After the dramas of a few months ago, which most of my readers will be aware of, my very psychic friend Marieah told me she ‘saw’ a past life I’d shared with my youngest (he to whom I refer as the Prodigal). In that lifetime, she said, he had been my husband, and my present husband was then my lover. The two men had killed each other over me. She told me that fragments of the Prodigal’s soul were still caught in my aura, like a butterfly caught in a spider-web. As I was the spider, it was my job to unravel the web and free these fragments so his soul could be whole, and go on its path unrestrained.
Well, it happened that when Andrew and I first got together in this lifetime, he recalled exactly the one described above, and I was then able to recollect some details too. It was during the French Revolution. My then husband was an English squire; the lover was a French refugee from the Terror, whom the squire befriended and took into employment. Andrew thought the husband that time must have been my previous husband in this lifetime, the Prodigal’s father; but I immediately knew otherwise, and said, ‘No, it was the Prodigal.’ It explained a thing or two about his initial attitude to Andrew.
We were excited to discover this past connection, until our friend and teacher Jenette said, ‘I’d advise you to clear it, otherwise you’ll be in danger of acting it out all over again.’ Good point. So we did. Only it never occurred to us to clear the Prodigal too.
Marieah’s description was interesting because the Prodigal has a pathological fear of spiders, way beyond most people’s revulsion – jumping and yelling in uncontrollable panic on merely seeing a picture of one. I’ve even seen his face go white.
So I set about doing visualisations of unravelling the web. Our relationship didn’t get any easier. There were some distressing communications by email, and no doubt he was equally distressed. Andrew felt under psychic attack from him quite often, and when I tuned in I had to concur that that was the source. In the end I consulted Carol, my Theta Healing and Thought Field Therapy teacher. Brilliant woman! She gave me a long session over the phone, using TFT to clear some of my emotions around the present issues, and Theta Healing to complete the past life clearing. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘You’ll both be free to go on your own paths without the karmic bonds holding you back.’
After that the psychic attacks on Andrew stopped altogether. There was no communication between the Prodigal and me, but that was a relief. I relished the peace! However, he’s my son and we actually do love each other underneath it all. I consulted my own guides as to what to do and was simply told to be loving. So when it came time for one of those ‘family update’ emails, I included him and made a brief acknowledgment that much as I hadn’t liked his behaviour when he was with us (a matter which was no secret from the rest of the family) I could see that his intention had been to benefit me.
After a while he sent me an email accusing me of telling lies about him! I gave up at that point, thinking, ‘Oh well, we’re poles apart. We’ll never understand each other.’ I just didn’t answer. Interestingly, I wasn't devastated as on previous, similar occasions.
A couple of days ago, the phone rang. Andrew picked it up and I heard him tell someone, ‘I’m fine thanks.’ Then he brought the phone to me, saying, ‘It’s [the Prodigal], do you want to speak to him?’ I took the phone and said hello, to be greeted with a warm, ‘Hi Mum, how are you?’ For the whole call he was unwontedly agreeable. (I found out later he was the same to Andrew.) It turned out that he’s just got a new Medicare card, is soon to leave the country again, and has given my address for where the card is to be sent. He wanted to know if I’d keep the card safe for him and just send him the number. Of course I will.
I got off the phone and said, albeit laughingly, ‘The little bugger! He was perfectly charming. He wanted something, of course.’ But I was pleased. Better to be on good terms than bad. On past experience I’d say it won’t last – but I also know how Theta Healing can shift things, so I’ll wait and see. Meanwhile I notice that I’m not so attached as I used to be. It will go how it goes; I’m calm about the whole thing.
Showing posts with label The Prodigal Son. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Prodigal Son. Show all posts
Monday, October 13, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
What if you can’t feel?
Reposted from my DragonStar Rose mentoring site on MySpace:
'I'm just numb,' wailed my friend. 'Ten years, and now the relationship's ended! And I can't cry, no matter how hard I try, even though I know there are lots of tears there.' She thought maybe she was subconsciously afraid to let go in case she never stopped!
'Try looking for other things to cry about,' I suggested. 'If there are tears waiting to be shed, it doesn't matter what you attach them to, it only matters that they get released. That way, you can do it bit by bit and you won't get overwhelmed.'
I know that one. I haven't yet shed tears over the recent confirmation that my youngest and I are poles apart and – the way it looks now – may never be able to maintain any kind of relationship. I too am fairly numb, still, on that aspect of recent events, though I am feeling other things. Joyous relief at the fact that I so nearly lost my marriage to Andrew, and didn't. Heightened appreciation of my life and all the good things in it. And quite a deal of anger towards the said youngest, mixed with pity for him (which he would repudiate furiously) because I think he has focused on his mind at the expense of his heart. I do know there is grief there, but, like my friend quoted above, I simply can't find the tears.
Except ... I have been finding in my own life the confirmation of my advice to my friend. Not that I went looking for occasions to weep, but life is life and they do come.
My husband unwittingly joined a gambling site online, thinking it was a straight auction, and was inveigled out of $25 more than he meant to spend, but had so much trouble working the system that he never got to use the bids he had bought anyway. It's OK, I sorted it and we'll get a refund, but I cried and screamed out of all proportion to what had happened. I do have a horror of gambling, due to a brief early marriage to a compulsive gambler, and a long second marriage to a man who gambled in business instead and eventually sent us bankrupt after a number of near-thing dramas. Even so, that was long ago now, I have done a lot of working through it since, and this was a mere $25 which we are going to get back.
Then last night I suffered sudden excruciating ear pain and temporary deafness - which at the time I didn't know was temporary - and again cried out of all proportion, even for such pain and fear. (Turned out to be a middle ear infection, and I'm already heaps better after getting treatment.)
I said to Andrew, 'I think my grief about S is leaking through. I haven't been able to express it directly yet.'
It's not that these situations weren't distressing. That's the point, I think. There has to be a genuine cause for tears, so that they will happen – then, if they go on a lot longer and seem even more anguished than the presenting situation warrants, they're probably doing double duty. And a good thing too! We don't want our emotions festering away inside us, where if they stay long enough they can make us physically ill.
Case in point – my middle ear infection is associated with a cold I've been fighting off for a couple of weeks. Metaphysically, a cold can be giving yourself permission to take time out, but I haven't done that for many years as these days I give myself conscious permission. So that leaves the other option – suppressed grief. Well, well, well! (And the right ear? What is it, I wonder, that I am trying not to hear consciously? Could be various things, and I do have ways to find out in the very near future.)
It is the same with anger. If you think you've got some of that festering away and that it'd be better out than in, but you have trouble releasing it, look for other causes of anger. You won't have to look far; there are plenty in the big wide world, if not in your immediate space. The Government is usually doing SOMETHING that annoys you at least some of the time. And we still have wars, poverty, disasters and incompetence on a grand scale. You'll find something!
Sometimes it helps to just start going through the motions of releasing. The release may well build! I am thinking of a time when a long friendship ended nastily. I regarded it as a betrayal of trust and even outright cruelty by the other person. (Still do, actually.) I was also in some shock about that. As soon as I extricated myself from the situation and found some breathing space, I took the advice I dish out to others – I bashed a pillow. This hurts neither oneself nor the other person.
It amazed me what happened. At first it felt a bit contrived, but not for long. The momentum built rapidly. I not only punched the pillow, I ended up kicking it and bashing it repeatedly against the wall. I not only sobbed but snarled and yelled. We're talking absolute, ferocious rage. It went on for ages.
'Try looking for other things to cry about,' I suggested. 'If there are tears waiting to be shed, it doesn't matter what you attach them to, it only matters that they get released. That way, you can do it bit by bit and you won't get overwhelmed.'
