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Therapy: Unraveling the Ball
post traumatic stress disorder
Why I Say I Love You
It was May of 1987. I was 18, and my brother Tony had just turned 21. We were hanging out with a few friends at my apartment. In my white stretch jeans and loose hanging sweatshirt, I stood in front of the small group telling them stories about my and Tony’s childhood in our father’s shoe repair shop. After 16 years, our father was preparing to retire and Tony was going to take over the family business. He said I could work at the shop with him.
During my make-shift stand-up routine, I talked about the time Tony and I got lost in the woods on a day-camp hike. We were both bawling and eventually found our way back because I remembered the InchWorm toy smiling in front of a run-off valve. I talked about the massive Easter egg hunts with our 12 cousins at our grandparents’ house. And, how we took scraps of leather, wet them under the tap, and stamped our names in the hide with brass tools.
I started to walk toward the kitchen to get another beer. In this particular apartment, you had to walk through the bedroom to get to the kitchen. Imagine! I hadn’t noticed my brother followed me. Tony had silky brown hair, bright green eyes, and freckles. He was wearing a brown leather jacket. “Hey,” he said, “you made me cry when you told those stories.”
I smiled. That made me so happy. Usually my main goal was to make him laugh, but if I moved him that much. Wow!
“You’re the most important woman in my life,” he said. “I love you.”
Gulp. I looked at my white leather elf boots. I felt so embarrassed. My brother had called me ugly the first nine years of my life. We used to fist fight in earnest during middle school. And, since he had been in the army for two years, we hadn’t been around each other that much. I barely eked out an “I love you too.”
“We are going to have so much fun working together in the shop,” he said. “We’ll be party buddies for the rest of our lives.”
* * *
Two days later, Tony and I had brunch at Friendly’s restaurant. We hung out for most of the day at his place, and then he drove me back to my apartment on his motorcycle. We had a couple beers and listened to Run DMC’s Raisin’ Hell. At around 8 p.m., Tony left on his motorcycle to go to the store. I fell asleep on the couch. Three hours later, I was awakened by the phone, and the soft voice of my uncle Joe saying, “Tony was killed on his motorcycle tonight.”
As you might imagine, my life was forever changed throught that experience. I went from being a carefree 18-year-old party girl to a full-on grieving woman. A woman who cried every time someone said the name Tony. A woman who threw up when she ate. A woman who jumped at the slightest noise. A woman who was certain the ghost of her dead brother would visit to tie up loose ends.
Why had I been so afraid to tell Tony I love you? He was my brother. My rock. My shield. The first boy I ever loved. And, he had invited me to work with him at our father’s shop!
So, today, if I love you, I tell you. Tony’s death was a precious lesson. He was 21. He would never grow old. That taught me how short life is. In 1987, I started to tell my family, my friends, and even acquaintances “I love you!” And you don’t even have to say it back.
Do as I Say and Not as I Do
Years ago, I promised myself that when I became a parent, I would never use the phrase “Do as I say and not as I do.” It’s hard to believe I actually heard this phrase from my stepmother all the time when I was a kid. My parents smoked cigarettes and pot, and got drunk as all get out, then told my brother and me not to smoke or drink. My stepmother used the word “fuck” as a convenient adjective, but my brothers and I were scolded for saying “freaking” or “sucks.”
While I never used the phrase with my kids, I know I’ve implied it. Nothing turns a person into a hyprocrite faster than being the parent of a tween. “Mom? We learned about drugs in school. Have you ever done drugs?” “Mom? Is Dad the only man you’ve had sex with?” “Mom? How old were you when you first drank alcohol?” You see my point. Unless you plan to divulge every naughty thing you’ve ever done in your entire life to your maleable child, you will be forced into being a hyprocrite. At least my heart is in the right place.
When I reflect on the barrage of mistakes I’ve made throughout my life, things like spreading gossip to falling for a guy who said he loved me and didn’t to dumping a guy who really did love me, telling and/or believing lies, and getting married when I should have run for the exit, I hope to protect my kids and loved ones from making the same mistakes, suffering the same hurts, and enduring the same humiliations. Of course, that’s not how it works. Everyone needs to learn for themselves.
