Starry, Starry Night
It's funny how when you're a child, you pretty much take life at face value. You take what you get for a family and think it's "normal". It took me years in therapy to understand that not only was my childhood NOT normal, but that it wasn't my fault! It took me even longer to realize that I had repeated the pattern with my choice of mate. I'm still working on the "not my fault (at least not totally)" part of that.
My parents split up when I was three. It's a long complicated story, sordid enough to be a soap opera plot. The result was that my mom moved out to California and had three more kids with her second husband. I met my half-siblings once when their father brought them to visit when I was in high school, but I never really got to know them at all. I've seen my mom only 4 times since she moved. Once when I was about 6 when she ran away from her second husband for a couple of weeks, once for a few days when my grandfather died, another time when I got married, and the last time was when she and husband #3 drove out to the East Coast to visit his family. On the way back they drove through Chicago and stopped by for a couple of hours to say "hi". Seriously, 2 hours. And only one of my 4 kids was home to meet their grandmother.
My dad lives in the city somewhere--at least I'm reasonably sure he's still alive. He visited once or twice a month when I was little when he was drunk enough, but not too drunk. Of course being a kid, I had no idea. All I knew is that I waited and waited for him on the day he was supposed to come and more often than not, ended up heartbroken. Once I wouldn't let my grandmother wash my hair for 2 weeks because my daddy told me he was going to wash it when he visited me, but then never showed up. Then when he got remarried (I was about 10) his new wife pretty much cut off all contact between us. He showed up for my 8th grade graduation and he showed up to drive me down to college my first year. I wasn't allowed to invite him to my wedding because none of my family would have showed up. My uncle walked me down the aisle. My grandmother and aunt took the place as Mother of the Bride--quite a faux pas since my actual mother was AT the wedding and I had completely neglected to get her a corsage.
When I look at the way I was treated and the things my grandmother told me as I was growing up, there's a huge disparity. Her marriage to my grandfather had distintegrated after their first child died at the age of five. They stayed married until he died because that's what you did back then. I can remember listening to them fight for years until my grandfather finally gave up and became a "non-person". I lived my whole life with him, yet I barely knew him at all. I was 12 when he died. I went to school one day and when I got home he was gone. So was his bedroom furniture, all his clothes, his tools, nearly every trace of his existance. My grandmother had made no secret of the fact that she despised him and all men for that matter, so I understood on some level, yet I still feel, even after all this time, that I never got to say "good-bye". I never got to tell him that I didn't think he was as horrible as my grandmother said.
My grandmother was so afraid of being left alone (my grandfather didn't count) that she never lost an opportunity to tell me how awful my mother was and what a drunk my dad was and how lucky I was that I lived with her. She couldn't risk me wanting to go live with one of them because legally she had no recourse. When she was angry at me she would tell me I could go live with one of my parents. It worked because I was scared to death at the possiblity of my mom taking me out to California and never seeing my grandmother again. I didn't worry about my dad because according to her he had to be drunk in order to be able to stand the sight of me since I reminded him of my mother so much. She told me all the time how much she loved me and how I was all she had. That then became an obligation to me. It was up to me to make her happy. It was my job.
Of course making her happy was next to impossible. I could never do anything quite right or quite good enough. If I got 6 A's and 1 B on a report card she would yell at me for the B. If I washed the dishes before the glasses I was an idiot. She would expect me to do things I didn't know how to do and then berate me when I did them improperly--or should I say, differently from the way she wanted them done. If I then said that I didn't know, she would tell me that I SHOULD have. Of course as a kid I didn't question how I "should have" known. And you know how they say "there's no such thing as mistakes, only feedback"? I was taught there's no such things as mistakes because anything I did wrong was on purpose. Failure is a bad, bad thing. People withhold love if you fail or make a mistake. Or even worse, they get angry.
I could also never measure up to my cousin, the daughter of her favorite daughter. My cousin did this for her mother, my cousin did that for her mother. In truth, my cousin's grades sucked, she mouthed off to her mom as much as I did to my grandmother, and I did more around our house than she did around hers because her brothers did the yard work. I could go on and on with examples, but suffice it to say that I grew up feeling inferior and in constant fear over not being perfect. And even worse, I never knew when I'd be punished for something. Sometimes when I knew I had done something she'd be mad about, I'd worry for days and she'd never say a word. Other times I would complete all my chores and be fairly confidant that all was well, only to have her go off on me because I didn't close the porch door precisely at 4pm.
She called me names, told me I'd never do anything right, slapped me, pulled my hair, but never anything overtly abusive as it was defined at that time. The worst insult she'd throw at me was to tell me that I was just like my mother because I knew how she felt about her. Even the things that she'd do with me that should have been fun were torture. She'd play cards and games with me and when she won she'd laugh and laugh like a cackling old witch. No matter how hard I tried not to, I'd always end up crying. Then she'd call me a "poor loser". I wasn't even crying because I lost. I was belittled constantly and told not to cry or "she'd give me something to cry about".