I know that one. I haven't yet shed tears over the recent confirmation that my youngest and I are poles apart and – the way it looks now – may never be able to maintain any kind of relationship. I too am fairly numb, still, on that aspect of recent events, though I am feeling other things. Joyous relief at the fact that I so nearly lost my marriage to Andrew, and didn't. Heightened appreciation of my life and all the good things in it. And quite a deal of anger towards the said youngest, mixed with pity for him (which he would repudiate furiously) because I think he has focused on his mind at the expense of his heart. I do know there is grief there, but, like my friend quoted above, I simply can't find the tears.
Except ... I have been finding in my own life the confirmation of my advice to my friend. Not that I went looking for occasions to weep, but life is life and they do come.
My husband unwittingly joined a gambling site online, thinking it was a straight auction, and was inveigled out of $25 more than he meant to spend, but had so much trouble working the system that he never got to use the bids he had bought anyway. It's OK, I sorted it and we'll get a refund, but I cried and screamed out of all proportion to what had happened. I do have a horror of gambling, due to a brief early marriage to a compulsive gambler, and a long second marriage to a man who gambled in business instead and eventually sent us bankrupt after a number of near-thing dramas. Even so, that was long ago now, I have done a lot of working through it since, and this was a mere $25 which we are going to get back.
Then last night I suffered sudden excruciating ear pain and temporary deafness - which at the time I didn't know was temporary - and again cried out of all proportion, even for such pain and fear. (Turned out to be a middle ear infection, and I'm already heaps better after getting treatment.)
I said to Andrew, 'I think my grief about S is leaking through. I haven't been able to express it directly yet.'
It's not that these situations weren't distressing. That's the point, I think. There has to be a genuine cause for tears, so that they will happen – then, if they go on a lot longer and seem even more anguished than the presenting situation warrants, they're probably doing double duty. And a good thing too! We don't want our emotions festering away inside us, where if they stay long enough they can make us physically ill.
Case in point – my middle ear infection is associated with a cold I've been fighting off for a couple of weeks. Metaphysically, a cold can be giving yourself permission to take time out, but I haven't done that for many years as these days I give myself conscious permission. So that leaves the other option – suppressed grief. Well, well, well! (And the right ear? What is it, I wonder, that I am trying not to hear consciously? Could be various things, and I do have ways to find out in the very near future.)
It is the same with anger. If you think you've got some of that festering away and that it'd be better out than in, but you have trouble releasing it, look for other causes of anger. You won't have to look far; there are plenty in the big wide world, if not in your immediate space. The Government is usually doing SOMETHING that annoys you at least some of the time. And we still have wars, poverty, disasters and incompetence on a grand scale. You'll find something!
Sometimes it helps to just start going through the motions of releasing. The release may well build! I am thinking of a time when a long friendship ended nastily. I regarded it as a betrayal of trust and even outright cruelty by the other person. (Still do, actually.) I was also in some shock about that. As soon as I extricated myself from the situation and found some breathing space, I took the advice I dish out to others – I bashed a pillow. This hurts neither oneself nor the other person.
It amazed me what happened. At first it felt a bit contrived, but not for long. The momentum built rapidly. I not only punched the pillow, I ended up kicking it and bashing it repeatedly against the wall. I not only sobbed but snarled and yelled. We're talking absolute, ferocious rage. It went on for ages.
Well – better all THAT out than in! Better than contracting any of the major illnesses in which suppressed rage is a factor.
I still have the same opinions about that person, but have long felt calm indifference to the whole matter.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Brainwashing in Suburbia
For those who have been reading my April poems with concern, here is the story behind them.
'You're not going to let him come, are you?' asked Andrew.
My youngest (aka The Prodigal Son) wanted to know if he could stay with us on his return to this country after nine years away. (He did get back briefly five years ago, but that time we saw very little of him.) Andrew was hostile and some of my closest women friends wary, because they'd witnessed me shedding many tears on his account over the years. My friend Helen noted that it was like a domestic violence pattern: his loving remorse, my ready forgiveness, the joyful reconciliation, and then he'd bash me up all over again – not physically but verbally and emotionally, by email. We actually got to a point of not communicating at all for a few months – my decision, in an attempt to break the pattern.
The Prodigal himself was wary this time, and respectful, unsure of his welcome. That seemed different. I also thought it was my last opportunity to repair the relationship, because he might never come back to Australia again after this visit. He said he didn't intend to.
'It's only for a couple of weeks,' I said to Andrew, 'and we can always ask him to leave if he becomes obnoxious.' I had no idea just how much trauma the Prodigal would put us through.
Nor did I realise it would turn out to be for much longer than a couple of weeks. He was going to go from us to visit his Uncle Jim, one of those old family friends who has the status of honorary uncle. But that wasn't convenient; Jim had a house full of visiting family already for the Christmas holidays, including grandchildren. The departure kept getting deferred and he ended up staying with us five weeks. He might have stayed longer still, but we had friends from overseas coming in January and needed our guest room. He went to stay with an old pal in another State and we breathed sighs of relief.
By that time, though, my son and I had had a breakthrough. I understood him to be coming from love and wanting me to be happy. We got to that point right at the end of the visit; before that things were often difficult. The Prodigal would stand at the door of my office, refusing to let me work, demanding that I answer his loud, insistent questions. Andrew would get indignant on my behalf and try to intervene, but he's a small man and he's 79; the Prodigal is large and strong and would simply refuse to move. To keep the peace I would say, 'It's OK,' and send Andrew away. The Prodigal was drinking heavily, and sometimes we'd sit up till 4 am while he went over and over all his childhood issues with me, and my many sins and failings as a mother. I asked if we could do it alcohol-free, but he had plausible, rational-sounding arguments against that. He's always very rational on the face of it, and I was never able to find convincing counter-arguments.
When he arrived, he said he had lots of work to do on his laptop. Oh good, we thought, he'll understand perfectly that we are writers and spend a lot of time on our computers; he won't expect to be entertained all the time. It transpired that he did want us – me in particular – to give attention to him at the expense of everything else, whenever he required.
He also took it upon himself to persuade me I'm not a poet and had been living a lie all my life. He would yell it at me: 'You're not a poet!' Well, not more than anyone else, he said, not as something that made me special. And anyway, poetry didn't have to be treated like I did, as a craft to be worked on. Many of his own emails were poems, he said. He was hurt that I hadn't recognised one he'd recently sent me as being a poem. I had another look and saw what he meant. I refrained from telling him it was a pretty bad poem! But then he wrote one as a xmas present for a friend of mine, and that was damn good.
It happened to be a busy and stressful time for Andrew and me, leading up to xmas. And we had been having some problems with each other before that. My son's presence didn't help. We tried to keep our more personal discussions to the privacy of the bedroom. Sometimes we snapped at each other instead of at the Prodigal. He was inconsiderate in various ways, notably by talking loudly on his cell phone to people on the other side of the world at 2 am our time, outdoors for better reception – right outside our bedroom window, and in earshot of the neighbours as well. He did stop after we asked him a few times, though he never really saw the point of not disturbing the neighbours.
On the other hand, he was generous and helpful in many ways: buying us food, fixing practical things around the house, taking over the driving when we went places, giving us sensible advice on practical matters such as budgeting. He could see far more clearly than us how to solve some problems. He thought we were insane for not dealing with stuff in our environment that wasn't working.
He had a point. About some things, we had become either overwhelmed or resigned. We needed waking up. Some of the things he fixed up for us really did make an ongoing difference to our day-to-day lives and we're still grateful. He also set himself to help us improve our ailing marriage, and some of his advice was insightful and good.
