Reassembly

I went to a wedding this past weekend. The groom did the usual mother/son dance. The song was sweet, some country ditty about all the wonderful things that mom was, and all the fond memories the male singer had from growing up. Normally, things like that don’t faze me. I went numb long ago to the Mother’s Day hype, the sweet caricatures of loving mom’s portrayed on Hallmark movies and TV commercials, the sappy stories of how <insert famous celebrity> owes it all to the encouragement and support of a warm and loving mama. I didn’t have that luxury, which I suppose some would refer to as a basic need. Shrug. I survived, right?

I did, that’s true. But sometimes it’s ok to be a little angry about the injustice of it all. It’s ok to let that emotion seep in and throttle wildly through your veins. It’s ok to ask “why me?,” knowing full well there is no answer to that question.

I stood at that wedding, watching the groom grin from ear to ear while his mom hugged him tight, ecstatic at enjoying such a special moment with her son. And I seethed. I churned inside, angry, wanting to lash out at no one in particular. Just for moment, I let that feeling wash over me. Quickly, it was gone, replaced by a longing, a sadness, a yearning for what will never be. My siblings and I have had the conversation many times — we mourn the loss of the mother (and father) we never had. Intellectually, I know that I’ll never have a relationship with my mother. I still foolishly hope that I can eek out some sort of relationship with my father, though I know that’s not likely, either. The child inside of us never loses hope, and it shouldn’t. But the replacement of that missing parent, that missing love, somehow has to come from within — the self-parenting of your inner child. I’m still figuring out how to do that, and it may be a lifetime task, but that is the goal nonetheless.

I am finding that the anger rears it’s head less and less often these days. When it does appear, it’s in short bursts, seeming more like a conditioned response, much like touching a hot stove. The instantaneous response is to pull back from the flame, running to the sink to bathe your singed finger in cold water. If you’re like me, though, you’re also cursing yourself for being so stupid and not realizing that the flame was hot. Be kind to yourself. Triggers come from all directions and at the most inopportune times. The only thing we can manage is our response to those triggers, and it starts with cutting yourself some slack and letting whatever emotion you’re having at the moment be ok. That doesn’t give you leeway to respond like a raging lunatic, but it does give you leeway to feel like one sometimes!

If you’re still in the midst of your chaotic environment, it may be a long time before the anger morphs into the sadness. Worse yet, you may still be in a dangerous place where anger is not an option because you’re too busy coping with fear. Either way, you need to find healthy outlets. These are all the same things you’ve been hearing about for years. Work out. Get your sleep. Eat right. Lay off the booze and excess in general. Find a good shrink. Find a spiritual home. Feed your brain and develop some hobbies. People consistently talk about these outlets because they are real and they work. They take your brain out of the loop of chaos and short circuit it in a good, healthy way.

I was fortunate long ago to realize how fundamentally important it is to work out on a regular basis. I enjoy it, actually. I am keenly aware if it’s been a couple of days without a workout that I’ll get antsy and slightly neurotic. I also know that when I get triggered or especially angry that the gym is the first place I need to head. The act of physically taxing my body, of venting through exertion, slowly disperses the intensity of the negative emotions. I can almost feel the dopamine releasing, surging through my bloodstream on a mission to assassinate any stray toxins that dare stand in its path. It’s the best therapy.

At some point you start to realize that you are actually the parent to your abuser, and probably always have been. The primitive thinking and behavior consistently shown by them requires a deft touch to navigate. My mother had Borderline Personality Disorder, and the classic explanation of a living with that is “walking on eggshells.” It is a good analogy. You spend much of your time tiptoeing along, attempting to make sure every solitary decision is the correct one. In spite of these efforts, the egg will crack, and you’ll be left swimming in a pool of slime. Mom had no rhyme or reason to her madness. She’d just snap. Suddenly. Often without a clear trigger or motive. It’s fascinating how she could go from jovial and gregarious in one instant to seething with rage the next.
But inside she was mostly a child. Because of the abuse my mom suffered at an early age, her psyche almost literally fractured in half. Her brain was unable to process anything as other than black and white. There was no grey area, no nuance. Things were good (like my brother) or bad (like me). Generally, there was no crossing the divide, but sometimes she’d switch someone or something around to the other team. She did this with my grandfather in her later years, I think around the time he died.
I was just reading an article about “Man on Fire” syndrome, which is a disorder that causes constant nerve pain and discomfort. Something like the painful tingling you get in your extremities just before frostbite sets in, only all over your body and constant. Sounds positively horrendous. The good news is scientists have discovered a link to a particular gene, and so far it looks promising that by regulating this gene they’ll be able to stop the pain.
Mom had a “Man on Fire” of the brain. Call it “Mom on Fire.” She was in a constant state of pain, of fear, of conflict, of chaos, of sadness, of anger — all sorts of negative emotions constantly flooding out of her like a firehose, and no way to regulate any of it.
So as kids, we had to be the regulators. When her self-esteem was low, she’d humiliate others, usually me. If she felt wronged (which was often), she’d lash out in a fit of rage. If she was sad, we needed to be extra kind and thoughtful. If she was feeling productive, it was our job to drop everything, pitch in and help her. Because she didn’t control any of her feelings, emotions, or consequent actions, we were tasked with soothing her broken spirit. We became the figurative and sometimes literal punching bag for her angst. We were the sounding boards for her wild musings and age-inappropriate conversations. It was all about mom, all the time. Not only were all of our thoughts and emotions irrelevant, if we happened to actually have any of our own feelings we were selfish little brats that didn’t care about mom.
Since dad was the poster child of co-dependency, he fed this beast on a regular basis. She berated him constantly, humiliating him and emasculating him on an hourly basis. It didn’t matter if he was there or not. When he was home, he’d sit there meekly, apologetically. Always searching for her approval, always ready to jump at her next demand. When she would target her rage at me, he’d eagerly join in on the attack, simultaneously glad that it wasn’t directed at him, and eager to prove his worth as a partner in crime once again. And so it was with everything. When she’d manufacture ridiculous accusations about his family, he’d take her side and kick everyone to the curb for a while. Mom was always the damsel in distress, and dad was the White Knight riding in to save the day.

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