For instance, my first serious boyfriend, “Randy,” and I started dating three weeks before my older brother Tony was killed in a motorcycle accident. I was 18, a grieving mess in need of love, and fresh prey for the malignant narcissist that Randy was. He charmed his way right into my life: I moved him into my apartment, never charged him rent, and never had a job (except the occasional drug deal). Randy cheated on me incessantly, stole money from me, and somehow I believed I loved him.
After a year of catching Randy in lies, being evicted from numerous apartments because of fights, and seeing him come home with hickies from other women, I finally dumped him. He started bawling and slapped me across the face. “This is why I’m leaving,” I said. And while I thought I was free, over the next several months before I left my hometown for the U.S. Navy, Randy slithered in and out of my life. Today, friends say he’s an incurable heroin addict still living in our hometown.
What surprises me is that during that 18 months, my father never said a negative word about Randy to me. How difficult it must have been for him to see his only daughter crying hysterically when Randy stood me up, the crappy apartment I shared with Randy, and the long-haired bum in tattered jeans and concert T-shirts holding his daughter’s hand at family functions. Although my father knew this relationship was a disaster that would blow up in my face, he never said a word.
If you’ve never had a Randy in your life, consider yourself lucky and unlucky. Lucky because you haven’t suffered the hell of loving a malignant narcissist. Unlucky because you’re still innocent enough not to recognize a malignant narcissist when one oozes into your life. You may fall head over heels in love with him or her and be blindsided when their house of cards drops on your head.
My friends and family members who have been burned by a malignant narcissist and I have so much to talk about when we get together: the endless love letters at the beginning of the relationship, the speedy pleas for commitment, the soul-mate and “us against the world” bullshit, and of course, the frequent hot sex. (Distraction!) If you’re at a vulnerable point in your life, it’s very easy to get seduced by a Cheshire Cat–they are charming, good looking, and unbelievably skilled at lying. The worst part is NO ONE can convince you this person is a lying, cheating, despicable waste of your time.
Once the narc has earned your trust and loyalty, just like a cat with a dead mouse, they toss you aside. But you have already fallen in love. So, now you’re sunk. They start criticizing you, are probably already cheating, find excuses to see you less, and when you share your feelings, they call you needy, weak, and crazy.
All I can say is trust your gut! If something smells fishy, gives you a stirring in the belly, or just feels wrong, get out. Better to miss out on a lying, cheating, asshole who may be fun to hang with than be dumped by a lying, cheating, asshole who will never leave you alone. And the narcs favorite line is … refer to the title.
On the Broken Family
My mother and father split up when I was six months old, so my experience with the broken family started early. My first memories include my father, my older brother Tony, and many members of my large extended family. We are Italian-Americans from upstate New York, and except for mafia ties, we live up to the copious stereotypes: loud, romantic, passionate, beautiful, dramatic.
In 1975, my father remarried. I was six and Tony was eight. It was a different time, and we were not invited to the wedding or reception. In fact, Tony stayed with a friend, and I stayed with a friend of my stepmother’s. And although I don’t remember the woman’s name, I do remember playing the piano, and incorporating “turd” into an impromptu song. She yelled, “Hey! We don’t use that kind of language in this house.”
Six months after the wedding, my father bought us a house on the west side of Binghamton. My stepmother was 19, Tony was 9, and I was 7. My baby brother was 9 months old. We were told he was a “preemie” — but he weighed six pounds, six ounces at birth. You do the math.
Tony and I started at a new school. Although I wasn’t sure how we were different from other families, I knew we were different. My father was a shoe-repair man who owned a cobbler shop. Instead of wearing a suit to work, he wore denim and leather. My stepmother was a stay-at-home mother who wore no bra beneath her T-shirts, had Farrah Fawcett hair, and marble blue eyes. One of the young men in our neighborhood asked her out.
Mine was not a peaceful childhood. There was a lot of fighting between my father and stepmother about Tony and me. She was intensely jealous of anyone stealing attention from her. She was a screamer. My father was slow to anger, but once he broke, look out. And while he was not quick with the belt, she was. Any small thing could set her off–pots and pans “shoved half-assed in the cupboards,” food splattered on the floor, a crass remark. And she hit in public.