Often, though, he was offended because we didn't think to ask for his help, and because we didn’t always know what to ask for that he might be able to help with. Finally he made it clear that I was supposed to know he could help with absolutely everything.
But he didn't always, even so. He would dangle things in front of us like bait, or trot them out as reproaches. 'You've no idea how many things I could have helped you with if only you'd asked!' or, 'If you play your cards right, I'll get you new computers and a new car, even a new house.' No, he didn't really use the phrase, 'If you play your cards right,' nothing quite so blatant, but that was implied in various things he did say. (In truth, he didn't have the money to get us any of those things at this time.)
There were all these 'ifs' we never quite measured up to. In one instance, when he actually refused help he'd previously promised, I got so mad I figured out a way to do it myself. For the first moment or two he was proud of me, but then he went crook at me because I'd just gone ahead and done it without telling him first. I was secretive and deceitful, he said. He believes in full disclosure of everything to everyone!
It was a great relief and astonishment when, after all that, we managed to part lovingly – with, I thought, the problems and misunderstandings finally resolved.
Then came emails informing me he could sense something wrong, something I was hiding from him. Telling him I was fine cut no ice; he KNEW something was up. Well, I said, a friend had been seriously ill, I myself had been a bit off colour for a day or so, the car needed some work … maybe he was picking up one or more of these? He told me I was lying to him.
But then I had the nicest phone call, cheerful and friendly. He was coming up our way again, very briefly, before going back overseas. Could he spend a few more days with us? 'Of course,' I said. After all, we had had our big breakthrough and surely we could sort out any minor things easily once we were face to face. Also he had stopped drinking; his New Year resolution was that 2008 would be a year of non-drinking.
When he arrived the second time, he was upset to find we had not yet put into practice all the good advice he'd given us during his first visit. His disappointment was understandable, but there was no allowance for the other things we were trying to catch up with after a five-week interruption. Andrew lost patience and was sometimes cross and rude to him – under extreme provocation, I might add. The Prodigal was rude and aggressive to him too.
Meanwhile he was still convinced that I was sad. He continued to interrogate me about that, and about my childhood. He said he wanted to hear all my early family stories while he still could. But really he was only interested in what bad stuff I could dredge up. He developed a theory: my father was an arsehole whose love I tried to win by becoming a poet when that wasn't really my thing. Not the way I saw it – but that was of course because I was lying to myself!
Sober, he was in some ways easier to deal with – at first. He wasn't so belligerent, didn't throw things at me, didn't yell quite so much. But this visit, too, dragged on with constantly deferred departure dates. With time he got more and more aggressive. He would stand in doorways, barring me from leaving a room, determined to talk to me as long as he wanted. He would flick water on me, or bash hard on my computer keys, to get me to pay attention to him and nothing else. When I objected, he was quick to point out that none of this actually hurt me. He would restrain my arms, and then when I tried to fend him off would stand still and claim that it was I who was fighting him. Often he would provoke me to rage, so I would indeed be furiously trying to fight him off and break free.
Still I kept thinking that I must be open to what he said. He persuaded me I would be mad not to at least consider it. And in the end I decided just to go along with him until we could get rid of him, so as to keep the peace. I was getting worried about Andrew at that point. He had had a heart attack only a few months previously and was supposed to avoid stress.
My son decided that Andrew was crazy and my enemy, and finally managed to convince me of that too. That sounds incredible, but it was actually a brainwashing. A friend who got a close-up view of what was going on had earlier sent me an article called Brainwashing Techniques (reproduced below) and it was all there. But at that stage I still thought it was meant benevolently. It probably was, at a conscious level.
I must say, by then Andrew was playing right into his hands. He was totally fed up and frustrated, and was desperately trying to protect both me and our relationship. All along, the Prodigal had competed with Andrew for my affections, and in the end Andrew competed right back. The Prodigal started being aggressive to Andrew and Andrew stopped even trying to be polite to him. The Prodigal convinced me Andrew was lying to me when he appeared to be stressed or needy, claiming that when I wasn't around he was perfectly fine. And he observed all the cracks in our relationship and kept asking me leading questions designed to widen them.
I decided to leave Andrew. By then I was persuaded that we had nothing left in common. The Prodigal was delighted, and apologised for not having the resources to move me into a new home immediately. By this time he had been with us another six weeks, it was mid-April, and my Second Stepson (Andrew's youngest) was due to come for a visit. We had announced our separation to the family, but we said to Second Stepson, 'Come anyway; we'd love to see you.' We weren't quarrelling or anything. I still felt affectionate towards Andrew and was concerned about how he would cope with our separation. 'What do you care?' asked the Prodigal. I was troubled by such lack of compassion. The fact was, I did care.
So he went again, still with no immediate plans to leave Australia … and less than 24 hours later I looked around at our warm home and the man sitting beside me, and thought, 'What am I doing? I don't want to leave all this!' Andrew had initially told me I must be free to live my own life, but later he said he didn't want me to go. So he was of course very pleased by my sudden change of mind! We phoned the Second Stepson and told him the glad news straight away, so that he wouldn't be dreading coming to us.
He arrived full of blame for the Prodigal. I think it was only a figure of speech when he said, 'Where is he now? I want to hunt him down and kill him!' He'd concluded that the Prodigal was the cause of our decision to separate; just too coincidental, he thought, that it all happened during his visit. No no, I assured him, the Prodigal was only a catalyst, we'd been having problems already, the Prodigal was trying to help…. Second Stepson simmered down and we had a nice time with him. But now, more and more un-brainwashed, I fear his conclusion was correct, if not his notion of how to act on it.
I emailed the Prodigal and said I had decided not to leave Andrew. He pronounced me a liar and said he now knew for sure I had always been one, even since before he was born. He declared me to be addicted to Andrew and told me I have forgotten what real love is because it has been so long out of my life. Furthermore, he is the only one who knows the truth, the whistle-blower who is not believed. He has seen what a façade Andrew and I put up when other people are around. In fact we're insane. But then he said I am not insane, only a very good liar who even convinces herself.
He spoke of the contrast between the 'happy, alive mother' he left and how I will be in future, looking at my 'sad old self in photographs.' I think the evidence is against him!
Ironically, he's done us good. We are now much happier together, deeply appreciative of each other and what we've got. Even the cats seem happier now!
My relationship with my youngest is over. I am emotionally numb about it so far – only greatly relieved that we never have to go through that again – but my body has been expressing the trauma through various aches and pains and minor ills.
My other sons and their wives are very understanding. Whilst still loving the Prodigal, remembering who he used to be once and having some idea of the pressures which changed him, they also know what he can be like.
'Mum, you're a legend and never doubt it,' said the Firstborn. That did bring me to tears.
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Brainwashing Techniques
1. Assault on identity
2. Guilt
3. Self-betrayal
4. Breaking point
5. Leniency
6. Compulsion to confess
7. Channeling of guilt
8. Releasing of guilt
9. Progress and harmony
10. Final confession and rebirth
• Assault on identity: You are not who you think you are.
This is a systematic attack on a target's sense of self (also called his identity or ego) and his core belief system. The agent denies everything that makes the target who he is: "You are not a soldier." "You are not a man." "You are not defending freedom." The target is under constant attack for days, weeks or months, to the point that he becomes exhausted, confused and disoriented. In this state, his beliefs seem less solid.
• Guilt: You are bad.
While the identity crisis is setting in, the agent is simultaneously creating an overwhelming sense of guilt in the target. He repeatedly and mercilessly attacks the subject for any "sin" the target has committed, large or small. He may criticize the target for everything from the "evilness" of his beliefs to the way he eats too slowly. The target begins to feel a general sense of shame, that everything he does is wrong.
