Are My Parents Racist?*

Tags

parents, privilege, racism, white

• My parents happily vanished next door to the Pakistani family when they were infrequently invited to enjoy a good meal and for the neighbours to show how modern they were by letting my mother sit with the menfolk with tumblers full of whisky she felt duty bound to drink. They never came to our house. I recall no real interaction other than these meals.
• When my sister brought back a boyfriend from university, who happened to be Asian, I overheard them wondering what colour the babies might be. And no, she wasn’t pregnant. This is the only time I can pinpoint a memory of a person walking through our front door who isn’t white.
• We spent a few days with German friends in Germany. After we returned home my parents sat at the dinner table making stupid German jokes (about keep things in order, that sort of thing). It was one of the very few times I felt able to stand up to them and say that given the nice time we had how utterly insulting this mockery was and I actually said that if they couldn’t behave themselves I would go and eat elsewhere. They subsided into shocked silence. I probably managed it because it wasn’t about me.
• My parents think all Americans are uncultured. Nothing good has come out of the USA. This despite my father’s favourite novelist being Raymond Chandler, as American as apple pie and my mother enjoying a long list of Hollywood films. I might agree with them on the cultural value of McDonald or Coca-Cola but they do not fully represent America.
• They have always valued and prized the Middle East and were fortunate enough to visit Syria before it fell apart. They admire the history, the science, the intellect, the architecture and art. They enjoyed the holidays they have taken but did not notice the “now”; they could not tell me anything about the man on the street, let alone the women.
• They like certain groups of foreign people because they have great food and nice restaurants. Whether they like them beyond that I am not sure.

I should add that my father has visited more countries in his life than not so he has been exposed to different cultures the world over, although maybe (probably) with a lack of engagement with the ordinary person.

It was not until I started listing these few memories out that I realised that my parents, as far as I can remember, have never discussed black people. Certainly not as friends, nor as part of a history of colonialism and absolutely not as people with their own history and culture. Africa interests them not at all, except for the Mediterranean part. My mother did once point out to me that my grandmother had lived in South Africa for a while and that is why she took such an interest in the plight of black South Africans, as if no other reason was possible.

The world seems to divide up into the interesting bits: Europe, with Italy and the Med the favourites, continental Africa and the Middle East as good, and the rest full of uncultured people (Americans and Australians and no doubt other countries not beginning with A) or some sort of blank, not worthy of consideration.

My son suggested that they were generationally racist, in that they aren’t really racist, they simply talk that way, in the way their generation do. I do not think this is true. I think my father is hugely an intellectual snob which he interprets in a racist manner.

* <tl;dr> of course they are – they’re white, as are my entire family, so we are all racist, whether we admit it or not.

I have always tried not to be overtly racist, in words and deeds. I am currently trying to grow my awareness of institutional racism, not as something that merely belongs to organisations but that is embedded in all aspects of this country, from who runs it down to personal white privilege. In this sense a country is a giant institution and granting easier access and progress to whites is built in to every aspect. I have not had to give this much thought in my life, which is itself a privilege.

Today I got out of my car in my road and was greeted by name by my local police officer, out on patrol. We had a nice generic chat about the neighbourhood and what was going on and she pedalled off. I didn’t worry what questions she would ask me, whether she would want to frisk me, search my car or ask me anything too personal. I felt not one jot of anxiety. I was aware, during this perfectly innocuous conversation that it would probably have been different had I been black. I would probably not have known her. She would probably not have known my name. I wouldn’t have already interacted with my local police from the point of view of a community organiser. I would of course hope that this particular officer wouldn’t treat a black person differently. But I have that hope because I am white.

 

Dear Head, Dear Heart

Tags

anger, head, heart, privilege, sarcasm

 

Bellona-Dancer

Dear Me of thirty odd years ago,

This is your head speaking.

You have parents who love you, even if they can’t really show it.

Your sisters may have seen you as a little sister to be bossed around but they weren’t nasty to you, at least not until 2sis left home. When did that start I wonder? When did 2sis start putting you down all the time? 1sis floated in and out of your life sometimes interesting, usually entertaining, frequently disruptive in an admirable way. Both of them left you to it, most of the time.