Tony started running away from home at age 14. I hid in my bedroom with books, TeenBeat, and sketchpads. My younger brother was beaten so often that when I reached to touch him, he ducked. When my father was home, my stepmother never yelled or hit us, and spoke with a sickeningly sweet voice. When my father was gone, she was a ticking bomb ready to go off at the occurrence of spilt milk. To this day, when I meet a person who reminds me of my stepmother, my antennae lift in response. And I have a sincere distrust of people who bully children. A therapist I saw for a while told me, “You have strong feelers for a reason. Trust them.”
In 1998, my father divorced this wife, after two decades of her infidelity, fighting, and confession that she stuck around for the money. One day I asked him, “Why did you stay so long?” He shook his head. “Ah. When you and Tony were small, whenever I saw your messy hair and dirty faces, it broke my heart. I wanted you to have a mother.”
The decisions we make out of love, or what we think is love, are often ill-fated. Self-delusion has to be one of the most powerful tools of the mind. Think here of the spouse of the serial killer who says, “I never knew.”
My first pregnancy and marriage was at age 23. It took me less than two years to rip that apart and create what I loathed–a broken family–all because some guy said I was his true love. Luckily, my ex-husband Jeremy is not a grudge holder, and we are still friends. God bless that guy.
Something about turning 50 has made my brain go wonky. I keep having dreams about my two ex-husbands, and my late husband, and I spend a lot of time wishing I had done things differently. Perhaps made decisions based on logic instead of “love.” Regret, coulda, shoulda, woulda, etc. Because of childhood abuse, I have been in therapy most of my adult life, and I am still working through a lot of the muck.
The therapist I’m seeing now is helping me connect the pain of my current heartbreak over losing Eric and the chance to rebuild our family with the lingering issues from my childhood. It’s a scary process, however, I’m determined to reach a place of peace and happiness. It’s easier to run away–drink, have sex, ignore your kids, and pretend everything is great. But at this point, I’m way more interested in doing the hard work if that’s what it takes to become unbroken.
In Defense of Rudolph
Recently I heard about the kerfuffle regarding Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the stop motion animation movie from 1964. In case you’re unaware, the movie has been criticized very recently for being pro-bully. (And just to be clear, this movie came out a few years before I was born, and I’m here to tell you, it’s been critiqued for decades).
My kids grew up watching this movie, just as I did with my parents, and it has been a source of laughter around the dinner table and a conversation starter. We love the scene, for example, when the elves call “lunch break” and Hermey’s angry boss looks at him and says, “Not for you!”
Is there yelling and teasing in the movie? Yes. My kids and I find humor in the erratic behavior. Not because we are cold-blooded or evil, but because we can relate to Rudolph and Hermey. It isn’t just bullies who tease people who are “different.” In his awesome book Behave, Robert Sapolsky tells us it’s an innate human quality to malign difference, and we have to learn not do it. It’s also a innate animal behavior (which, if I am correct, humans are animals.) Think here: chickens pecking each other.
One aspect of meanness no one mentioned is when Hermey and Rudolph ask to stay at the Island of Misfit Toys and the lion says “No. But you can do something for me.” It is so outrageously rude that my kids and I have to laugh, whether out of sheer disbelief of discomfort. How dare he deny them a place to stay and then ask for a favor.
Frankly, I have bullied and I have been bullied. I am not proud to admit bullying a girl from Lebanon in third grade. Two years later I received my comeuppance from a boy I loved who called me Ugly, Monkey Face, and Grape Ape from fifth grade to twelfth. Also, very recently I’ve been ghosted, snubbed, and triangulated by a couple of bullies.
I am not pro-bully. I am pro “let’s talk about the bullying in this movie.” Can you believe Santa was so mean to Donner and Rudolph? Can you believe the whole town shunned Rudolph until he became useful? Can you believe characters in the movie apologized to Hermey and Rudolph for being mean to them?