• Self-betrayal: Agree with me that you are bad.
Once the subject is disoriented and drowning in guilt, the agent forces him (either with the threat of physical harm or of continuance of the mental attack) to denounce his family, friends and peers who share the same "wrong" belief system that he holds. This betrayal of his own beliefs and of people he feels a sense of loyalty to increases the shame and loss of identity the target is already experiencing.
• Breaking point: Who am I, where am I and what am I supposed to do?
With his identity in crisis, experiencing deep shame and having betrayed what he has always believed in, the target may undergo what in the lay community is referred to as a "nervous breakdown." In psychology, "nervous breakdown" is really just a collection of severe symptoms that can indicate any number of psychological disturbances. It may involve uncontrollable sobbing, deep depression and general disorientation. The target may have lost his grip on reality and have the feeling of being completely lost and alone.
When the target reaches his breaking point, his sense of self is pretty much up for grabs -- he has no clear understanding of who he is or what is happening to him. At this point, the agent sets up the temptation to convert to another belief system that will save the target from his misery.
• Leniency: I can help you.
With the target in a state of crisis, the agent offers some small kindness or reprieve from the abuse. He may offer the target a drink of water, or take a moment to ask the target what he misses about home. In a state of breakdown resulting from an endless psychological attack, the small kindness seems huge, and the target may experience a sense of relief and gratitude completely out of proportion to the offering, as if the agent has saved his life.
• Compulsion to confession: You can help yourself.
For the first time in the brainwashing process, the target is faced with the contrast between the guilt and pain of identity assault and the sudden relief of leniency. The target may feel a desire to reciprocate the kindness offered to him, and at this point, the agent may present the possibility of confession as a means to relieving guilt and pain.
• Channeling of guilt: This is why you're in pain.
After weeks or months of assault, confusion, breakdown and moments of leniency, the target's guilt has lost all meaning -- he's not sure what he has done wrong, he just knows he is wrong. This creates something of a blank slate that lets the agent fill in the blanks: He can attach that guilt, that sense of "wrongness," to whatever he wants. The agent attaches the target's guilt to the belief system the agent is trying to replace. The target comes to believe it is his belief system that is the cause of his shame. The contrast between old and new has been established: The old belief system is associated with psychological (and usually physical) agony; and the new belief system is associated with the possibility of escaping that agony.
• Releasing of guilt: It's not me; it's my beliefs.
The embattled target is relieved to learn there is an external cause of his wrongness, that it is not he himself that is inescapably bad -- this means he can escape his wrongness by escaping the wrong belief system. All he has to do is denounce the people and institutions associated with that belief system, and he won't be in pain anymore. The target has the power to release himself from wrongness by confessing to acts associated with his old belief system.
With his full confessions, the target has completed his psychological rejection of his former identity. It is now up to the agent to offer the target a new one.
'You're not going to let him come, are you?' asked Andrew.
My youngest (aka The Prodigal Son) wanted to know if he could stay with us on his return to this country after nine years away. (He did get back briefly five years ago, but that time we saw very little of him.) Andrew was hostile and some of my closest women friends wary, because they'd witnessed me shedding many tears on his account over the years. My friend Helen noted that it was like a domestic violence pattern: his loving remorse, my ready forgiveness, the joyful reconciliation, and then he'd bash me up all over again – not physically but verbally and emotionally, by email. We actually got to a point of not communicating at all for a few months – my decision, in an attempt to break the pattern.
The Prodigal himself was wary this time, and respectful, unsure of his welcome. That seemed different. I also thought it was my last opportunity to repair the relationship, because he might never come back to Australia again after this visit. He said he didn't intend to.
'It's only for a couple of weeks,' I said to Andrew, 'and we can always ask him to leave if he becomes obnoxious.' I had no idea just how much trauma the Prodigal would put us through.
Nor did I realise it would turn out to be for much longer than a couple of weeks. He was going to go from us to visit his Uncle Jim, one of those old family friends who has the status of honorary uncle. But that wasn't convenient; Jim had a house full of visiting family already for the Christmas holidays, including grandchildren. The departure kept getting deferred and he ended up staying with us five weeks. He might have stayed longer still, but we had friends from overseas coming in January and needed our guest room. He went to stay with an old pal in another State and we breathed sighs of relief.
By that time, though, my son and I had had a breakthrough. I understood him to be coming from love and wanting me to be happy. We got to that point right at the end of the visit; before that things were often difficult. The Prodigal would stand at the door of my office, refusing to let me work, demanding that I answer his loud, insistent questions. Andrew would get indignant on my behalf and try to intervene, but he's a small man and he's 79; the Prodigal is large and strong and would simply refuse to move. To keep the peace I would say, 'It's OK,' and send Andrew away. The Prodigal was drinking heavily, and sometimes we'd sit up till 4 am while he went over and over all his childhood issues with me, and my many sins and failings as a mother. I asked if we could do it alcohol-free, but he had plausible, rational-sounding arguments against that. He's always very rational on the face of it, and I was never able to find convincing counter-arguments.
When he arrived, he said he had lots of work to do on his laptop. Oh good, we thought, he'll understand perfectly that we are writers and spend a lot of time on our computers; he won't expect to be entertained all the time. It transpired that he did want us – me in particular – to give attention to him at the expense of everything else, whenever he required.
He also took it upon himself to persuade me I'm not a poet and had been living a lie all my life. He would yell it at me: 'You're not a poet!' Well, not more than anyone else, he said, not as something that made me special. And anyway, poetry didn't have to be treated like I did, as a craft to be worked on. Many of his own emails were poems, he said. He was hurt that I hadn't recognised one he'd recently sent me as being a poem. I had another look and saw what he meant. I refrained from telling him it was a pretty bad poem! But then he wrote one as a xmas present for a friend of mine, and that was damn good.
It happened to be a busy and stressful time for Andrew and me, leading up to xmas. And we had been having some problems with each other before that. My son's presence didn't help. We tried to keep our more personal discussions to the privacy of the bedroom. Sometimes we snapped at each other instead of at the Prodigal. He was inconsiderate in various ways, notably by talking loudly on his cell phone to people on the other side of the world at 2 am our time, outdoors for better reception – right outside our bedroom window, and in earshot of the neighbours as well. He did stop after we asked him a few times, though he never really saw the point of not disturbing the neighbours.
On the other hand, he was generous and helpful in many ways: buying us food, fixing practical things around the house, taking over the driving when we went places, giving us sensible advice on practical matters such as budgeting. He could see far more clearly than us how to solve some problems. He thought we were insane for not dealing with stuff in our environment that wasn't working.
He had a point. About some things, we had become either overwhelmed or resigned. We needed waking up. Some of the things he fixed up for us really did make an ongoing difference to our day-to-day lives and we're still grateful. He also set himself to help us improve our ailing marriage, and some of his advice was insightful and good.
Often, though, he was offended because we didn't think to ask for his help, and because we didn’t always know what to ask for that he might be able to help with. Finally he made it clear that I was supposed to know he could help with absolutely everything.
But he didn't always, even so. He would dangle things in front of us like bait, or trot them out as reproaches. 'You've no idea how many things I could have helped you with if only you'd asked!' or, 'If you play your cards right, I'll get you new computers and a new car, even a new house.' No, he didn't really use the phrase, 'If you play your cards right,' nothing quite so blatant, but that was implied in various things he did say. (In truth, he didn't have the money to get us any of those things at this time.)