You have a privileged upbringing. Your mum taught you to read by the age of three and only when I tried to do the same did I realise quite how difficult and time consuming that is.You were encouraged to read and taken on frequent trips to the library from a young age. Books saved you.

Your dad took you to work with him on Saturdays when it wasn’t too busy, even if he did always leave you to someone else to look after. He told you bedtime stories, often about his youth and there were always bad jokes.

There were family holidays, lots of them. All by car so if you could just learn to stop feeling sick in the car life would be so easier. It’s inconvenient to have to stop and it is such a weakness. Sleeping in the car may reduce your car sickness but you miss out on watching the miles roll by, holiday “banter” from your dad and family sing songs. Oh well. Holidays involved camping, walking and lots of fresh air. Scotland, Wales, Lake District. Been there and done that, in rain and occasional sun. The odd square of chocolate to help keep you going and proper walking boots and wet weather gear. Learn to walk faster and you’ll keep up. Don’t stop to admire the view unless it’s an approved stop or you’ll fall behind. What do you mean you don’t want to go?

Your mother took time out to take you to all the museums in London, introduced you to a life long love of theatre, Shakespeare, and Gilbert and Sullivan. Old films that you could share with your grandmother.

And then there are all those trips to your grandmother. How lucky you are to have a relative living in the sunny south of France who could show you a different way of life with lots of chat between you and your grandmother and your mother.Your dad would go off doing long walks so you can enjoy peace without him, as did your mother. Lots of swimming, eating, drinking and discovering interesting places. When it’s just you and your mum going you can sit in the front of the car and not want to throw up quite so much. Isn’t it surprising I was over 40 before I learned to drive!

Your other grandmother wasn’t quite so easy but even so, you learned to value your time with her. You wouldn’t have know your father had a brother if it wasn’t for her.

The, when you were seven you moved abroad. All of a sudden your idyllic life changed.

You were put into a French speaking school and had the amazing advantage of becoming fluent in a second language. Never mind that the other children thought you were weird and bullied you. What an opportunity!

You had the privileged advantage of growing up in another country, of learning to appreciate and value other cultures, other ways of life and to respect differences. It opened your eyes to a European, multi-cultural mindset that doesn’t really exist in England. You will appreciate that for the rest of your life.

Being bullied is character forming. It strengthens you and teaches you who you really are. You don’t need friends.

You turned down the opportunity to move to Germany and become trilingual. What a wimp you and your mother were for saying no. Would your father have consulted you both if he’d already decided to go?

You were lucky enough to notice your parents increasing affluence, despite (or because of) your father’s tight control of the purse strings. Never mind that you were never spoiled, that Christmases were always limited and you had to earn larger presents. At least you learned the value of money.

You spend so many years moaning about your childhood whilst failing to appreciate all the wonders it brought. It’s about time you grew up and moved on, leaving behind all this nonsense and appreciating what you were given. You were so lucky!

Yours,

Head

 

Dear head,

I hate you.

I hated my dad and had forgotten the sarcasm and mockery, some of which he no doubt passed onto 2sis. I spend so much time now feeling sorry for him that I’d forgotten or repressed how much I hated him and how small he made me feel.

I thought my mum saved me but actually letting me hang out with people twice my age did me no good in the long run and meant that I never felt comfortable with my peers. Her inability to stand up to my dad taught me about being passive and accepting one’s lot.I’m not sure that I ever believed she tried standing up to him at first.

I still feel guilty for not having more than a minimal relationship with my parents and in some ways I’m still protecting them from the truth, as I so often did as a child.

I was so miserable for so long and then I continued it by going out with men who repeated the sarcasm, the dictatorship, the dominance. I never stood a chance until I learned to be independent.

I am better than all this shit and would like to let it go but I spent my childhood and much of my adulthood suppressing my anger and hurt as it served no purpose and it has festered. I am working on it.

So dear head, thanks for all the privilege, but, fuck you.