Bullies are never going away. Look at our President! And, if you don’t believe that, I’ll show you reindeer who can fly. I don’t have a solid answer for how to deal with a bully, because they are all different. But the ones I am dealing with now — I avoid them like last year’s fruitcake.
Here I Go Again
Four years ago, I started seeing an excellent therapist. I had been divorced for three years, and after two unsuccessful attempts at dating, and my ex-husband’s flat refusal to work things out, I said, “Okay. It’s time for you to get over Eric.”
Eric and I had met in 1998, fell in love, got married, and built an amazing family and friendship over the next 12 years. We both earned degrees, went to grad school, worked, and shared the responsibility of my two daughters. Eric wanted a baby of his own, so we had a son together.
While Eric was finishing grad school, I started to feel like he was turning away. I was overwhelmed with work and the kids, and I’m sure he felt the same–except he internalizes his problems and I externalize mine. So, while he was in his own world and a male coworker tempted me with a “free-wheeling affair with no responsibilities,” I took the bait.
Three weeks later, said coworker dumped me. I fell into a pit of despair. I had betrayed my best friend, and he was the one person I couldn’t tell. Surely, Eric would leave me. He would freak out. Was there anyway he could forgive me?
The short answer is no. Six months after I confessed, he filed for divorce. I gained fifty pounds over the next year, and when my dad died in 2012, I realized what an idiot I was for letting Eric go. He and I talked here and there, shared custody of our son, and even attempted a few reconciliations up until 2013, when he cut that off.
Over the next year, I only saw Eric when something went awry with the kids. He was a great dad. Very involved. We attended school events together and kept things cordial. I started seeing a grief therapist, who recommended a woman who did EMDR–a technique that helps patients process painful memories. I was doing well.
In 2016, Eric said he wanted to try to become friends again. I was so happy. We were talking openly about my affair and the divorce. We started hanging out together, having beers, and spending time as a family with the kids. Eric initiated an intimate relationship with me, and I was thrilled. My therapist encouraged us to talk about our break up and continue communicating honestly. Our friendship was fragile at best.
August 2017, Eric attended his high school reunion. The next day, when I asked if he had fun, he offered NO details about his hanging out until dawn with the cheerleader who had rebuffed his advances back in the day. We still hung out, but there was nothing physical.
In late September, Eric told me he was “dating” said cheerleader who lived six hours away, had three kids under 10, and was in the midst of an ugly divorce from her husband of 17 years, who was a millionaire. (I learned later it was because of her cheating, pathological lying, and abusive behavior.) She told Eric “you’re the love of my life.”
What happened next? Stay tuned for my next post, where I will share how I reacted to all of this. It’s not pretty.
The Grief that Keeps on Giving
Stop me if you’ve heard this. Ten years ago, I was a happily married woman with three kids. On my 40th birthday, I looked out of the picture window of my living room and thought, “I’ve never been so happy.” My husband was an introvert, and I’m an extrovert, and we complemented each other just about perfectly. We really dug each other physically, spiritually, and intellectually. We’d been together 11 years.
Over the next several months, while my husband was earning his graduate degree, I felt overwhelmed with work and the kids, and I perceived my husband’s turning inward as turning away. I also thought he loved the one child we had together more than he loved me. For whatever reason, I was afraid to confront him with this information and figured things would simply work out as they always had before.
A guy at work with whom I’d been collaborating closely started inviting me to coffee, talking about his miserable marriage, and started flirting with me via text message. I was so in love with my husband, I didn’t think twice about any of this until it was too late. The guy chased me until I relented. We had a three week affair and then he dumped me. To say I was devastated barely covers it–for the next several months, I hid in my room, drank alone, and dreaded seeing my husband’s family.
When I finally came clean about the affair, my husband was sad. He had to see the guy at work. My husband and I went to marriage counseling. We took weekend trips to try and reconnect. But because the “guy” was still around, it became too much for my husband. He put a GPS tracker on my phone, looked up the number of text messages through ATT, and insisted I quit my job. I put up with all of this until he turned violent. I had to kick him out of the house. He filed for divorce almost immediately.