There were all these 'ifs' we never quite measured up to. In one instance, when he actually refused help he'd previously promised, I got so mad I figured out a way to do it myself. For the first moment or two he was proud of me, but then he went crook at me because I'd just gone ahead and done it without telling him first. I was secretive and deceitful, he said. He believes in full disclosure of everything to everyone!
It was a great relief and astonishment when, after all that, we managed to part lovingly – with, I thought, the problems and misunderstandings finally resolved.
Then came emails informing me he could sense something wrong, something I was hiding from him. Telling him I was fine cut no ice; he KNEW something was up. Well, I said, a friend had been seriously ill, I myself had been a bit off colour for a day or so, the car needed some work … maybe he was picking up one or more of these? He told me I was lying to him.
But then I had the nicest phone call, cheerful and friendly. He was coming up our way again, very briefly, before going back overseas. Could he spend a few more days with us? 'Of course,' I said. After all, we had had our big breakthrough and surely we could sort out any minor things easily once we were face to face. Also he had stopped drinking; his New Year resolution was that 2008 would be a year of non-drinking.
When he arrived the second time, he was upset to find we had not yet put into practice all the good advice he'd given us during his first visit. His disappointment was understandable, but there was no allowance for the other things we were trying to catch up with after a five-week interruption. Andrew lost patience and was sometimes cross and rude to him – under extreme provocation, I might add. The Prodigal was rude and aggressive to him too.
Meanwhile he was still convinced that I was sad. He continued to interrogate me about that, and about my childhood. He said he wanted to hear all my early family stories while he still could. But really he was only interested in what bad stuff I could dredge up. He developed a theory: my father was an arsehole whose love I tried to win by becoming a poet when that wasn't really my thing. Not the way I saw it – but that was of course because I was lying to myself!
Sober, he was in some ways easier to deal with – at first. He wasn't so belligerent, didn't throw things at me, didn't yell quite so much. But this visit, too, dragged on with constantly deferred departure dates. With time he got more and more aggressive. He would stand in doorways, barring me from leaving a room, determined to talk to me as long as he wanted. He would flick water on me, or bash hard on my computer keys, to get me to pay attention to him and nothing else. When I objected, he was quick to point out that none of this actually hurt me. He would restrain my arms, and then when I tried to fend him off would stand still and claim that it was I who was fighting him. Often he would provoke me to rage, so I would indeed be furiously trying to fight him off and break free.
Still I kept thinking that I must be open to what he said. He persuaded me I would be mad not to at least consider it. And in the end I decided just to go along with him until we could get rid of him, so as to keep the peace. I was getting worried about Andrew at that point. He had had a heart attack only a few months previously and was supposed to avoid stress.
My son decided that Andrew was crazy and my enemy, and finally managed to convince me of that too. That sounds incredible, but it was actually a brainwashing. A friend who got a close-up view of what was going on had earlier sent me an article called Brainwashing Techniques (reproduced below) and it was all there. But at that stage I still thought it was meant benevolently. It probably was, at a conscious level.
I must say, by then Andrew was playing right into his hands. He was totally fed up and frustrated, and was desperately trying to protect both me and our relationship. All along, the Prodigal had competed with Andrew for my affections, and in the end Andrew competed right back. The Prodigal started being aggressive to Andrew and Andrew stopped even trying to be polite to him. The Prodigal convinced me Andrew was lying to me when he appeared to be stressed or needy, claiming that when I wasn't around he was perfectly fine. And he observed all the cracks in our relationship and kept asking me leading questions designed to widen them.
I decided to leave Andrew. By then I was persuaded that we had nothing left in common. The Prodigal was delighted, and apologised for not having the resources to move me into a new home immediately. By this time he had been with us another six weeks, it was mid-April, and my Second Stepson (Andrew's youngest) was due to come for a visit. We had announced our separation to the family, but we said to Second Stepson, 'Come anyway; we'd love to see you.' We weren't quarrelling or anything. I still felt affectionate towards Andrew and was concerned about how he would cope with our separation. 'What do you care?' asked the Prodigal. I was troubled by such lack of compassion. The fact was, I did care.
So he went again, still with no immediate plans to leave Australia … and less than 24 hours later I looked around at our warm home and the man sitting beside me, and thought, 'What am I doing? I don't want to leave all this!' Andrew had initially told me I must be free to live my own life, but later he said he didn't want me to go. So he was of course very pleased by my sudden change of mind! We phoned the Second Stepson and told him the glad news straight away, so that he wouldn't be dreading coming to us.
He arrived full of blame for the Prodigal. I think it was only a figure of speech when he said, 'Where is he now? I want to hunt him down and kill him!' He'd concluded that the Prodigal was the cause of our decision to separate; just too coincidental, he thought, that it all happened during his visit. No no, I assured him, the Prodigal was only a catalyst, we'd been having problems already, the Prodigal was trying to help…. Second Stepson simmered down and we had a nice time with him. But now, more and more un-brainwashed, I fear his conclusion was correct, if not his notion of how to act on it.
I emailed the Prodigal and said I had decided not to leave Andrew. He pronounced me a liar and said he now knew for sure I had always been one, even since before he was born. He declared me to be addicted to Andrew and told me I have forgotten what real love is because it has been so long out of my life. Furthermore, he is the only one who knows the truth, the whistle-blower who is not believed. He has seen what a façade Andrew and I put up when other people are around. In fact we're insane. But then he said I am not insane, only a very good liar who even convinces herself.
He spoke of the contrast between the 'happy, alive mother' he left and how I will be in future, looking at my 'sad old self in photographs.' I think the evidence is against him!
'Happy, alive mother' the day he left.
Andrew at the same time.
Both of us about a week later.
Andrew at the same time.
Both of us about a week later.
(Our friends remark that we are looking better every day.)
He further informed me that he has decided against coming back and taking me away from here by force – for which I am thankful! Not that I'd have gone quietly. One thing that has come out of this is that no-one's going to be telling me what to do any more! I've finally learned to set boundaries. At 68 years of age, it was about time.
Ironically, he's done us good. We are now much happier together, deeply appreciative of each other and what we've got. Even the cats seem happier now!
My relationship with my youngest is over. I am emotionally numb about it so far – only greatly relieved that we never have to go through that again – but my body has been expressing the trauma through various aches and pains and minor ills.
My other sons and their wives are very understanding. Whilst still loving the Prodigal, remembering who he used to be once and having some idea of the pressures which changed him, they also know what he can be like.
'Mum, you're a legend and never doubt it,' said the Firstborn. That did bring me to tears.
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Brainwashing Techniques
1. Assault on identity
2. Guilt
3. Self-betrayal
4. Breaking point
5. Leniency
6. Compulsion to confess
7. Channeling of guilt
8. Releasing of guilt
9. Progress and harmony
10. Final confession and rebirth
• Assault on identity: You are not who you think you are.
This is a systematic attack on a target's sense of self (also called his identity or ego) and his core belief system. The agent denies everything that makes the target who he is: "You are not a soldier." "You are not a man." "You are not defending freedom." The target is under constant attack for days, weeks or months, to the point that he becomes exhausted, confused and disoriented. In this state, his beliefs seem less solid.
• Guilt: You are bad.
While the identity crisis is setting in, the agent is simultaneously creating an overwhelming sense of guilt in the target. He repeatedly and mercilessly attacks the subject for any "sin" the target has committed, large or small. He may criticize the target for everything from the "evilness" of his beliefs to the way he eats too slowly. The target begins to feel a general sense of shame, that everything he does is wrong.
• Self-betrayal: Agree with me that you are bad.
