I completely bought into my mother's stories, that became family lore, of how wonderfully protective my older brother was of me.
Sheldon was the first to burst my bubble. For years, whenever I would tell some tale of supposed protectiveness, he would say, "You'd get angry if I did that." His words baffled and annoyed me. I thought it was a lame excuse on his part for not being protective -- by blaming it on me.
Finally, after I'd been in therapy for awhile, Sheldon spelled it out for me: "Damien was not being protective; he was being controlling." He re-interpreted some of my favorite stories in that light. It made sense.
Randy agreed. He even went further. "He didn't protect you from himself. In addition, when he should have been protecting you as an older brother, he insisted on getting you involved in porn, cigarettes, alcohol, and drugs." He told me a story of an older sibling protecting him when they were in their teens as a way of offering contrast.
It was painful to give up that nice fantasy.
Recently, I had to face the same truth about my mother. She prides herself in her "over-protectiveness" of us. It finally dawned on me that each example of that involved her not allowing us to go places or do things, often because she would worry. It seemed more about protecting herself from worry. But it's not just that...every instance involved her controlling us, especially me.
She didn't protect me from my older brother's bullying, even the times she observed it directly. She didn't protect me from being controlled by him. When I was bullied and teased at school, no motherly protective instinct kicked in; instead, she found it either amusing or too trivial to bother with.
Worst of all, she had no qualms about sending me back to live in the same apartment building as the men who raped me when I was 23. It didn't trouble her at all that every time I looked out my window or walked to and from my apartment, the apartment where I'd been raped stared me in the face. She didn't care that my rapists lived so close to me, that we couldn't help seeing each other, running into each other at the mailbox or in the laundry room. In her defense, maybe she thought they had lost interest in me after raping me and thus no longer posed a threat...or maybe she naively thought they only raped women they lured into their apartment. But she saw no need to protect me from the anguish of seeing them again.
Years later, when I asked her whether she worried about me living there, she waved her hand dismissively. She claimed she thought the older one had left immediately, rather than a few weeks later. She wasn't at all worried about the younger one. Why was I making such a big deal about it? After all, they left me pretty much alone after the rape.
Protective? No. Controlling? Yes.
Not that long ago, she was telling some stories from my childhood. "I was so protective!" she said. "People always said I was over-protective!" Then she told me about all the things she didn't let us do...normal kid stuff that, as a parent, I delighted in letting my kids do. I wanted them to experience exuberant play, even if it meant getting dirty, some messes, a few skinned knees, and a few rips in their jeans. My face must have betrayed my feelings because my mother said defensively, "I did let you talk in your rooms!"
Oh, wow, I guess she wasn't a complete tyrant then!
Showing posts with label setting the stage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label setting the stage. Show all posts
Friday, February 10, 2012
Friday, November 18, 2011
"Listen to your brother!"
In our family lore, as told mostly by my mother, my brother was extremely protective of me. He was also wonderful, smart, talented, etc., etc. In fact, even if a story she told started out being about me, it ended up with him as the star.
When we would go someplace, she would urge him, "Watch out for your sister!" while urging me, "Listen to your brother!"
Years later, as an adult, I found out something that I think quite significant. My grandmother, my mother's mother, was alarmed at how compliant I was and how easily my brother bossed me around, as if I was under his spell or something. She feared what sort of adult I would become: would all men control me that easily? She warned my mother to intervene and not to allow this dynamic to continue.
Apparently my mother either disagreed or didn't care. She found it amusing how my brother would boss me around. She laughed about how he wanted to become world dictator. Not only did she never suggest, encourage, or empower me to stand up to him, she continued to insist, "Listen to your brother!"
She never discouraged me brother from his attempts to control me either. She never said, "You have no right to order your sister around!" Instead, she seemed to encourage it.
When we would go someplace, she would urge him, "Watch out for your sister!" while urging me, "Listen to your brother!"
Years later, as an adult, I found out something that I think quite significant. My grandmother, my mother's mother, was alarmed at how compliant I was and how easily my brother bossed me around, as if I was under his spell or something. She feared what sort of adult I would become: would all men control me that easily? She warned my mother to intervene and not to allow this dynamic to continue.
Apparently my mother either disagreed or didn't care. She found it amusing how my brother would boss me around. She laughed about how he wanted to become world dictator. Not only did she never suggest, encourage, or empower me to stand up to him, she continued to insist, "Listen to your brother!"
