was standing by his death bed hearing his last confession like a priest who’d never dream of fondling a parishioner.   He was contrite, apologized for the first and last time for his inhumanity.  I reassured him that he’d done the best he could.  I have gone over this many times in my head, here on this blagh.  The main thing, though, was that seeing him as incapable of doing better made me realize how pointless it was to be mad at him for it.  It’s like being mad at a cat for not addressing you in perfectly accented French.

I thought of it just now because I’ve been angry sometimes at people who have not helped me advance my idealistic plan.  The insight came late — they have no idea how to help me advance my idealistic plan, nobody helps them, life is hard.  Their incapacity to help makes it ridiculous for me to be disappointed that they don’t help.  They cannot help, even if they wanted to, except in the rare case when they actually can, but the rare case is extremely rare.  They have less of an idea than I do about the best way to proceed doing something that is most likely impossible for one person to do.

“But what about me?” snarls an angry former friend. “You pretend to be Jesus Christ to everybody else, you talk a good game about mercy and forgiveness, but you could hardly have been less merciful to me.”    

Ah, yes, there is that.  Aware of the harm that was done to me I’m determined never to be treated that way again.  My father apologized as he was dying, an apology that was perhaps 45 years overdue.  My sister never got any apology.  If I tell you time and again that you are harming me, and you justify yourself and plead your case instead of acknowledging that a friend should have acted less hurtfully?  

Well, my father was my father, I had strong reasons for trying to look beyond his faults.  But in the case of someone I am friends with, someone I’ve told multiple times that just because I can take a punch doesn’t mean I like being punched?  Well, “but, I don’t get to hit anybody, and I’m mad as hell, and you can take a punch, and I really didn’t mean to hit you in the face again…” only means one thing to me in the end.   Time to go.  

But that popped into my head just now in answer to an obvious question.  What I really intended here was to acknowledge, in black and white, how silly it is to expect people to do things they are not capable of doing.  If they don’t do something they have no idea how to do you can’t be mad about that.  They can do many other things, many of them good.  Don’t get hung up on the one bad one, I remind myself.  It is a relief to remember this.

Unless the hurtful thing they do is bad enough, objectively, and they make a habit of it and won’t acknowledge they’re acting hurtfully.  Then it is probably best to take a two second break from trying to be Ahimsa-Boy and say, with all necessary mercilessness: sayonara.

What do you do with your rage?

“And what,” he asked, “do you do with your rage?”  

“What makes you think I fucking have rage?” she asked.  

“OK,” he said, “not rage… anger.  What do you do when you get angry?”  

“When I get angry I get silent.  I don’t believe in yelling any more, it doesn’t help.  The only thing that helps me when I’m angry is being silent.  I need to process it, think through what exactly is hurting me, why I am so angry, see if I can discover a way to not react with the violence I sometimes feel when I am hurt by someone I trust.”  

“What if the person you’re angry at needs to talk things out?” he asked.  

“Fuck him,” she said, “I truly don’t care when I’m hurt or angry what the person who made me angry needs or wants.  What I need and want is an apology, or failing that, silence.”  

“But that’s not very fair, I thought you’re trying to be mild and peaceful,” he said.

“The world is a circle of people justifying everything they do– everyone does it and here in the West it is a reflex, a tic.  We have to be justified, will argue hypotheticals to the death, we live in an adversarial system where every idiot makes his most vigorous argument.  There is always a reason somebody accidentally forgot, or was careless, or stupid, or hated themselves too much to realize you had troubles too, or got sick and couldn’t keep a promise, or was confused, or underestimated the harm they were doing, or said the wrong thing at the exact worst time, or acted like an asshole, racist or shithead believing sincerely that they were in the right the whole time.  Very few people do things believing they’re wrong, they do things they feel justified in doing, even if their justification is objectively feeble or even insane.  The first thing I need when I am hurt by somebody I know is the simple acknowledgement that they fucking hurt me.  It’s called empathy, also, taking responsibility instead of making an excuse. Does not seem like a huge thing to expect, if the person is concerned with my feelings, as I expect my friends to be, as I try to be toward them.”

“But you are capable of violence,” he said “and it scares people.”