My confidence was also undermined by the fact that none of my accomplishments were ever praised or valued. If I got straight A's, well with how little work I did around the house I SHOULD get straight A's. If I worried about my appearance, well, everyone couldn't be pretty. And when I graduated college, the only one in the family who had, well, college ruined me. I went to college and came back an alien from another planet. I guess in her eyes I was. I learned to stand up to her and think for myself....for a couple of months anyway.
God, it goes on and on. Yet I loved her anyway and I worked as hard as I could to please her so that she wouldn't leave me. If she like the color red, that was my favorite color. If she didn't like a particular movie star, then I didn't like him/her either. Oh yeah! Her favorite threat was to tell me that she was old and woudn't live much longer and then what would happen to me? I lived in absolute terror until went to college and realized that I was too old for anyone to make me go live with my mom.
When I met my husband I thought he was the complete antithesis of my grandmother. He was loving and caring and gently and fun! He had (had being the operative word) a great sense of humor. I'm not sure when everything started to change, but now I can't even recognize the man he used to be. Or did I just think he was someone he wasn't?? I don't know. All I know is that he's very rigid and his ideas are very black and white. There is no wiggle room, no forgiveness--ever--no learning from mistakes, no second chances.
There's so much more but it's getting too depressing to write about. All I know is that I moved heaven and earth to try to make my husband happy, to make his life more comfortable, to protect him from unpleasantness, and to avoid making him angry. In the end, the very thing I feared most is exactly what I got. In my effort to avoid his anger, I made him even more angry and he withdrew his love.
I've been in therapy for years and years. I understand so much about my behavior and how my childhood molded me and made me who I am, yet I still can't move past it. I'm terrified of making mistakes--that's why I decided years ago never to set goals. If I don't actually "set a goal" then I can't fail (yeah, I know, then I can't succeed either). I still feel like everything is in some way "my fault". I'm insecure in relationships. I tend to give too much of myself yet at the same time need too much from the other person. I develop deep attachments to people. places, things, times.... I know that loss is inevitable in life, but I've had so very much of it that it hurts more than I can bear.
Loss.....that's a topic unto itself and I don't want to go down that path today. I'm feeling very confused now. I tried to pack too much into too few words and I feel like I've muddied the waters rather than clarified anything.
But then, of course I made of mess of it, just like I do with everything.....or so I've been told......
(Please forgive the typos, spelling errors and poor grammar. Usually I would proof-read, lest anyone think I'm not intellingent, but right now I just don't have the heart---which in and of itself is some sort of progress I suppose.)
My parents split up when I was three. It's a long complicated story, sordid enough to be a soap opera plot. The result was that my mom moved out to California and had three more kids with her second husband. I met my half-siblings once when their father brought them to visit when I was in high school, but I never really got to know them at all. I've seen my mom only 4 times since she moved. Once when I was about 6 when she ran away from her second husband for a couple of weeks, once for a few days when my grandfather died, another time when I got married, and the last time was when she and husband #3 drove out to the East Coast to visit his family. On the way back they drove through Chicago and stopped by for a couple of hours to say "hi". Seriously, 2 hours. And only one of my 4 kids was home to meet their grandmother.
My dad lives in the city somewhere--at least I'm reasonably sure he's still alive. He visited once or twice a month when I was little when he was drunk enough, but not too drunk. Of course being a kid, I had no idea. All I knew is that I waited and waited for him on the day he was supposed to come and more often than not, ended up heartbroken. Once I wouldn't let my grandmother wash my hair for 2 weeks because my daddy told me he was going to wash it when he visited me, but then never showed up. Then when he got remarried (I was about 10) his new wife pretty much cut off all contact between us. He showed up for my 8th grade graduation and he showed up to drive me down to college my first year. I wasn't allowed to invite him to my wedding because none of my family would have showed up. My uncle walked me down the aisle. My grandmother and aunt took the place as Mother of the Bride--quite a faux pas since my actual mother was AT the wedding and I had completely neglected to get her a corsage.
When I look at the way I was treated and the things my grandmother told me as I was growing up, there's a huge disparity. Her marriage to my grandfather had distintegrated after their first child died at the age of five. They stayed married until he died because that's what you did back then. I can remember listening to them fight for years until my grandfather finally gave up and became a "non-person". I lived my whole life with him, yet I barely knew him at all. I was 12 when he died. I went to school one day and when I got home he was gone. So was his bedroom furniture, all his clothes, his tools, nearly every trace of his existance. My grandmother had made no secret of the fact that she despised him and all men for that matter, so I understood on some level, yet I still feel, even after all this time, that I never got to say "good-bye". I never got to tell him that I didn't think he was as horrible as my grandmother said.
My grandmother was so afraid of being left alone (my grandfather didn't count) that she never lost an opportunity to tell me how awful my mother was and what a drunk my dad was and how lucky I was that I lived with her. She couldn't risk me wanting to go live with one of them because legally she had no recourse. When she was angry at me she would tell me I could go live with one of my parents. It worked because I was scared to death at the possiblity of my mom taking me out to California and never seeing my grandmother again. I didn't worry about my dad because according to her he had to be drunk in order to be able to stand the sight of me since I reminded him of my mother so much. She told me all the time how much she loved me and how I was all she had. That then became an obligation to me. It was up to me to make her happy. It was my job.
