Children abhor an emotional (and intellectual) vacuum

In progressing through my recovery journey, and looking back at my parents, I have regularly contrasted dad's emotional fire (mainly of anger management issues along with emotional and physical abusiveness) with mom's emotional ice of not being there.

But, in some recent poolside meditation of sorts, or at least pondering, between pages of a re-read of Bessel van der Kolk's "The Body Knows the Score," about which I have previously blogged, I had some new insight.

Ice is still something "positive," in the sense of actually being there, and actually having empirical, sensual evidence it's there.

A vacuum? It is nothingness.

What led me to that was, after a bit of my pondering, I started doing something Gestalt-like, which van der Kolk talks about a lot. I started having a dialogue with an image of mom.

After the dialogue was done, as I noted previously in my most recent post before this, I realized that I didn't hate mom. I didn't really even loathe her.

Instead, I abhorred her, or more accurately now, I abhorred her emotional vacuum. From there, I jumped to Harry Harlow's experiments with rhesus monkey babies and maternal or pseudo-maternal bonding.

I know mom bottle-fed me, but that was normal in the 1960s. She didn't have much tactile interaction with me otherwise, nor a lot of emotional interaction either on "positive" or "negative" emotions. I did see her once or twice in fear of dad's anger when directed toward me, but I have no idea if she ever talked to him about it further.

Anyway, this carries on to mom divorcing dad.

She claimed that she was tired of him trying to force us into religious careers. (I have proof of this; my dad apparently destroyed a partially completed application of mine to New Mexico Tech, and I know this because after I was put on academic probation at his religious alma mater after my first semester, he wrote me a letter to "shape up" or I'd never get into it. I found the letter back almost 30 years later, going through a box of old items of mine he had in storage. J'accuse!)

And yet? She never fought in court to have primary physical custody of me and my sister, as far as I know. I do know the court said we could make our own custodial parent decisions as long as we didn't bounce around too much and show detrimental effects.

Unlike dad, who for surface appearances (and maybe some stress relief, but I don't mean to buy his explanation that mom "caused" his temper let alone his acting out on it) did change for generally the better (setting aside "grooming" me to move with him — not sure how much of that he did with sis), mom never did that. It's like, even given the truth of what she claimed about dad, she was still telling a story more than a reality, and that the focus remained solipsistic.

(More on that word below.)

Because of who she worked for, and my SAT results, I got a corporate National Merit Scholarship, which actually pays more than the regular ones, even if a half-cut lower in prestige. Years later, she told me that she had considered writing her corporate headquarters to see if it would revoke the scholarship because I was attending my dad's religious alma mater.

And, no, she'd not contacted me at that time. She wrote me ... half as often, or less ... in college as dad did.

Let's see.

Knocking the props out from under me financially would have done what? Make me even more distant from her, for sure. Angry, even if I didn't realize it at the time. And hence, the "(and intellectual)" I just added to the header.

I mention the word "solipsistic" above. I used to think of mom as "narcissistic," but at that previous blog post, I realized that's not right, either.

I think a true narcissist, whether conscious of it or not, has different internal motivations than mom did.

The "solipsistic"?

By the time I was 12, this abused and emotionally whipped pre-teen, and "old soul" of sorts (no, not in any metaphysical way, New Agers) from that abuse, realized emotionally and psychologically that he did not want children when he grew up. In part, I knew that my mom was mentally ill in some way and I didn't want to pass that on.

It is an "old soul" of sorts that feels that way, and that accepts that stance as necessary, just as it's a similar old soul who can think in his mind of peace-promoting bible passages when his dad thinks he should attack the leader of neighborhood bullies because the rest of them will all cave in.

There's many more ways in which I simply had no connection with mom. Part of that, per van der Kolk, of course may be being "shut down" in some way. But, already when I was 5, I had issues of physical and emotional abandonment from her.