Once the subject is disoriented and drowning in guilt, the agent forces him (either with the threat of physical harm or of continuance of the mental attack) to denounce his family, friends and peers who share the same "wrong" belief system that he holds. This betrayal of his own beliefs and of people he feels a sense of loyalty to increases the shame and loss of identity the target is already experiencing.
• Breaking point: Who am I, where am I and what am I supposed to do?
With his identity in crisis, experiencing deep shame and having betrayed what he has always believed in, the target may undergo what in the lay community is referred to as a "nervous breakdown." In psychology, "nervous breakdown" is really just a collection of severe symptoms that can indicate any number of psychological disturbances. It may involve uncontrollable sobbing, deep depression and general disorientation. The target may have lost his grip on reality and have the feeling of being completely lost and alone.
When the target reaches his breaking point, his sense of self is pretty much up for grabs -- he has no clear understanding of who he is or what is happening to him. At this point, the agent sets up the temptation to convert to another belief system that will save the target from his misery.
• Leniency: I can help you.
With the target in a state of crisis, the agent offers some small kindness or reprieve from the abuse. He may offer the target a drink of water, or take a moment to ask the target what he misses about home. In a state of breakdown resulting from an endless psychological attack, the small kindness seems huge, and the target may experience a sense of relief and gratitude completely out of proportion to the offering, as if the agent has saved his life.
• Compulsion to confession: You can help yourself.
For the first time in the brainwashing process, the target is faced with the contrast between the guilt and pain of identity assault and the sudden relief of leniency. The target may feel a desire to reciprocate the kindness offered to him, and at this point, the agent may present the possibility of confession as a means to relieving guilt and pain.
• Channeling of guilt: This is why you're in pain.
After weeks or months of assault, confusion, breakdown and moments of leniency, the target's guilt has lost all meaning -- he's not sure what he has done wrong, he just knows he is wrong. This creates something of a blank slate that lets the agent fill in the blanks: He can attach that guilt, that sense of "wrongness," to whatever he wants. The agent attaches the target's guilt to the belief system the agent is trying to replace. The target comes to believe it is his belief system that is the cause of his shame. The contrast between old and new has been established: The old belief system is associated with psychological (and usually physical) agony; and the new belief system is associated with the possibility of escaping that agony.
• Releasing of guilt: It's not me; it's my beliefs.
The embattled target is relieved to learn there is an external cause of his wrongness, that it is not he himself that is inescapably bad -- this means he can escape his wrongness by escaping the wrong belief system. All he has to do is denounce the people and institutions associated with that belief system, and he won't be in pain anymore. The target has the power to release himself from wrongness by confessing to acts associated with his old belief system.
With his full confessions, the target has completed his psychological rejection of his former identity. It is now up to the agent to offer the target a new one.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
The Inner Life
My 'Prodigal Son', when he was here in December for five weeks, on his first visit back home to Australia in five years, kept telling me, 'Mum, you're not a poet!' He explained that he meant it wasn't something inborn, even though many members of my father's large extended family, through several generations that I know of, have also enjoyed scribbling verses.
'Oh yes,' said the Prodigal, 'Just like my ex-wife happened to be intellectually convinced of the truth of Islam, and it had nothing at all to do with the fact that she grew up in a Muslim family in Morocco!' It was my conditioning, he suggested, because I grew up in a family which put a high value on books, reading and poetry. He questioned my lifelong love of reading for the same reason.
One thing on his agenda was to find out more about his own childhood and mine, to better understand some things about himself. So he asked me many questions. He found out that I was an outgoing little girl who used to rush up to the front fence to chat to passers-by, until my parents got worried about stranger-danger and discouraged that.
I told him about my Dad reading my brother and me bedtime stories, including poems, and how his face lit up with joy when he read poetry. My son became convinced I adopted a love of poetry so as to have something to share with my Dad, a way to make his face light up. The corollary being that it wasn't really my thing. Nor my Dad's, despite his own writing. According to the Prodigal, Dad's love of poetry was to get attention – because I described my Dad reciting things like The Sentimental Bloke at parties, and writing poems of his own for the birthdays of family members.
After five weeks, my son went off and visited other people in other parts of Australia, then came back here at the beginning of March and spent another six weeks with us. This time, he said, 'If you're a poet, where's all the poetry you write? What have you written today?' So I showed him on my computer. 'And yesterday, and the day before that?' I told him it was easiest to see on my blog, and showed him that. He couldn't dispute the evidence that I was actually doing it, and actually sharing it with readers.
Then he decided it was unnatural to me to spend time crafting poems, working in the solitary way that writers do. 'You spend all this time every day,' he said, 'But I don't see it bringing you any joy.' But he noted that my face lit up when I spoke to him about poetry performances or my few forays into improv. That, he told me, was consistent with the outgoing little girl I used to be.
He spent a lot of hours engaging in these conversations with me. It's only now that I start to see some flaws in his logic. E.g. I actually know lots of poets who are very outgoing, and are right into performance and even improv, yet who also spend time on the craft of their writing. Well, that's not bad really – he only left 24 hours ago, so it hasn't taken me so very long.
I realise I don't actually care whether poetry is something genetic in me or something I've acquired from external sources. So what? I wouldn't have wanted a life without it. Ditto for reading books.
As for this thing that he doesn't see writing bringing me joy, I don't know how much joy would be externally visible in any writer engaged in the act of writing. Absorption is more like it. Getting lost in the work.
The Prodigal doesn't read books very often. And when he does, it is not for pleasure but self-improvement. While he was here he read The Secret and a book on the raw food diet. He thought that Andrew and I led a very dull life, spending a lot of time writing, a lot of time reading, and some time watching a few favourite shows on TV. But how do you gauge these pleasures? They are very internal.
I wasn't able to argue against him when he insisted that reading was a way of Andrew and I being separate. Reading the same books and talking about them to each other didn't seem to count, unless we actually read them together, at the same time. Which we have sometimes done, as it happens. But no, even that he saw as a substitute for talking to each other. 'When do you ever talk?' he demanded. 'I never hear you say anything meaningful.'
'We talk in the bedroom,' I replied. (We tend to lie in late in the mornings.)
'Just the same as when I was a kid,' he said. 'Everything happening behind closed doors, so I didn't know about it.'
Treasuring particular books as friends, as I do, he thought bizarre – a substitute for real interactions with living people. Yes, we did have friends call on us while he was here; we did go and visit people and take him with us. He heard us talking on the phone. Nevertheless....
I took many of his words to heart, perhaps too much so. But I'm afraid I never stopped reading books or writing poetry; never, even for a moment, entertained such notions!
'Oh yes,' said the Prodigal, 'Just like my ex-wife happened to be intellectually convinced of the truth of Islam, and it had nothing at all to do with the fact that she grew up in a Muslim family in Morocco!' It was my conditioning, he suggested, because I grew up in a family which put a high value on books, reading and poetry. He questioned my lifelong love of reading for the same reason.
One thing on his agenda was to find out more about his own childhood and mine, to better understand some things about himself. So he asked me many questions. He found out that I was an outgoing little girl who used to rush up to the front fence to chat to passers-by, until my parents got worried about stranger-danger and discouraged that.
I told him about my Dad reading my brother and me bedtime stories, including poems, and how his face lit up with joy when he read poetry. My son became convinced I adopted a love of poetry so as to have something to share with my Dad, a way to make his face light up. The corollary being that it wasn't really my thing. Nor my Dad's, despite his own writing. According to the Prodigal, Dad's love of poetry was to get attention – because I described my Dad reciting things like The Sentimental Bloke at parties, and writing poems of his own for the birthdays of family members.