My soon to be ex husband and I kept a cordial coparenting relationship for the kids. We sat together at Christmas concerts, sporting events, and graduations. He never really forgave me for the affair, but at least we could be in the same room. Then, in November 2016, five years after our divorce was final, my ex husband and I started hanging out together as friends. He said, “I’d like to rebuild the deep friendship we had when we were married.” We had monthly conversations, went out for beers, watched TV, and hung out with our son.
From February 2017 to July 2017, my ex husband and I casually dated. He kept saying he didn’t want a commitment with anyone, and we would see where this would go. I thought it was the least I could do since he had convinced me I single handedly ruined our marriage. Aug 12, 2017. My ex husband went to his high school reunion. The next afternoon, he shared funny stories with me.
He had been becoming more distant since July, and I figured he was still gun shy. We still went on a few dates, however, he made no moves beyond a platonic relationship. One time, he even asked me for recommendations on bed sheets. Sep 22, I told my ex I wanted to spend more time with him. He said, “I reconnected with someone at the reunion, and we’ve been seeing each other.” I said, “When you said you didn’t want a commitment, you just meant with me.”
Do you think the woman was unfettered? Nothing like me? A fresh start for my ex hubby? Think again. “Jill” was in the midst of an acrimonious divorce, had three kids, and had been dumped by her husband for …wait for it… having a 15 month affair with a man who lived in Europe, several fake FB accounts, drunken violence, and a secret trip abroad.”
Jill was a mean girl in high school who wouldn’t give my ex the time of day back then, when he was chubby and obnoxious. He adored her, however, and felt all “those feelings come flooding back.” When they reconnected at the reunion, my ex was the ONLY single guy there. Jill, depressed and rejected, somehow convinced him that they were “star crossed lovers” who were destined to be together. Then the love bombing began. Letters. Cards. Photos. Collages. All in the first few weeks of dating, proclaiming ever lasting love.
Although Jill lived seven hours away with her husband and kids in a million dollar home, she drove to our hometown about ten times over a month and a half to put her hooks into my ex. When he told me who it was, I said, “Ew. The girl with the fake eyelashes who gave me the dead fish handshake when we met? She’s such a bitch.” Her husband finally kicked her out of the family house in October.
Today: my ex and I no longer have a relationship. Jill has made sure of that. I have no idea what lies she has told him, but I’m guessing they are about her millionare husband who always took care of the kids, and didn’t make her work outside the home more than 15 hours a week. They guy who bought her three cars and took her back after the first affair. What an asshole.
My ex defends her to the death. He has spent weeks away from our son, doesn’t care about anything but her, and when he got fired from his job, instead of looking for another one, he drove to her new place (3200 dollars a month and funded by the estranged husband) and stayed for days at a time, sometimes without telling me or our son. It’s the perfect fantasy. For them.
When I asked my ex how he could be dating someone who cheated on her husband twice, he said, “She didn’t cheat on me.” Everyone keeps telling me what a jerk he is and what losers they both are, and to put them out of my mind. However, when you come so close to rebuilding your family and watch it get ripped apart because of two people in a mid life crisis, it’s hard to watch it disappear without feeling a huge sense of loss.
Dump the Narc — Keep the Dogs
If you’ve ever dated a narcissist, you will identify with this post. If you haven’t ever dated a narcissist, you’re damn lucky. Few experiences make you question your self-worth, sanity, and reason to live more than being “loved” then dumped by a narcissist. I say dumped because they are people who dispose of things and people once they are used up. The first time the narc came to my house, my black lab chewed up his phone charger. Smart dog.
“Narcs” love vulnerable people. You know, widows, the broken-hearted, the poor bastard going through a mid life crisis. And the worst part is they are exactly whom you were looking for. The rescuer. The comedian. The princess. The prince. This is because they are chameleons, changing shades and personalities to be everything you had ever hoped for. Love live music? So do they. Love politics? So do they. And if you like hiding from the rest of the world, they love that best. You will find yourself saying “I can’t believe how alike we are.”
However, the moment you begin to show a sense of self outside the narc’s view, beware. The narc is king and you are merely a subject. Avoid telling truth to power if you want to stay in the narc’s good graces. Otherwise, you will be out on your can. And don’t ever criticize–you will be extracted from their life.