And, the apparent mental illness (neurotic, not psychotic level) behind that is another reason I abhor, but don't loathe.

Dad, on the other hand? Genetic tendencies to anxiety, as well as to anger management, are mental health issues. But, they're not mental illness.

While there are several good things he did for me throughout life, ultimately, while I don't hate him, and I don't think I loathe him as a person, I do overall loathe how he was as a father.

Glad I'm single

Yeah, I may die alone, but so have many people with partners and even marriages.

I may enter the realm of dying without them or without kids to look out for me, but, I'm not alone there, again.

I have no attachments. No hostages to fortune.

No wading through relationships only to hit booby-traps years, even decades, later.

The sexual, emotional and physical abuse made me learn aloneness, and an acceptance, even a sometime embrace of it.

Looking back over decades, at women in whom I had some interest at times, and it didn't work out?

I'm OK with that.

I care

I CARE

I care;
I care when I say “I don’t care”;
I care that I say “I don’t care”;
I care when I think I actually mean that I don’t care;
I care that a defense mechanism may be too imbedded.

Why would I not care?
Lots of reasons.
Seeing other people not care about me.
Feeling other people not care about me.
Feeling powerless to care about myself.
Seeing no guarantees results when I tried to care about myself.
Feeling hopeless about the result of asking for care from others.

So, I didn’t care.
Or acted like I didn’t.
Meanwhile, buried with repressed anger
Against both myself and others,
Repressed anxiety, and other repressed emotions,
Was repressed care.
For myself, above all else.
But for other people, too.
I hope.

June 30, 2010

Conditional-love parenting doesn’t work, Dr. Phil

Showing Dr. Phil and others, who oppose Carl Rogers’ ideas, quite wrong, studies show that conditional-love parenting produces, in essence, conditional self-esteem in children.

I think there’s a lot to this story.

This ties directly to some of the work of Nathaniel Branden, father of the self-esteem movement. (The movement behind things like Character Counts, ultimately, and NOT the father of the false self-esteem movement of never confronting a child and giving everybody in class an A.)

This should also have implications for teachers, especially in younger grades.

And, to the degree support on the job, etc., can be more unconditional vs. less unconditional, I daresay it has connections to management, etc.

The paradox of emotional awareness

THE PARADOX OF EMOTIONAL AWARENESS

I became the emotional sponge of sorts
As mom and dad drifted, even careened, toward divorce,
Whether or not they were at all conscious
Of their emotional dumping
Through surrogate spousehoods, pedestal-placing, or other tricks.
And yet, though an emotional sponge,
I was often poor at reading people’s faces, actions and moods.
Why?
I think I had nearly fully despaired, by that time,
Of any control over other people’s emotions.
I had learned to “freeze” quickly, already, for Dad’s anger,
So I had no need to react any quicker to advance signs of it.
Parental dismissal, of various sorts, if only on the minor or modest levels
(Though it was sometimes major, sometimes huge),
Had become the norm, and so, didn’t need to be “read.”
And love and hope?
The reality of them, beyond any words, was so unlikely,
Especially on a deep or ongoing basis,
That I couldn’t have “read” them anyway; they were too unfamiliar.
And, if attention can be called an emotion, it was rarer yet;
The flip side of dismissal, it rarely came up heads.
Those emotions were shut books, and so I was illiterate.
Beyond that, though, the dismissal, the passive dismissal,
The simple non-interest, was the worst.
How could they not know the even darker secrets of our household,
Beyond even some sexual issues they themselves projected?
How could they not ask why I was afraid to sleep,
And still be awake at 2 a.m., beyond a thirst for late-night reading?
How could they not know, I used to wonder.
Today, as I stumble toward more emotional, and psychological,
Awareness of both past and present,
I wonder no longer.
They knew. Maybe not everything, but something.
And did nothing.
NOTHING!
Did they even care nothing?
My mom saw my first suicide attempt, as a child;
My dad heard me tell of my second, at the end of college.
Does an emotional sponge even suck up nothingness?
Well, I ate, had clothes, and a roof over my head.
So, on a surface, and material, level, they did.
Beyond that?
I, as an adult, don’t have to read Sartre to know existential nothingness;
I just look inside, for the face and voice of a numbed-out child.