She never discouraged me brother from his attempts to control me either. She never said, "You have no right to order your sister around!" Instead, she seemed to encourage it.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Keeping secrets for my brother
After all these years, it's hard to remember the first time that my brother urged/cajoled/threatened me not to tell my parents something he had done. But I remember a lot of instances. Here are a few that come to mind:
1. We were playing in the backyard. I must have been 7-8 years old. Suddenly and completely unprovoked, my brother threw a rock at me, purposefully hitting me in the head. It began bleeding immediately. I wanted to run into the house for help, but my brother blocked my way. He sort of apologized with "I didn't think you'd bleed this much" or something like that. He begged me not to go inside, or we'd both get in trouble...blah blah blah...we would not be allowed to play as much in the backyard...surely, I didn't want to get him in trouble, did I? He played on my heartstrings. I stayed outside until my head stopped bleeding. Later I combed the dried blood out of my hair and said nothing to my parents.
2. Around the same time, while we were walking to school one day, my brother decided to light something in an empty field on fire, despite my pleas to the contrary. (He was somewhat of a pyromaniac, at least in my eyes at the time, and I was extremely fire-phobic.) The fire spread much faster than even I had feared. He insisted we run to school and swore me to secrecy lest he be thrown in jail. And that would be all my fault for tattling. He also made it sound like I was somehow in on it with him and would also get in trouble.
3. Over and over again, he'd involve me in some childish misbehavior and convince me that we could not admit to it under any circumstances. He would say, "Act nonchalant" as we walked into the house. Apparently my idea of "nonchalant" was a dead giveaway. Usually, when my mother questioned us, I was the first to crack. My brother would later be angry with me and, at the same time, fill me with guilt. I hated being "mean" to him...which apparently I was whenever I "told on him".
4. A year or two later, he engaged in some petty vandalism while I begged him not to. He threatened me not to run home and tell. Then he somehow convinced me that I was just as much as fault and that it would be horribly mean of me to get him in trouble. I remember being petrified that we would be found out and arrested.
5. We "borrowed" some fishing equipment without permission and lost it before we could return it. My brother put the fear of my parents into me. He also insisted that, since he was older, he would get in more trouble than me, and it would be unfair, selfish and mean of me to confess to my parents, since it meant getting him in trouble.
On and on it went. I was convinced it would be disloyal, mean, selfish, horrible, etc., etc., for me to tell on my brother. I would be betraying his trust. I couldn't stand the thought of angering or disappointing him. Plus, I was convinced...by him, by my own insecurity, and by some of the former reactions of my parents...that the consequences of telling would be more than I wanted to experience.
I was afraid of my brother's anger and wanted to stay on his good side. In fact, I felt an almost desperate need for us to be the best and closest of friends. Maybe some of it was years of hearing my mother tell us that we were "made out of the same cookie dough", that we were each others' closest friends, and that we were not like other brothers and sisters. We were special.
My brother had a mean, bullying side. It didn't come out all that often, at least not in ways obvious to me at the time, but it was there. He was also a master manipulator. He was the family genius -- my mother reminded us of this almost constantly -- and could talk me into things just by exhausting my ability to understand what he was saying. I would figure he was right and I was wrong, or I felt helpless to argue my own point, since he would have a ready answer for my every objection. I would end up feeling tired, baffled, and stupid.
By the time I was 13, it took very little convincing...if any...for me to keep my brother's secrets, especially if they involved me.
1. We were playing in the backyard. I must have been 7-8 years old. Suddenly and completely unprovoked, my brother threw a rock at me, purposefully hitting me in the head. It began bleeding immediately. I wanted to run into the house for help, but my brother blocked my way. He sort of apologized with "I didn't think you'd bleed this much" or something like that. He begged me not to go inside, or we'd both get in trouble...blah blah blah...we would not be allowed to play as much in the backyard...surely, I didn't want to get him in trouble, did I? He played on my heartstrings. I stayed outside until my head stopped bleeding. Later I combed the dried blood out of my hair and said nothing to my parents.
2. Around the same time, while we were walking to school one day, my brother decided to light something in an empty field on fire, despite my pleas to the contrary. (He was somewhat of a pyromaniac, at least in my eyes at the time, and I was extremely fire-phobic.) The fire spread much faster than even I had feared. He insisted we run to school and swore me to secrecy lest he be thrown in jail. And that would be all my fault for tattling. He also made it sound like I was somehow in on it with him and would also get in trouble.