One narc I dated drew me in with promises of intimacy and closeness. We had a long distance relationship, consisting of FaceTime, text messages, and emails. When we did interact in person, we were electric. He was sarcastic and cute, and I really liked him. However, his decades long pot habit had given him the memory of an errant puppy, and when I called him on it he flew into a rage.
The narc often told me to wait in the car when he stopped by a friend’s house, or the store. I thought, What the hell? Is this the 50s? He once turned to me and said, “There’s stuff in the fridge. Go make us a couple of sandwiches.” I started laughing hysterically. He said, “What’s so funny?” I thought he was joking. And yes, I made the sandwiches.
One morning after breakfast in a diner, the narc introduced me to his friend who was thinking of joining the army. I talked to this young man about my stint in the navy and how I went to college and grad school. The narc interrupted and said, “She also sells crack to kids.” On the walk to the car, I said, “Why did you do that?” The narc went bananas! “Can’t you take a fucking joke?” The narc had never finished high school.
I knew we were over when the narc barked an order at me and I said, jokingly, “Quit telling me what to do.” Right there, mid vacation, (we had three days left) he said, “I think we’d be better off as friends.” This from the guy who said we belonged together forever. I walked to the bedroom and started crying.
Over the next three days, the narc and I acted like roommates. He went back to his town, and during a long phone conversation in which we truly broke up, the narc said “Tell everyone this break up was mutual. Don’t put that shit on FB. You will look like an immature drama queen.” Would you believe I listened to him?
Luckily, the narc and I only dated a few months, and yet, I was reeling. I started running long distances and imagined his lying face beneath my right foot every time it hit the pavement. Ahhhh. Ahhh. Ahhh. I spent a lot of time crying that December.
After our mutual friends learned about the break up, they told me, “He’s a huge loser. We couldn’t figure out why you were with him.” I rolled my eyes. I fell for him because I had lost my father and the narc came to his funeral. I was so tuuched. We started texting, he called me “Baby” (puke), and the rest is history.
The red flags were abundant and waving. I should have known the minute Gus chewed his phone cord that the narc was not accepted by my very smart dog. Looking back, I see this as a wonderful learning experience. My antenna are up, and I have taken a haitus from dating. Until then, I will hang with my dogs.
Lust Kills Your B.S. Detector.
My father opened a shoe-repair business when I was two, and I spent a lot of time around adults. There was Joyce, the woman who made tie-dyes and sewed leather; Bob, my father’s buddy who fixed shoes; and the array of business men (it was the 70s and they were mostly men) who wore fedoras and suit jackets, and called me Chooch. Spending time around adults helped me cultivate a decent b.s. detector.
My memories from this period, before age four, are idyllic. My father had divorced my and my brother’s mother, and the three of us lived in a modest apartment. We were poor in money but rich in love, and we went everywhere together–the shoe-repair shop, the bowling alley, the bar. We ate TV dinners in front of the black and white console, mostly Laugh-In and The Sonny and Cher Show, or scarfed fried clam strips down the street at Sharkey’s Tavern.
After my father started dating “Vickie,” a high-school dropout with wavy bleached hair and freckles, my life changed. Although Vickie dressed my brother and me in nice clothes, and kept us clean, she also whipped us with leather belts and called us names. Her brother molested me when I was four. And, Vickie was a serial cheater. My father married her in 1975, and six months later my younger brother was born. He caught Vickie the first time when my brother was less than one.
My father and Vickie stayed together for 23 years. Living with her until I was 18 (I moved out on my birthday) taught me injustice, to keep silent, and to cower in the presence of a bully. Her brother had said to me, “Don’t tell your daddy what we did. He’ll think you’re nasty.” Vickie said to me, “If you tell your father I hit you, you’ll get it worse.” And when I told other family members or adults about what was happening in our home, I got a pat on the head, and a, “Oh, you’re just being dramatic.”
It may not surprise you that when I married, I fell for a male version of Vickie and left my relationship. More than once. Several people waved warning flags in my face, which I ignored. It wasn’t until the love of my life divorced me that I saw I was the problem. It took ten months for me to see through my male Vickie’s bullshit. Now, I’m single and am trying to make up for my mistakes through reading, self-reflection and therapy.
