Let’s talk more about the circuitous way my brain works. I talked at length about it yesterday, but I have more to say. By the way, I am garrulous, especially in writing, and I’ve just accepted that about myself. Why use one word when ten will do? And why use ten when fifty works so much better? I have to actively stop myself from going on for longer than I already do, and when I’m tired, all bets are off.
I’ve gotten better, as hard as it is to believe that. But I used to not talk at all when I was a kid because I wsa taught that what I had to say didn’t matter. Nor what I thought or believed, for that matter. I was told over and over again that good girls were not heard at all and were barely seen, either.
When I was little, I was an exuberant, loud, joyful child. I would run around, climb trees, and just in general, be an active child. By the time I wsa seven, I was severely depressed, fat (according to my mother, who made sure to remind me of it in several ways, including putting me on my first diet, and saying I had such a beautiful face; too bad I was so fat). On nearly a daily basis, I was thinking about killing myself and how the world would be better off without me.
See, that was what the emotional abuse did–it told me that I was worthless. Or worse that worthless–I was an overall negative to the world. When I was in my late teens, early twenties, I believed I woke up every day not deserving to live, and I had to earn my way back to zero. Why? Because everyone around me reinforced the idea that my life in and of itself had no value. My parents, the people at the very cult-like Evangelical Taiwanese church my parents belonged to, and my very white teachers in the 1970s and 80s.
There were a few teachers who were incredibly kind to me, but for the most part, I was ignored. I’m not blaming those teachers, mind you. I note it more to say that I never felt welcomed in school, either.
It took me studying Taiji for me to realize that I mattered as a person. Not as an emotional support person. Not as an accessory, a friend, or a listening ear. But as a person in and of myself. Me. Just being me.
It’s difficult for me to hold onto that because my mother keeps making it about her. After my serious medical crisis, she said she was glad I hadn’t died–so she would still have someone to talk to about her problems. She’s said this to me more than once, by the way. She’s also called me her therapist, and her justification is that she knows all the therapists/psychologists/psychiatrists in Taiwan on a professional basis. Which, you see, means that she can’t have a therapist of her own.
No, no, no. She can’t go to another country for one, not even online. Because it’s too hard, you see. And she can’t talk to her friends about it because that would be a betrayal to my father, you see (and he would be so mad. That’s her excuse for not doing most of the things she won’t do).
I know it’s on me to set boundaries, and I’ve been doing better at it (yes, I credit Taiji for that as well), but it’s still so hard. Because I have empathy for my mother as long as I don’t think of her as my mother.
What do I mean by that? I mean that my parents are old. My father has dementia, and his health is failing. My mother is struggling to take care of him. She has a live-in aide, but it’s still a lot on her small shoulders. She finally conceded to having him go to what she calls school two mornings a week, and I can tell it’s really helped her emotionally. Still, it’s a lot for her to handle.
One way she copes is by dumping all her problems onto me–as she’s done since I was eleven. And something in me broke. Not in a bad way, though. What I mean is that I realized that they are two very old people who are on the last leg of their journey on this earth. They are broken in many ways, and while theoretically, they could fix that (well, my mother could), they’re not going to .
I’m realistic about that. Even when I have suggestions for my mother’s problems, I know she’s not going to do anything I suggested. Or at best, once out of ten. And none of it was going to stick. Neither she nor my father had made significant changes in their personalities in the last thirty years (being generous. It’s really the whole time I’ve known them)
A few years ago, my father’s dementia had gotten markedly worse. My mother, who has been focused on him all my life, intensified that obsession to the point where you could just distill it into her veins. He’s all she can talk about, and every conversation we have, she just goes on and on about him.
A few years ago as I was listening to her pour out her woes when a thought flashed into my mind. “This is a sad old woman who is having such a hard time in her life.” That switched something inside of me so that I could feel compassion for her–and my father.
I think part of it is the dementia. Dementia is profoundly cruel, and it’s something that no one should have to go through. Even though I’ve had friction with my father all my life, I could not help but have compassion for him as he struggled with it.
So, yes, I can give him a measure of grace, but only a measure. Same with my mother because it’s as hard to be a caretaker of someone with dementia as it was to have dementia, albeit it in a completely different way.
This is something I want to write about, and I’ve been doing it in drips and drabs I want to tie it in with my own medical crisis, but I’m not quite sure how to do that.
I have more to say, but it’ll have to wait another day.