3. Over and over again, he'd involve me in some childish misbehavior and convince me that we could not admit to it under any circumstances. He would say, "Act nonchalant" as we walked into the house. Apparently my idea of "nonchalant" was a dead giveaway. Usually, when my mother questioned us, I was the first to crack. My brother would later be angry with me and, at the same time, fill me with guilt. I hated being "mean" to him...which apparently I was whenever I "told on him".
4. A year or two later, he engaged in some petty vandalism while I begged him not to. He threatened me not to run home and tell. Then he somehow convinced me that I was just as much as fault and that it would be horribly mean of me to get him in trouble. I remember being petrified that we would be found out and arrested.
5. We "borrowed" some fishing equipment without permission and lost it before we could return it. My brother put the fear of my parents into me. He also insisted that, since he was older, he would get in more trouble than me, and it would be unfair, selfish and mean of me to confess to my parents, since it meant getting him in trouble.
On and on it went. I was convinced it would be disloyal, mean, selfish, horrible, etc., etc., for me to tell on my brother. I would be betraying his trust. I couldn't stand the thought of angering or disappointing him. Plus, I was convinced...by him, by my own insecurity, and by some of the former reactions of my parents...that the consequences of telling would be more than I wanted to experience.
I was afraid of my brother's anger and wanted to stay on his good side. In fact, I felt an almost desperate need for us to be the best and closest of friends. Maybe some of it was years of hearing my mother tell us that we were "made out of the same cookie dough", that we were each others' closest friends, and that we were not like other brothers and sisters. We were special.
My brother had a mean, bullying side. It didn't come out all that often, at least not in ways obvious to me at the time, but it was there. He was also a master manipulator. He was the family genius -- my mother reminded us of this almost constantly -- and could talk me into things just by exhausting my ability to understand what he was saying. I would figure he was right and I was wrong, or I felt helpless to argue my own point, since he would have a ready answer for my every objection. I would end up feeling tired, baffled, and stupid.
By the time I was 13, it took very little convincing...if any...for me to keep my brother's secrets, especially if they involved me.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Secret puppy
I was 6 years old when we got a cute little puppy, and I was besides myself with excitement. I couldn't wait to tell my friends at school!
On the drive home, as we were holding our new squirming puppy and discussing names, my mother suddenly grew serious. "You can't tell anyone that we got a puppy. Not anyone! It has to be a secret for now. I'll let you know when it's OK to tell people."
I have no idea why my mother felt a need for secrecy. She may have given me a reason, but it didn't make sense to me at the time and I don't remember it. What I do remember is that this was my first big lesson in secrecy. Here's what I learned:
1. There were certain things that, for very important reasons I didn't understand, people outside the family shouldn't know.
2. I was a blabber mouth with no sense, and I needed stern warnings about things everyone else already understood.
3. My brother was not a blabber mouth, and thus he could be trusted.
4. If I couldn't keep this secret, then my mother would never be able to tell me anything ever again.
5. Our family was special. Other kids could talk about their new pets, but that's because they weren't us. We were so special that other people didn't need to know everything that went on in our house.
6. I didn't understand. Obviously I must be stubborn or dense.
Maybe this was an "experiment" to see how long I could contain my excitement. Maybe it was the beginning of deliberate training in secrecy. I have no idea what my mother's motives were.
There were many more lessons that followed.
On the drive home, as we were holding our new squirming puppy and discussing names, my mother suddenly grew serious. "You can't tell anyone that we got a puppy. Not anyone! It has to be a secret for now. I'll let you know when it's OK to tell people."
I have no idea why my mother felt a need for secrecy. She may have given me a reason, but it didn't make sense to me at the time and I don't remember it. What I do remember is that this was my first big lesson in secrecy. Here's what I learned:
1. There were certain things that, for very important reasons I didn't understand, people outside the family shouldn't know.
2. I was a blabber mouth with no sense, and I needed stern warnings about things everyone else already understood.
3. My brother was not a blabber mouth, and thus he could be trusted.
4. If I couldn't keep this secret, then my mother would never be able to tell me anything ever again.
5. Our family was special. Other kids could talk about their new pets, but that's because they weren't us. We were so special that other people didn't need to know everything that went on in our house.
6. I didn't understand. Obviously I must be stubborn or dense.
Maybe this was an "experiment" to see how long I could contain my excitement. Maybe it was the beginning of deliberate training in secrecy. I have no idea what my mother's motives were.
There were many more lessons that followed.
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