“When have I ever been violent?  If people are scared they don’t know me, they are defensive, maybe, they’re scared how they would act if they were as angry as they think I am.  They compare their anger to mine and imagine what terrible things they might do.  I have no idea what people are scared of.  I use words and I try to use them as precisely as I can.  I often write them down and revise them until they are as clear as I can make them.  Words can sometimes hurt more than a punch in the face, worse than an arrow, I know.  I try to measure my words before I let them fly,” she said, “I make every effort to do better with my anger.  And anger, as you know, is a devilishly challenging emotion.  In fact, I see you can refer to it, and talk about mine, but not actually talk about your own.  It is easier to speak of mine, I suppose, since I express it more freely.”  

“Well, you do speak your mind,” he said.  

“Yes, I speak my mind,” she said.   “I would recommend the same to you, don’t be mad, don’t be passive aggressive, don’t dissemble, don’t complain I’m not listening while assuming you know what I’m about to say based on some memory of something I may have once said.  Don’t give me another hypothetical I can’t use while parsing and finding flaws in the one I give you.  Listen.  Use your great brain to hear what I am telling you, use your sensitive heart to feel the feeling I’m talking about– that’s more immediately important than the intellectual part.  I am not fucking Gandhi, it’s true.  Who knows if Gandhi even was Gandhi.  If there’s an afterlife Martin Luther King, Jr. has an excellent reason to be mad as hell.  MLK would be right to be raging up there at God’s right hand, in light of the almost ridiculous symbol he’s become in light of how little has changed for the masses of those he struggled for in the almost 50 years since he died. I couldn’t blame Martin for coldcocking God right now.  Gandhi too, for that matter, I wouldn’t blame him for kicking St. Peter in the balls.  I’m not them, or what they represent, but I’ve gone a long way toward becoming more like them.”

“Maybe not as long a way as you like to think,” he said.  “You’re still pretty goddamned angry, and scary too.”  

“As El Gato Ensombrerado said to the querulous fish in The Cat in the Hat, Spanish version ‘no temas, pececito’– ‘don’t worry, little fish’.  My father was an angry man, my mother was an angry woman, both of my grandmothers raged, one of them whipped her infant in the face, the other broke yardsticks over her kid’s ass.  I come from a home where people raged at each other, in a world with many styles of expressing anger including, frequently, deadly ones.  It is a daily challenge to do better, to get as far as I can toward being more patient,  more reasonable, milder.  It is better to forgive than to be stubborn about being right, it’s true.  But there is also a time when another person tears the fabric of trust and friendship, and argues like a lawyer, or a cornered rat, instead of empathizing with you for the harm they’ve done, and that’s the time to leave the room.  Only bad things can happen if you stay in that room, it’s a room where the air becomes toxic and never clears.”  

“Or you can work it out, truly be committed to being mild, forgiving, even when you have every right to be mad,” he said, “as you yourself are fond of writing in calligraphy.”  

“That’s true,” she said, “it is a good and noble aspiration and something I might do more if I was a fucking saint able to repair the torn fabric of a relationship that had grown toxic.  Which I am not.  Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go paint now.”  

“Wow,” he said, “right in the middle of our conversation.”  

“I’m sorry,” she said, “what exactly are we discussing that we are in the middle of?”

A whiff of fear stirred on the air around him and he said nothing.  Without any noticeable expression she went into the other room, presumably to paint.

Blues for Sammy Worst

two and a half years of mostly iPad images presented in a semi-snappy 3:49

Blues for Sammy 2

sorry, boys and girls, I had to take the link to the movie down.  Too much personal content up there for any unscrupulous content collector to collect and pass off as original.   I will put the soundtrack up for  music collectors to enjoy and for the more unscrupulous to claim as their own odd composition.

How exposure to adversity effects the developing child

I’ve known people, my mother was one, who although very intelligent, open to considering new ideas, otherwise insightful, would rather kill you than acknowledge their own anger or the harm that was done to them in childhood.   Literally, repressing enough pain that they looked like they’d rather kill you than admit to being angry enough to smash someone.  

“We never fucking killed anyone, asshole!” they say as a chorus now in my mind, I can see their faces, not relaxed, calm or even, in some cases, recognizable as themselves.  

“‘Face twisted and contorted in hate,'” my sister quotes our father, and we both laugh.  It was a phrase we heard many times over the Rice-a-roni, flank steak and salad at our formica dinner table in Queens.  It was snarled, this peculiar phrase, and stated in exactly those words each time.  A very curious phrase to be repeated verbatim, if you think about it.