My story, part 1

First, without getting into too many details, I’m a sexual abuse survivor.

There’s a word for it — it’s called incest. At least 2 years that I can remember, perhaps more, from at least when I was 8 to 10 years old. Maybe even longer than that. About anything you can think of, without being more specific. (I don’t just blurt this information out, anyway, for obvious reasons.)

I still can’t remember a lot today. And, I have post-traumatic stress disorder (more on that later).

The lack of memory probably says something. I’ve done the “self-counseling” work of looking at old childhood pictures, and I started looking like a pretty unhappy camper already in 4- and 5-year-old pics.

Whether that was some degree of sexual abuse that I can’t remember, physical or emotional abuse from dad, or emotional neglect going to indifference from mom, I was an unhappy camper, to put it mildly.

I know that the phrase “dysfunctional home” gets used a lot, but, I was there. Behind the Ozzie and Harriett of a conservative Lutheran minister and his wife and his five kids, there were seven individual balls of shit as the years went on.

To put it rhetorically, which may keep a little more distance for me:

When you’re 8 and two of your brothers come into your bedroom at night, and family life goes “blissfully” on the next day, you’re not in a normal family.

When you’re 9, and after you’ve chased your 1-year-younger sister with your Christmas present hunting knife (not recognizing she was reaching out from some degree of abuse herself, etc.), and your dad threatens to use the knife on you if you ever do that again, and life goes “blissfully” on the next day, you’re not in a normal house. (Dad was not the most horrible physical abuser in the world, but did go far enough to hit me and each of us kids in the mouth at least once, go beyond spankings to beatings more than once, etc.)

When you’re 9 and your dad catches you reading in bed at 2 a.m. and spanks you to the point of beating, rather than praising your intelligence for reading non-fiction books late at night, let alone not asking why else you would be up that late, you’re not in a normal house. (Why was I up that late? Best I can figure now, I realized my brothers wouldn’t come into my bedroom, even late at night, if I still had a light on. And, I was surely afraid to go to sleep. How afraid, I may still not recognize.)

When you’re 10, and the younger of the two older brothers is physically abusing you, and something finally snaps, and you attempt to strangulate yourself with a belt, you’re not in a normal house.

When, five minutes later, that same brother and your mom intervene to stop the suicide attempt, and nothing more is ever said about it, let alone done about it, as the family life goes “blissfully” on, you’re not in a normal household.

When, also at 10, the oldest brother primary sexual abuser shows you where dad’s liquor is at on the top shelf of the pantry, encourages you to try various things, etc. you’re not in a normal family.

(And when you don’t recognize until almost 30 years later how abnormal this all was, you’ve definitely been affected by living in a dysfunctional family.)

That said, I sampled all the clear liquors. Then, I saw the Jim Beam, or Jack Daniels.

The amber color fascinated me. Besides, I knew that real men like John Wayne drank whiskey — straight whiskey.

So, I did, or nearly so. I may have cut it 10-15 percent with water, but nothing else. This 98-pound kid drank 4 ounces or maybe a little more. He was macho. Wait until the neighborhood bullies heard about this.

Little did that gentle, soft-spoken boy realize he had just turned off, or finish turning off, an emotional and psychological light switch.

He wasn’t macho; he was hurting, and getting drunk for the first time.

(To be continued.)

Hello

I decided to start a blog just about recovery issues, to keep it separate from my other blogs, on political, professional or philosophical issues.

I'll discuss recovery from alcoholic-level drinking, recovery from overt and covert sexual abuse, physical abuse, emotional abuse, emotional neglect/abandonment, and post-traumatic stress disorder.