Heart

 

My Parents Are Old

Tags

changing relationships, swapping places

My parents are both over 80. They are old. They are physically fragile. They have just moved house and country, which is one of the most stressful things they can do. They are having to learn completely new ways of living. Small details such as in which bin do you put your rubbish take time to learn and all these changes are happening at once. Going round the supermarket my mother has to read all the labels as she doesn’t recognise the contents from the colourful packing or the visible branding that is not what she’s used to. They now have smartphones, having never used a touch screen device and barely having used a mobile phone. They have to learn their new house, which windows open, which keys do what, how does the alarm work, the oven. They have to learn to use more than one remote for the TV and the cable TV, how to use a new land line phone.

On top of all that, they have to discover their local area, find out where they want to go for pleasure, what they are going to do, what their new routines will be.

It’s a lot to learn. It’s even more to learn when you’ve spent the last fifteen odd years living in your own little bubble and having things exactly as you like them without having to change anything without months of thought and discussion.

Into this mix I come, now half an hour’s drive away instead of several hours. We’ve been used to quarterly day visits from my father and an annual visit from my mother. In the last month I’ve talked to each of them more than in the last year combined. It’s all changed.

The relationship is altered. What it is to become is yet to discover. At the moment I am the educator, the facilitator, the practical person. I am helping, explaining, supporting, teaching. The roles have changed; I won’t say reversed. I feel sorry for them. I see their fragility, both physical and mental. I want to help them and look after them.

But at the same time I feel annoyed that I’m being compassionate and giving up my time and it’s all about them because they don’t have the space to consider anything else. I mentioned my small housing benefit disaster and got nothing. I mentioned what my sons were up to and got nothing. It’s all about them. Nothing has changed on their side other than the passage of time. I can feel annoyance turning into anger deep down and that conflicts with the fact that these are old fragile people who are never going to change.They are never going to be there for me.

That is easier to accept from a distance.

My mother’s already reverted to talking to me about my father. His little quirks and his health because he won’t talk about them or acknowledge them. She’s not allowed to go up a ladder more than two steps in case she falls because he won’t be able to catch her. His cancerous nodules are growing which could mean anything but it reminds me time may be short.

And yet, what am I to do? No doubt conversations and help will tailor off shortly as they become more settled. Grandchildren will be less enthused about visiting once school comes back and it eats into their time. Their behaviour has been immaculate and helpful on visits so far. I’m not going to be taking my mother round the supermarket once a week or even once a month. I’m becoming the helper and the grown up, but they are not children and they are not helpless.

What do I want out of what time we have left?

An Impending Sense of Doom

Tags

doom, holiday, stress, tension, to do, work

I do feel this physically, as a massive knot in my stomach, a tension that will not go away or even loosen. I’m even getting tension headaches. What is going on?

I went into Christmas feeling in a relatively good place, looking forward to starting my course again, feeling happy about exercise and continuing that. I was aware that I would be fighting for 2son with the council in January but I was ready. Christmas and the New Year came and went without major incidents so all is well.

Except that it isn’t.

I’m going away for a long weekend towards the end of the month, with two good friends. It’s going to be the maddest, more extravagant thing I’ve ever done and while I know I would never have chosen to do it on my own I am expecting to not stop laughing or having fun for a few days. Sounds awful, does it not? However I am leaving 3son and 4son on their own for the time. I’m leaving on Wednesday and coming back Tuesday morning so they will have to get themselves to school Thursday, Friday, Monday and Tuesday. They are quite capable of doing this and when I am at home if they chose not to go to school I’ve never been able to make them go anyway so it won’t make any difference. I don’t want to be caught out by school as an absent parent but I’m not leaving a six year old while I holiday for a fortnight. They are not going to have a massive party or drink all the alcohol (although I will be careful not to stock up) and quite frankly the worst I can imagine them doing is leaving the gas (oven) on overnight. I’ve warned 3son about the perils of blowing up the house and he does appreciate that this is a sensible concern of mine. They’ll make a mess, not wash up and eat junk but nothing major. I’ve promised them a weekend away of their choice if they behave. I’d like to make sure that no one from social services (for 4son) tries to contact me or notices my absence but what are the chances of that happening? So what is there to be worried about, other than I have never done it before and I feel like I’m being naughty?

