13
2002
“Mom, my pattern of silencing unhappiness did not served me well ... And that was especially true after I married Will. As a bride of twenty-two, I'd not developed the depth perception necessary to connect Will's unexpected, emotional withdrawal with my devastating experience with Joseph in sixth grade. When love between children is dismissed as 'puppy love', we miss the fact that ... Love is love at every age. And I’d certainly not heard the term ‘self defeating pattern’.”
“So, what was your self defeating pattern, Annie?”
“Which one of many, Mom?” I ask with a smile. Then, feeling serious again, I go on: Most importantly, this: I’d rarely shared my problems with anyone. Had I thought to bare my humiliation after those dreadful school bus rides, or had I opened up about what happened in the alley with Joseph, a shot of adult insight might have stopped me from biting off huge chunks of my self-esteem.”
“Wait ... I'm confused. Do you think what happened with Joseph and Will relates to Janet?”
“Well, not exactly to Janet’s death, but to whatever had caused me to become so closed mouth about my problems until Will and I'd separated. Oh my God, Mom, did you hear the words I just said? Closed mouthed??? Me??? No one who knows me would have conceived of that as true—ever! Mom, think about the power behind that insight: I’ve never thought myself shy with words. Never. Yet, whenever confounding problems arise, my pattern has been to retreat into myself. *When we withdraw with a problem stuffed inside us, we end up stuck in a place where no one can help us understand whatever we're truly feeling that's numbed up deep inside. *Each time we try to separate heart from mind, we lock up our freedom to be true to ourselves. *If it’s a fact that nothing alive stays the same, very long—meaning everything gets better or worse—then a problem, stuffed inside, is bound to grow like a weed if its main root remains unidentified. In lieu of solutions, weeds undermine the good health of a garden no matter how carefully a gardener, who plants seeds of love, tends to the fruit of his labor. It's not healthy to deny what we feel.
Annie, problems aren't alive.
Problems aren't, but relationships are, because they grow better or worse. And actually, problems are like living things, because a problem that remains unresolved grows worse, over time. Think about it, Mom, when it comes to the good health of our relationships, problems, which go unchecked, worsen like colds developing into pneumonia.
Since mothers tend to feel guilty about any mistakes made while raising their children, discretion suggests my keeping certain thoughts (which I’ll share with you) to myself. So rather than telling my gentle, white haired, eight-eight year old mother the 'whole' truth, my choice of discretion offers her this slice of the truth, instead: Here’s my point, Mom. It seems that from an early age, pleasing others is what had pleased me most about myself. In fact, it’s still hard for me to distinguish my needs from whatever others need of me. Any sense of conflict with family or friends floods my mind with anxiety. In the split second that it takes to think: ‘No, I can't do this for you' my mind floods with conflict. Conflict stimulates anxiety, which stimulates the adrenal gland's production of adrenalin to shoot straight through the body's nervous system as fast as our hearts can pump blood. As anxiety is fear, our lucid thoughts scatter, and our brains pulse with static. Most of the time, while standing my ground, voicing a carefully considered opinion concerning my needs, I walk away feeling as unfulfilled as if I'd capitulated. Conflicts make me feel damned no matter what I choose to do, like Catch 22. Since it’s highly unlikely for selflessness to permeate any person’s psyche to its core, I've been learning what happens inside me when my personal needs repress behind defensive walls. Mom, you know how hard it is for me to say no to you, right?
Yes.
Well, I need to figure out why that's true. By the time I’d married Will, I’d grown accustomed to capitulating to the needs of family, friends and authority figures, while unknowingly stuffing my needs behind my smile. Looking back, I imagine myself acting like Jackie Kennedy, whose smile captivated the world by day while at night, she'd soaked her pillow with silent tears after climbing into her lonely, White House bed.
Yes.
Well, I need to figure out why that's true. By the time I’d married Will, I’d grown accustomed to capitulating to the needs of family, friends and authority figures, while unknowingly stuffing my needs behind my smile. Looking back, I imagine myself acting like Jackie Kennedy, whose smile captivated the world by day while at night, she'd soaked her pillow with silent tears after climbing into her lonely, White House bed.
Annie—how could you know how Jackie spent her nights?”
“Mom—I don't. But having read so many Kennedy biographies, I'll bet my analogy's not far from the truth. Look, here’s the point I’m trying to make: It’s not as though I’d cried silently on most nights after we’d moved from the apartment into the house. I’d cried whenever a situation at school hurt deeply enough to puncture straight through my subconscious wall. I'd cried whenever a storehouse of dark, lonely feelings overwhelmed my wall of denial, allowing numbed emotional pain to break through my dam of control and pour out of my core, flooding my conscious awareness with the tidal wave of unhappiness, which had grown too huge to lock within pockets of my subconscious."
"Annie, where do you come up with these ideas?"
"I don't know. They just pour out of me, Mom. Maybe it's because I'm always reading. Maybe it's because of how drawn I am to understanding the complexities of the brain. Each time insight plugs into hindsight, I develop the foresight to see how universal, timeless and classic this self-defeating theme of emotional dam building has been throughout the ages to people of both sexes at every stage of life.”
“And we thought you were such a happy, self confident child.”
“You thought that for good reason, Mom, because in many ways I was. I’ve been successful in so many aspects of life that most of my smiles push my fear of being—invisible—out of sight. In seventh and eighth grades, I’d cried silently at night after invitations to boy and girl birthday parties had been handed out on the playground at school. Then, I’d cry, again, on those weekend evenings when I knew those parties were taking place, and I'd felt insignificant, again.”
“How come I never realized you weren't invited to any of those parties?”
“Life’s busy, Mom, and I never brought it up. Did you go to boy and girl parties?”
“Are you kidding? We couldn’t afford parties when we were kids. During the depression, we were lucky to have dinner.”
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