 “Twisted AND contorted,” my sister will say, and we’ll both have another chuckle.  But we were not chuckling then, during those terrible battles, nor am I chuckling about it now.  

My sister, working in a terrible school, is afraid to apply to move to a better one.  “It’s a concentration camp but I’m used to it,” she says, “and I don’t want to leave all my friends I’ve cried with for years.”  She agrees it would be better to make new friends she could celebrate with sometimes, instead of just crying and commiserating, but, in spite of being a master teacher, and someone who makes friends easily, she’s afraid to change schools.

“I’ve told your sister a thousand times what a wonderful teacher she is,” said my father on his deathbed, “but no matter how many times I tell her, it makes no difference.”  

“A thousand times?” I ask him.  

“Many, many times,” he says, remembering distinctly the time he told her that, at the assembly at the school where her class performed, and another one, more than one, besides.  To him that was a lot.  “I told her a thousand times,” seems to indicate that.  

“A thousand times,” says my sister with her trademark irony.  Not for nothing did she dub her father the D.U., The Dreaded Unit.  

“You are a whiner,” says an observer.  

“Do you hear me actually whine?” I ask the jury.  On closer inspection I notice the jury is composed of a couple of weatherbeaten mannequins, a decomposing cadaver, three skeletons and a few unidentifiable animals preserved by amateurish taxidermy and propped crudely on the chairs of the jury box.

The judge, for his part, is indescribably horrible.  Good thing this is a jury trial, I think to myself.

NOTES

How does it work? Well, imagine you’re walking in the forest and you see a bear. Immediately, your hypothalamus sends a signal to your pituitary, which sends a signal to your adrenal gland that says, “Release stress hormones! Adrenaline! Cortisol!” And so your heart starts to pound, Your pupils dilate, your airways open up, and you are ready to either fight that bear or run from the bear. And that is wonderful if you’re in a forest and there’s a bear. (Laughter) But the problem is what happens when the bear comes home every night, and this system is activated over and over and over again, and it goes from being adaptive, or life-saving, to maladaptive, or health-damaging. Children are especially sensitive to this repeated stress activation, because their brains and bodies are just developing. High doses of adversity not only affect brain structure and function, they affect the developing immune system, developing hormonal systems, and even the way our DNA is read and transcribed.

Nadine Burke Harris, MD

source

Untangling Knots — maybe

A few moments spent trying to untangle a knot about some ways people deal with the painful things that happen to them in life.  

For a child raised in an angry home, or a cold home, or in a place where little physical or emotional support is given, the options in adulthood may seem limited.  

The adult can say, as many do:  I turned out OK, all humans have problems, when I stay busy I don’t think about bad things, the past is the past, I’ve made a decent life for myself, people love and depend on me, I may have a temper, and my faults, but I’m basically a good person.  

The adult can say: what was done to me was wrong, no child should have to endure abuse, though millions unfortunately do.   The parents were perhaps incapable of doing better, but damage was done.  On a cellular level, it turns out.   Steps must be taken to acknowledge the harm done, identify it clearly, begin to heal real wounds that were inflicted.  That the infliction of these wounds was largely unintentional does little to mitigate their ongoing harmfulness.

Some adults will be infuriated by adults who take this second approach.   The idea of a person feeling entitled to revisit the wrongs done to them drives them into immediate anger.  They may begin, as my father always did, to reflexively compare any complaint to what they themselves have endured and, in their mind, surmounted.  This reflex short circuits empathy.   The new complaint will always emerge to them as a whine, a cavil, the sniveling of a weakling.  

That there are sniveling weaklings who justify their own failings, even brutality, by their victimhood, there can be no doubt.   Depending on which side you feel more drawn to, the very words I’m typing now could be seen this way.   Of course, unlike the child being hectored while held by the collar, you need not read another word of it, nor consider:  

To many people it seems preferable not to dwell on childhood injury.  To others, it’s a necessity, attempting to understand and overcome the harm and live a more intact life of integrity.  When I get that burning in my lungs during someone’s attempt to bully me, I know exactly why it happens.  Many others are not so “lucky”, or lucky, as the case may be.  

Then again, luck, I suppose, is largely a matter of luck. 

Black and White Thinking

My father, a lifelong black and white thinker, lamented on his death bed that he had not seen and appreciated all the colors and gradations of human experience.  “I think how much richer my life would have been,” he mused in a voice that was near the end.