I have a work thing that I’ve never had to worry about before. I host a number of websites on a shared server and it got hacked before Christmas. I’ve never had a problem before but now they’ve got in once they keep trying again on a daily basis, sometimes killing off a site in the meantime so I need to ring up (£2 for 15 minutes) and get a backup reloaded. It takes time and patience and the most important site won’t come back and is beyond my ability to repair. I haven’t yet worked out whether I should move them all to a different server (itself a time-consuming process), stop hosting them myself (consequences and a sense of responsibility), or what. I feel helpless because I don’t know enough to sort it out definitively myself. I followed clear instructions for wiping a WordPress site and re-installing a clean version and it didn’t work causing me to ring up once again to get a re-install as they couldn’t see why it didn’t work either. Anyway I’m boring myself with this but I am spending an hour (at least) every day scanning websites and monitoring situation just to make sure nothing is starting up again. This is something that was never a problem before and now is a problem and another anxiety I don’t need. I don’t feel there is anyone else who is reliable that I can pass it onto. So it’s a pressure that has come out of the blue and I don’t know what to do with it or how to resolve it, with no clear cut solution. It’s not a life and death situation but it taps into my sense of responsibility and duty. It’s also incredibly boring.

I am beginning to win the conversation about my parents’ location on their return to the UK, something that only appeared on the horizon last month. It does worry me the idea of having them close to me. Having suggested the south coast with its fast trains (when running) to London and having the proposal dismissed my sisters have now got on board with this idea and are encouraging my parents to reconsider. I do actually think it would be better for them as well as just not wanting them round the corner from me. It’s a subtler pressure but one that is very quietly freaking me out even though I’m being (trying to be) sensible about it.

I was supposed to be looking at schools this month for 2son but haven’t got started on that although it’s really important. I haven’t actually finished the little things I meant to finish before Christmas. I’ve got a leak in the bathroom, mice in the house, car insurance to renew and my bedroom light blew up last night. Niggly things that I have to deal with and really can’t be bothered. I have a job I want to give up because nobody has any enthusiasm for running it but I can’t afford to resign but have to wait and see. 1son went back successfully a week ago; 2son returned to school yesterday and 3 son returned last week to school. 4son is currently off sick which is worrying me more than it should as he was ill at the end of last term as well. I’ve phoned the doctor for a consultation but I expect she’ll tell me I’m over worrying. I do want a day to myself soon!

I have a list of things to do which I am perfectly capable of doing. I absolutely don’t see a reason for feeling as wound up as I do. I do feel better for writing all this out and for discussing it in my ten minute practice session today.

There is also the reality of a new year as opposed to the expectations of better days. Same shit, different year.

 

2016, a personal review

Tags

bombshell, change, changes, competence, development, driving, job, parents, poetry, sons, therapy

I think, as we enter a new year that I’ve come such a long way and yet still have such a long way to go. I wonder if I will ever make it. I’m more aware of the work yet to do and it scares me. Feeling comfortable with who I am sounds so simple and yet so far.

I’m sitting in the pub starting this while listening to Comfortably Numb which is what it takes to start this post I’ve been ruminating over for the last week. I’m finishing it at home the next day.

Whether 2016 has been a good or a bad year for me I really don’t know. I think it has actually been good but I don’t feel it.

Breaking My Silence

Tags

acceptance, anger, childhood, dreams, grief, kubler-ross, parents, stuggle

Unsurprisingly enough I find it easier to write when I’m thinking positively than when life is difficult. And yet it’s then I need most to practice talking about hard feelings.

During these past few weeks I’ve been slowly and steadily sinking, plunging myself into a morass of despair.

The good thing is that whenever one of 2son’s professionals have asked me how I’m doing I have told them at length how I’m doing,  rather than sticking to a one word lie in reply.

A few weekends ago I went to see my friend (mentioned in Theatre) in a quality amateur production. Naturally we stayed behind to say well done to him afterwards and spent a few minutes listening to him delight in the back stage camaraderie and in house jokes and friendships that had developed. As we made our weary way back to London and for several days after, his words reverberated in my head. His joy, his sense of belonging, of pride and achievement. I wondered why he gets to chase his dream and I gave up on mine. Then I listen to his parents praising him, for his achievements, his hard work and dedication and I stop wondering. Is that what it’s like to have parents who support and encourage you?