Of course making her happy was next to impossible. I could never do anything quite right or quite good enough. If I got 6 A's and 1 B on a report card she would yell at me for the B. If I washed the dishes before the glasses I was an idiot. She would expect me to do things I didn't know how to do and then berate me when I did them improperly--or should I say, differently from the way she wanted them done. If I then said that I didn't know, she would tell me that I SHOULD have. Of course as a kid I didn't question how I "should have" known. And you know how they say "there's no such thing as mistakes, only feedback"? I was taught there's no such things as mistakes because anything I did wrong was on purpose. Failure is a bad, bad thing. People withhold love if you fail or make a mistake. Or even worse, they get angry.
I could also never measure up to my cousin, the daughter of her favorite daughter. My cousin did this for her mother, my cousin did that for her mother. In truth, my cousin's grades sucked, she mouthed off to her mom as much as I did to my grandmother, and I did more around our house than she did around hers because her brothers did the yard work. I could go on and on with examples, but suffice it to say that I grew up feeling inferior and in constant fear over not being perfect. And even worse, I never knew when I'd be punished for something. Sometimes when I knew I had done something she'd be mad about, I'd worry for days and she'd never say a word. Other times I would complete all my chores and be fairly confidant that all was well, only to have her go off on me because I didn't close the porch door precisely at 4pm.
She called me names, told me I'd never do anything right, slapped me, pulled my hair, but never anything overtly abusive as it was defined at that time. The worst insult she'd throw at me was to tell me that I was just like my mother because I knew how she felt about her. Even the things that she'd do with me that should have been fun were torture. She'd play cards and games with me and when she won she'd laugh and laugh like a cackling old witch. No matter how hard I tried not to, I'd always end up crying. Then she'd call me a "poor loser". I wasn't even crying because I lost. I was belittled constantly and told not to cry or "she'd give me something to cry about".
My confidence was also undermined by the fact that none of my accomplishments were ever praised or valued. If I got straight A's, well with how little work I did around the house I SHOULD get straight A's. If I worried about my appearance, well, everyone couldn't be pretty. And when I graduated college, the only one in the family who had, well, college ruined me. I went to college and came back an alien from another planet. I guess in her eyes I was. I learned to stand up to her and think for myself....for a couple of months anyway.
God, it goes on and on. Yet I loved her anyway and I worked as hard as I could to please her so that she wouldn't leave me. If she like the color red, that was my favorite color. If she didn't like a particular movie star, then I didn't like him/her either. Oh yeah! Her favorite threat was to tell me that she was old and woudn't live much longer and then what would happen to me? I lived in absolute terror until went to college and realized that I was too old for anyone to make me go live with my mom.
When I met my husband I thought he was the complete antithesis of my grandmother. He was loving and caring and gently and fun! He had (had being the operative word) a great sense of humor. I'm not sure when everything started to change, but now I can't even recognize the man he used to be. Or did I just think he was someone he wasn't?? I don't know. All I know is that he's very rigid and his ideas are very black and white. There is no wiggle room, no forgiveness--ever--no learning from mistakes, no second chances.
There's so much more but it's getting too depressing to write about. All I know is that I moved heaven and earth to try to make my husband happy, to make his life more comfortable, to protect him from unpleasantness, and to avoid making him angry. In the end, the very thing I feared most is exactly what I got. In my effort to avoid his anger, I made him even more angry and he withdrew his love.
I've been in therapy for years and years. I understand so much about my behavior and how my childhood molded me and made me who I am, yet I still can't move past it. I'm terrified of making mistakes--that's why I decided years ago never to set goals. If I don't actually "set a goal" then I can't fail (yeah, I know, then I can't succeed either). I still feel like everything is in some way "my fault". I'm insecure in relationships. I tend to give too much of myself yet at the same time need too much from the other person. I develop deep attachments to people. places, things, times.... I know that loss is inevitable in life, but I've had so very much of it that it hurts more than I can bear.
Loss.....that's a topic unto itself and I don't want to go down that path today. I'm feeling very confused now. I tried to pack too much into too few words and I feel like I've muddied the waters rather than clarified anything.
But then, of course I made of mess of it, just like I do with everything.....or so I've been told......
(Please forgive the typos, spelling errors and poor grammar. Usually I would proof-read, lest anyone think I'm not intellingent, but right now I just don't have the heart---which in and of itself is some sort of progress I suppose.)
Replies
My you do and did live a soap opera life. But if you think about it this life you lived has made you strong and adaptable. You don\'t seem the type to fall apart.
I can tell you are very intelligent thanks to college. Don\'t ever let family tell you college wasn\'t good. I see someone who is resilient, strong, understands herself for the most part. I always felt that knowing what the problem is gives you the solution.
I\'m sorry your grandmother was so hard on you. You seem to have made it thru and I wish a lot of good times for you.
Kudos for you for writing this and sharing with us! It is through our writing down of the hurts and efforts and suffering that we are able to better examine our past behaviors! You are poised at the edge of change, my dear. And you have an opportunity to rise above all the stuff of your past. I have faith in you!