After five weeks, my son went off and visited other people in other parts of Australia, then came back here at the beginning of March and spent another six weeks with us. This time, he said, 'If you're a poet, where's all the poetry you write? What have you written today?' So I showed him on my computer. 'And yesterday, and the day before that?' I told him it was easiest to see on my blog, and showed him that. He couldn't dispute the evidence that I was actually doing it, and actually sharing it with readers.
Then he decided it was unnatural to me to spend time crafting poems, working in the solitary way that writers do. 'You spend all this time every day,' he said, 'But I don't see it bringing you any joy.' But he noted that my face lit up when I spoke to him about poetry performances or my few forays into improv. That, he told me, was consistent with the outgoing little girl I used to be.
He spent a lot of hours engaging in these conversations with me. It's only now that I start to see some flaws in his logic. E.g. I actually know lots of poets who are very outgoing, and are right into performance and even improv, yet who also spend time on the craft of their writing. Well, that's not bad really – he only left 24 hours ago, so it hasn't taken me so very long.
I realise I don't actually care whether poetry is something genetic in me or something I've acquired from external sources. So what? I wouldn't have wanted a life without it. Ditto for reading books.
As for this thing that he doesn't see writing bringing me joy, I don't know how much joy would be externally visible in any writer engaged in the act of writing. Absorption is more like it. Getting lost in the work.
The Prodigal doesn't read books very often. And when he does, it is not for pleasure but self-improvement. While he was here he read The Secret and a book on the raw food diet. He thought that Andrew and I led a very dull life, spending a lot of time writing, a lot of time reading, and some time watching a few favourite shows on TV. But how do you gauge these pleasures? They are very internal.
I wasn't able to argue against him when he insisted that reading was a way of Andrew and I being separate. Reading the same books and talking about them to each other didn't seem to count, unless we actually read them together, at the same time. Which we have sometimes done, as it happens. But no, even that he saw as a substitute for talking to each other. 'When do you ever talk?' he demanded. 'I never hear you say anything meaningful.'
'We talk in the bedroom,' I replied. (We tend to lie in late in the mornings.)
'Just the same as when I was a kid,' he said. 'Everything happening behind closed doors, so I didn't know about it.'
Treasuring particular books as friends, as I do, he thought bizarre – a substitute for real interactions with living people. Yes, we did have friends call on us while he was here; we did go and visit people and take him with us. He heard us talking on the phone. Nevertheless....
I took many of his words to heart, perhaps too much so. But I'm afraid I never stopped reading books or writing poetry; never, even for a moment, entertained such notions!
Monday, December 31, 2007
Breakthrough!
I have to take it all back about the Prodigal Son. Well, it's true that he did have some s**t from the past to release, and it's true that there were times in the past five weeks that either or both of us was almost ready to call it quits. But we didn't, and finally we got through all the upset and had our breakthrough. I got to see that the confronting questions were not meant as attacks, but as a contribution to me. He was trying to shift some of my thinking which he believed didn't serve me – and he did have some excellent insights for me.
So I sincerely thank all the good friends who have been sending me love, light, prayers and healing! It worked. (Which is not to discount our own perseverance with each other.)
Today we took him for a last visit to Byron Bay, which he thinks is the essence of Australia – a wild, wet, stormy Byron Bay today – and then put him on a plane to Sydney, where he'll be partying with friends by now. It's fine and hot there, we hear. We ourselves are preparing to watch the fireworks over Sydney Harbour on TV. He'll be there in the crowd somewhere. At the end of the month he flies out to Los Angeles.
This time with him was make or break for our relationship. He doesn't feel at home in Australia and says he won't be coming back. So unless I can go to visit him somewhere in the world some day, I might never see him again. I'm so thankful we finally arrived at new understanding before he flew away.
So I sincerely thank all the good friends who have been sending me love, light, prayers and healing! It worked. (Which is not to discount our own perseverance with each other.)
Today we took him for a last visit to Byron Bay, which he thinks is the essence of Australia – a wild, wet, stormy Byron Bay today – and then put him on a plane to Sydney, where he'll be partying with friends by now. It's fine and hot there, we hear. We ourselves are preparing to watch the fireworks over Sydney Harbour on TV. He'll be there in the crowd somewhere. At the end of the month he flies out to Los Angeles.
This time with him was make or break for our relationship. He doesn't feel at home in Australia and says he won't be coming back. So unless I can go to visit him somewhere in the world some day, I might never see him again. I'm so thankful we finally arrived at new understanding before he flew away.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
My sins of omission
My youngest, Steve (38 years old), who is visiting me at present, massages my shoulders when I look uptight; he fixes things around the house; he washes the dishes when we have guests so that I can spend the time enjoying my friends; he hugs me often. So I know it's true when he tells me he loves me dearly – despite the fact that he sometimes informs me that I am a liar and/or insane.
This perception is at least partly based on our different recollections of his childhood. I remember walking down to the shops with him, hand in hand, chatting. I recall what I experienced as companionable family times around the TV watching favourite shows such as the old Dr Who and The Goodies. And all the other things mothers do, like creating costumes for school plays, driving my boys and half their mates to their basketball games, getting out in the back yard and kicking a football with them (however ineptly!) when their Dad was away working, hosting parties from kindergarten to teenage.... I remember a kid who used to confide in me both as a child and an adolescent. He remembers the door of my study being always closed, and the feeling that I gave him little in the way of time or attention.
Nancy Lee, who blogs about the welfare of children in Child Person from the South, writes:
About All the Children...
The children whose pictures are on this Blog are not abused or neglected...at least not to my knowledge! Or should I say no more than what falls within a "normal" range... for in my opinion all children experience some degree of abuse and neglect...if only from their own perspectives.
These children may look "neglected" in some cases but it is a momentary thing, as happens in the lives of all healthy children. Any child who is never rumpled or dirty is more likely to be at risk from some compulsive caregiver than from some occasional bad-hair days!
The children may look so very sad, confused, or whatever that "symptoms of abuse," come quickly to mind. But, children's routine lives are complex, often involving challenges that few of us would want to experience. We carelessly use words such as "resilient" to describe their extraordinary ability to deal with tragedies...great and small...as though it is somehow easier for them to bounce back quickly and easily from whatever comes along to stretch, bend or compress them out of shape.
Their ordinary emotional lives seem subject to higher peaks and lower valleys than some want to believe should or could be part of children's experiences. But whether we choose to believe or not, children- all children- inhabit a world filled with loneliness, pain and terror as well as beauty, joy and exhilaration.
I salute and honor them, warriors and heroes all!
As my son tells me now, what actually happened is less important than his experience of it.
He was astounded when I contradicted his assertion that I never worked during his childhood. I was amazed, and somewhat outraged, that he could believe such a thing. I always worked. I gave crochet lessons. I made crocheted tank tops and sold them through a local store. I was an artists' model, paid to pose nude for students to sketch. And most of all I followed my profession of librarian, sometimes going out to work and for one period having books delivered to my home for me to catalogue. (It was before the days of centralised computer cataloguing.) Not to mention doing all his self-employed father's secretarial work.
The thing is, I worked part time, arranging it around my children's school hours, a deliberate decision which I believed to be in their best interests and mine. It all happened while they were out of the house at school, so of course they saw little evidence of it – though I do wonder how they missed hearing conversations about it, or seeing me crochet items which never ended up on their own backs, or noticing the boxes of books by my desk during a time when my desk was in a corner of the living room. What was this extraordinary lack of curiosity, I wonder. Do all children just take their parents' lives for granted?
