One thing rarely talked about when discussing abuse is how coping mechanisms that have been developed to deal with the abuse are faulty in healthy situations. It’s something that comes up on Ask A Manager on a regular basis because she talks about how being in a toxic work environment can warp you to what is ok and what isn’t. The wildest example I can think of is the letter writer who bit a coworker and in the update, said it was considered ok by her colleagues because the guy is a jerk. The LW’s conclusion was that people with normal jobs found them boring and hated it, so, yeah, her work environment was toxic, but, hey, at least it was interesting. Many commenters pointed out that the LW was getting warped by the toxic environment.
I bring this up because abuse does the same. In the last post, I mentioned that I was resigned to managing my parents because they weren’t going to change. The way I deal with them, though, is not something that would work well with healthy people. Basically, I just placate them and get through a conversation as painlessly as possible. I keep it as surface-y as possible as well. The goal is to not say anything of importance unless I absolutely have to.
You can imagine how this would not work well with people I actually want to be close to. You can’t shine off a friend and expect them to be happy about it. A true friend, I mean. Not just an acquaintance. When the tragedy happened in February, I told my close friends about it. I was devastated and needed the comfort/support. I would not think about holding back with them, which is the normal and healthy way to deal with it.
The longer you’ve been in an abusive situation, the harder it is to recalibrate your thinking. I am low-contact with my parents, but it’s still enough contact to keep me off balance. I have a shield up around them that I can’t afford to let done. Explaining that to other people is futile.
I’ve said it before, but it’s a matter of context. For people who have loving parents, it’s nearly impossible to imagine parents who don’t love their children. Or rather, it might be imaginable, but it’s not something that can be understood if you haven’t been in the situation. Like anything else that is the outlier, really.
In the last post, I ended by talking about my mother. She is run by her anxiety, and she can’t see that she allows it to dictate her life. I’m sympathetic to that because anxiety, while not real, feels very real. That’s the whole crux of doing thearpy for it–to realize how illogical the anxiety is. I’ve tried to talk my mother through the anxiety, but it never works. She just counters my reasonable suggestions with a flood of reasons why she can’t do that.
When I get frustrated with her for being obstinate, she retreats into injured martyrdom about how she’s just doing the best she can. She simultaneously plays the wilting flower who needs everyone to help her AND the relentless complainer who will nag you until you capitulate to what she wants you to do. My brother and I have learned the best way to deal with her is to talk to her when she calls the first time, otherwise she’ll keep. on. calling. Yes, she will leave a message, but if you don’t call back within a half hour or hour, she’ll call again. And again. It’s somewhat understandable with me because I don’t do much of anything outside the house, but my brother is always on the go! And he’s not very good at connecting.
We also have an agreement–mostly unspoken, but also stated–that we would not tell our parents anything about each other. When I told my brother about my tragedy in February, I asked he not tell our parents. When we talked about it recently, he said he had not mentioned it them because he figured it was not his place to do so. I pointed out that I had asked him not to mention it, but he had forgotten that. Fortunately, we had our pact intact, and he did not tell my parents anything.
My mother thinks she has the right to tell my brother and me what to do with our relationship because–well, why wouldn’t she? She does not see us as fully-grown people outside of her. We are extensions of her, so obviosuly she had the right to dictate what we did/thought/believed.
This is something else that is difficult to explain. How a narcissist thinks. It’s easier when it’s a classic narcissist like my father. He only thinks about himself and believes that everyone else should/does think as he does. He cannot fathom that other people might not think the way he does. In addition, he needs other people to reflect whatever he thinks/believes. Like many narcissist, his self-esteem is shaky and fragile. He needs it to be constantly fluffed.
The last time I talked to them on Zoom, I was shocked at how my father looked. My mother looks the same, but older, which is what I expected. My father, though, did not look like himself. I could see him in there, but it was like a shell of himself. He asked me if I would recognize him if I saw him on the street, and I said, “Oh, yes. Of course.” I lied easily and automatically, and while it’s true, I’m not sure I would have recognized him out of context.
I mean, if I was in Taipei and at their house, and if he went outside and then I did and saw him, I would know it was him. But if we were both in, say, Britain and ran into him near the Thames, I might not recognize him. I’m not sure if it’s the dementia, but he does not look like what he once did.
It’s strange. I am incredibly sad for my father every time I talk to him. Not because he’s my father and he’s suffering, but because no human being should have to suffer what he’s going through. Dementia is cruel and it takes everything away from the person it’s affecting. I would not wish that on anyone, so I can have compassion for my father. And for my mother because being the caregiver for someone who has advanced dementia is not easy, either. I still have to keep my emotional distance from them, though, because they are still not capable of not wounding me–especially my mother. It’s who they are, and I can only hope to get through it day by day.