My father divorced Vickie in 1998, and he passed away in 2012. Vickie remarried and from what I hear, is cheating. I wish she would have sought help for whatever childhood haunts keep her in that self-destructive cycle. To make matters worse, I now have a good friend who’s been hoodwinked by his own version of Vickie. Did I warn him? Yup. Did he yell at me and cast me aside? Yup. It’s as if I’m reliving my childhood, watching my friend instead of my father, heading for a fall.
My hope for my friend, who usually has a keen bullshit dectector, is that he will wake up before too much damage has been done. But, similar to Vickie, his enchantress is pretty, fit, and an amazing liar. Friends tell me, “Don’t worry. She’ll hang herself. And then you can say, ‘I told you so.'” Problem is, I’m not going to say I told you so. I’m going to be there for my friend if he feels had can confide in me. Keep your fingers crossed.
The Truth Is Sometimes Painful
I grew up with a father who loathed dishonesty. I credit his Italian American pride, or perhaps growing up catholic, but nothing made my father angrier than learning he’d been lied to. He tended to be “brutally honest,” and the people who loved and admired him appreciated that. As his daughter, I feared his truth-telling when I was as a girl because I was extremely sensitive, but eventually I grew to admire the trait.
You have to be courageous, confident, and often live with regret when you are honest, because people rarely want to hear the truth. The image I’ve included in this post is a sketch from my son. In order to remember his spelling words, he sketched faces beside them expressing what he believed conveyed the word. When you look at the faces beside “truthfulness,” although one wears a halo, they both look anxious. Telling the truth is hard; hearing the truth is hard.
My father once told me, “You couldn’t be more like me if you tried.” Although I was sincerely flattered to hear that, I knew it meant I am also brutally honest, have a terrible poker face, and tend to alienate people because I struggle with being dishonest even in polite conversation when sometimes you should be. This is not to say I have never told a lie. I have. And some have caused irreparable damage in my life. It’s just that lying to people causes me great internal struggle, reddens my face, and fills me with crippling guilt.
Similar to most people, it’s also not easy for me to hear the truth. When people have told me I’m too analytical, sensitive, dramatic, or that I remember more negative details than positive, I stiffen with defensiveness. All of the preceding statements are true. I am also self-deprecating, affectionate, and loyal. The older I get the kinder I am to myself (and others), and I try to work with not against my human flaws.
One of my most irritating traits, I’m guessing because I’ve received a lot of flack for it, is my incurable need to discover the “why” behind just about everything. Why did my mother leave? Why did my stepmother beat me? Why do dishonest people seem to have more success than honest ones? Why did my brother get killed? Why did my husband die? Why do I have so much trouble sustaining a romantic relationship when others seem to just do it? Why are people mean? Why I did reject the man I believe is my true love?
On a positive note, once I process the Why in my head, through writing, art, or talking, I can usually let it go. In some cases, like with the death of my brother, I’ve had to make peace with not knowing why it happened. That has taken 30 years. I’m still struggling with the true love question. The other whys might be explained with psychology, self-help books, chats with friends, or talk therapy–of which I’m a huge advocate. But one important lesson I’ve learned is that in order to process these questions and heal, you have to be 100% truthful.
In the book, The Courage to Heal, which I highly recommend if you’ve suffered any personal trauma, the word courage is aptly used. It’s so much easier, and fun, to ignore our flawed humanness and not heal. For years, I was the party girl, loved getting drunk, being around people, being loud and obnoxious, all in an effort not to spend time alone and seek the truth within myself. I’d gone to therapy, but never engaged fully with the tenets. It took my loving someone other than myself to see how badly I needed help.
This person is still in my life, and because we’ve hurt each other, we have had to start rebuilding trust from the bottom up. Being honest takes courage, confidence, and working through regret to move forward when we hurt each other now. But, as you’ve probably heard or experienced, there is no greater reward than having an honest, open relationship with someone you love. And I want that.
The Cobbler's Daughter 