He sees it differently, particularly as he checked with his brothers and they didn't remember much about it either. Even on that our recollections differ. He says their emails disclaim all knowledge of me working. I thought they vaguely recalled some details – though I no longer have the emails to verify the matter. To Steve this is evidence of my insanity: they said they remembered nothing and I then said, 'See, I knew they'd remember.' Certainly he is right on the crucial point: what on earth was going on that he knew so little about his mother and her life when we were living in the same house? 'How is it that I didn't know my own mother?' he asks. I can only speculate.
He feels I was never there for him. He believes I contributed nothing to the household in the way of work and income. Even if I could show him documentation that I threw out long ago, what difference would that make? Memory is selective, but the fact that he remembers things that way tells me the times with the study door closed made a greater impact than the times of talk and companionship. And although it was no secret that I worked during his childhood, the fact that it so surprises him means I entirely failed to communicate it to him at the time.
I realise I don't know what is normal. Do parents and children really live in separate worlds with different focuses of attention? Or are there families where it's impossible not to know all details about each other? There were things about my parents that I didn't find out until long after the events, but I don't know that I would have been interested, or even have grasped them, at the time they took place. But my son tells me he has a genius IQ; perhaps I underestimated his capacity to understand.
Or was it I who took things for granted? I remember a time when teenage Steve walked in as I was giving a friend a cuppa in my kitchen, and heard some mention of my degree. After she left he sat down with me and said expectantly, 'So – tell me about all these university degrees you've got.' I was surprised to realise that he didn't know about the (only) one I had. Then it dawned on me that he had no way of knowing. I didn't have the certificate on the wall – though it has been displayed ever since that occasion – and it didn't usually come up in conversation.
I learned a lot about my family background when I was a child by sitting around in the evening and talking, or listening to the grown-ups talk. This happened in the immediate family and at extended family gatherings. My kids grew up with the family gathered around the TV in the evenings, and they had few occasions to hobnob with their extended family.
The other day I spoke to Steve about my beloved Nana, my Mum's mother, who died when I was four. He remarked that he'd never heard about her before. I said, 'Well, you never wanted to read the family stories I was emailing to your brothers.' He told me that was because I'm a liar so he wouldn't have known what to believe of them anyway. Had he read them, he'd have known that some of them were taken from my mother's own writings and taped reminiscences, which he now tells me would have counted with him as evidence for their truth. But can anything make up for the communications he missed as a child?
This is a vexed question to which I have no answer at this time. Nancy's post reminds me that a child's emotional world is a vast and dramatic place of which we take far too little account.
This perception is at least partly based on our different recollections of his childhood. I remember walking down to the shops with him, hand in hand, chatting. I recall what I experienced as companionable family times around the TV watching favourite shows such as the old Dr Who and The Goodies. And all the other things mothers do, like creating costumes for school plays, driving my boys and half their mates to their basketball games, getting out in the back yard and kicking a football with them (however ineptly!) when their Dad was away working, hosting parties from kindergarten to teenage.... I remember a kid who used to confide in me both as a child and an adolescent. He remembers the door of my study being always closed, and the feeling that I gave him little in the way of time or attention.
Nancy Lee, who blogs about the welfare of children in Child Person from the South, writes:
About All the Children...
The children whose pictures are on this Blog are not abused or neglected...at least not to my knowledge! Or should I say no more than what falls within a "normal" range... for in my opinion all children experience some degree of abuse and neglect...if only from their own perspectives.
These children may look "neglected" in some cases but it is a momentary thing, as happens in the lives of all healthy children. Any child who is never rumpled or dirty is more likely to be at risk from some compulsive caregiver than from some occasional bad-hair days!
The children may look so very sad, confused, or whatever that "symptoms of abuse," come quickly to mind. But, children's routine lives are complex, often involving challenges that few of us would want to experience. We carelessly use words such as "resilient" to describe their extraordinary ability to deal with tragedies...great and small...as though it is somehow easier for them to bounce back quickly and easily from whatever comes along to stretch, bend or compress them out of shape.
Their ordinary emotional lives seem subject to higher peaks and lower valleys than some want to believe should or could be part of children's experiences. But whether we choose to believe or not, children- all children- inhabit a world filled with loneliness, pain and terror as well as beauty, joy and exhilaration.
I salute and honor them, warriors and heroes all!
As my son tells me now, what actually happened is less important than his experience of it.
He was astounded when I contradicted his assertion that I never worked during his childhood. I was amazed, and somewhat outraged, that he could believe such a thing. I always worked. I gave crochet lessons. I made crocheted tank tops and sold them through a local store. I was an artists' model, paid to pose nude for students to sketch. And most of all I followed my profession of librarian, sometimes going out to work and for one period having books delivered to my home for me to catalogue. (It was before the days of centralised computer cataloguing.) Not to mention doing all his self-employed father's secretarial work.
The thing is, I worked part time, arranging it around my children's school hours, a deliberate decision which I believed to be in their best interests and mine. It all happened while they were out of the house at school, so of course they saw little evidence of it – though I do wonder how they missed hearing conversations about it, or seeing me crochet items which never ended up on their own backs, or noticing the boxes of books by my desk during a time when my desk was in a corner of the living room. What was this extraordinary lack of curiosity, I wonder. Do all children just take their parents' lives for granted?
He sees it differently, particularly as he checked with his brothers and they didn't remember much about it either. Even on that our recollections differ. He says their emails disclaim all knowledge of me working. I thought they vaguely recalled some details – though I no longer have the emails to verify the matter. To Steve this is evidence of my insanity: they said they remembered nothing and I then said, 'See, I knew they'd remember.' Certainly he is right on the crucial point: what on earth was going on that he knew so little about his mother and her life when we were living in the same house? 'How is it that I didn't know my own mother?' he asks. I can only speculate.
He feels I was never there for him. He believes I contributed nothing to the household in the way of work and income. Even if I could show him documentation that I threw out long ago, what difference would that make? Memory is selective, but the fact that he remembers things that way tells me the times with the study door closed made a greater impact than the times of talk and companionship. And although it was no secret that I worked during his childhood, the fact that it so surprises him means I entirely failed to communicate it to him at the time.
I realise I don't know what is normal. Do parents and children really live in separate worlds with different focuses of attention? Or are there families where it's impossible not to know all details about each other? There were things about my parents that I didn't find out until long after the events, but I don't know that I would have been interested, or even have grasped them, at the time they took place. But my son tells me he has a genius IQ; perhaps I underestimated his capacity to understand.
Or was it I who took things for granted? I remember a time when teenage Steve walked in as I was giving a friend a cuppa in my kitchen, and heard some mention of my degree. After she left he sat down with me and said expectantly, 'So – tell me about all these university degrees you've got.' I was surprised to realise that he didn't know about the (only) one I had. Then it dawned on me that he had no way of knowing. I didn't have the certificate on the wall – though it has been displayed ever since that occasion – and it didn't usually come up in conversation.
I learned a lot about my family background when I was a child by sitting around in the evening and talking, or listening to the grown-ups talk. This happened in the immediate family and at extended family gatherings. My kids grew up with the family gathered around the TV in the evenings, and they had few occasions to hobnob with their extended family.
The other day I spoke to Steve about my beloved Nana, my Mum's mother, who died when I was four. He remarked that he'd never heard about her before. I said, 'Well, you never wanted to read the family stories I was emailing to your brothers.' He told me that was because I'm a liar so he wouldn't have known what to believe of them anyway. Had he read them, he'd have known that some of them were taken from my mother's own writings and taped reminiscences, which he now tells me would have counted with him as evidence for their truth. But can anything make up for the communications he missed as a child?
This is a vexed question to which I have no answer at this time. Nancy's post reminds me that a child's emotional world is a vast and dramatic place of which we take far too little account.
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