I did not at that moment have any feeling besides sympathy for him as he went.  It was one of those times when everything aligned correctly and we were able to finally have the conversation he had never been capable of.  It’s not clear how much of a long-term blessing it was for me, though it felt enormous at the time.  I’m sure it was a blessing to him, to be able to unburden himself to a life-long adversary he’d created, a suddenly former adversary who was now gently helping him go.  

I think of my father first whenever I hear the term Black and White Thinking.  Those words are on a sheet the CBT therapist gave me during the last session.  Ten ways people suffer and ten ways each form of, what is essentially deleterious cognition, can be changed for the better by properly reframing them.  I don’t know how much faith I have in this whole system, though the value of going to this session every week, working myself out of my torpor, seems beyond question.   I face many obstacles in a possibly impossible undertaking I have staked everything on, but I am facing them one at a time again.  Waiting for the mapped redesigned website to load at wehearyou.net so I can return to my marketing and networking efforts.

My father’s black and white thinking arose from the facts of the world he was born into.  His mother hated his father.  She had done her duty with him and eight or nine months later their first child was stillborn.   She lay with him again.   The second child, my father, was a huge baby.  She was a tiny, furious woman.  She cursed him before she even saw him.   Once he could stand she began whipping him in the face for what felt to her like a baby’s defiance.  

I have to get in the shower and down to my session in a moment, but I leave you with this excellent TED talk I heard last night.  It was about the long-term changes in a human mind and body produced by childhood trauma.  The chemicals that are available to us in a moment of danger, things that give you a surge of strength and concentration to fight or flee, constantly flood the child who must be on guard against, say, a whip in the face from mom.   This does damage that is hardwired into the human body.   Listen to this pediatrician.  The talk is fifteen minutes long and well worth your time.

Me and babies

I enjoy working and playing with kids, though I’ve never really been a big fan of infants.   Babies, before they can do anything, cute though they sometimes might be (and uncute as they just as often are) are kind of creepy in their helplessness.   That the infant’s ability to communicate is far more limited than Sekhnet’s cat also interferes with my complete enjoyment of very young babies.   Nonetheless, I recognize that you have to participate in other people’s joy in their babies.  It seems inhuman not to at least smile, and coo and make some melodic remark about the baby’s cuteness.

Sekhnet’s cousin, a new single mother, asked Sekhnet and me if we wanted to hold the baby the other day.   It was the first time either of us had seen mother and child since the birth. The baby was born the weight of an average dinner lobster, many weeks prematurely, and now, three months later, has ballooned to eight pounds.   The mother offered the baby and, as Sekhnet hesitated, I took the tiny child, smaller than a miniature doberman.
 
I gently picked her up, held her in front of me and smiled at her.   She burst out crying.  Her mother was amazed, laughed and kept saying she’d never seen that reaction.  She must have said it ten times.  
 
Afterwards, and in spite of all my graciously accepted apologies to the mother, who kept repeating that the little girl had never reacted that way, ever, to anything, I felt pretty good knowing I still haven’t lost my touch with babies.

Salient Point Left Out of Previous Post

I left an important detail out of the account I just posted.

The thing that left the whip marks on me was not recalling a difficult childhood and the sad details appurtenant to it.   Many have had it much worse than I did, than my sister did, or my parents, though each of us had it bad enough.  The siblings of three of my grandparents and their families, for example, thirteen years before I was born: I can’t think of a worse childhood than you and everyone you’ve ever known being massacred by organized gangs of drunken haters backed by a powerful occupying army whose commander is determined to wipe out every trace of your ancestors.

The whip marks I felt after yesterday’s session came a moment after I was asked if I had experienced any traumas.   At first I answered no, then I put my finger on an ongoing one, with roots in my earliest life, the moment that has always stopped me in my tracks:

when an angry bully, usually with an arbitrary hierarchic advantage of some kind, steps up and tells me to put my eyes to the ground.  

I recalled a few instances of this as an adult, how the rising feeling of unfairness, and powerless to do anything but fight, enflamed nerve endings seared repeatedly when I was a boy, how needy bullies have always had an easy time locating me in a crowded room.  I’m not hard to find, I’m the one who hasn’t learned to put my eyes to the ground at the key moment so someone else can take the blows.

“Your therapist can work with you on that,” the grad student told me sympathetically.