I’m still grieving and mourning for the childhood I never had, for the friends not made, the parties not gone to, the fun not had, the mistakes I didn’t make, the learning I didn’t manage, for the silly tales I haven’t got to tell. I’m wishing I’d had the confidence then to stand up for my parents and make a difference while recognising that it’s not unexpected that I didn’t. I want to have been a child, to have had the “normal” childhood problems with friendships, growing up, boyfriends and all the rest of it. I wish I had parents who supported me and gave me strength rather than chipped away at me.

And that’s on top of the dream not followed. I’m stuck in the depression stage of the Kübler-Ross model. I’ve spent most of my life in denial, pretending that it wasn’t that bad really as I wasn’t capable of dealing with the truth. I’ve got angry this year, probably not angry enough and never to the point of saying anything about anything much to my parents. The third stage is bargaining. I was never very good at wishing to be able to go back and do it all again, because I couldn’t see a pivotal point where I made the wrong decision. Even as a teenager I was also terrified of the prospect of having to go through my childhood all over again if that magic time wand could be waved. (I’m almost resisting temptation to call it a timey-wimey wand.)

The stage I haven’t got to yet is acceptance, which starts off “Grief Work” with:
T = To accept the reality of the loss
E = Experience the pain of the loss
A = Adjust to the new environment without the lost object
R = Reinvest in the new reality

I haven’t accepted the reality of my loss. I still yearn for what I didn’t have and feel angry towards people I perceive as having it instead.

And I’m struggling. I’m struggling to keep my head above water while looking after 3 boys as well. As an aside, 1son had a trial shift behind a bar this Saturday which he survived but said it was the hardest day’s work he’s ever done. About time I say, but with pride. I can’t be bothered to cook for them or me. I’m struggling to put in the effort to get 2son up. I’m stopping talking to people. I’m not doing the school run so I don’t have to make polite (or impolite) conversation with anyone and I really can’t be bothered. Except for the few people who really know and share what’s happening I don’t want to talk about it. If it wasn’t for being able to have a laugh with my Saturday friends life would have nothing whatsoever to offer. I’m trying to accept that I simply can’t go out during the week unless I’m back early and that’s the way it has to be for the moment. I’m cutting back on work and I’m cutting back on fun evenings out.

I didn’t have a session last week and have my last session with my current counsellor this week. I’m getting bored of counselling and think I need a break before going back and would happily try something else if there was something else to try. Trying to look at what I have achieved this year is going to be difficult as at the moment any achievement seems irrelevant to the struggle to get through the day. I’m barely doing any exercise and as for HAES or trying to put myself first, well it’s bloody difficult. I’m watching more crap on television and reading for books for pleasure as I haven’t the enthusiasm for anything else. That’s about as far as looking after me goes at the moment. And I’m angry that I feel like shit.

 

My Sodding Father

Tags

dithering, father, holidays, rant

It fucking hurts. And to be honest the fact that a simple email gets to me so much that I can cry really pisses me off. I want to get to the point when it really no longer affects me. But that’s like saying I don’t want my parents to care or to try.

In spite of having spent some two hours talking about holidays, anything more than a quick day trip into London is too much for my father. This in spite of the fact that he can happily go away for two weeks with my mother without a problem, although they are cutting back on these too. So why why talk about spending a week together and wanting to see more of them? Are my children really that exhausting or is it really too much for them? And as for my mother coming too, well she values her days without my father too much to come with him more than occasionally. I’m glad her peace and quiet is more important than watching her grandchildren grow up.

There’s a temptation to just write back and say that if it’s all too much effort, then why bother. But I have the feeling we might never talk to each other again in that case.

On the one hand the shorter and more routine his visits are the easier they will be to cope with. On the other hand I’d like him, I’d like both of them to think that spending time with their grandchildren and paying them attention is important enough for them to make a few sacrifices. I’d also like it if they did this to see their grandchildren, not out of a need to support me.

If I said any of this to them my father would be hurt and explain that it’s nothing personal, but they are getting old and it’s difficult and I shouldn’t get wound up about these things. Of course they support me but it’s just not practical. He would be totally bewildered that he’d upset me, but without understanding why.

I don’t know where to go with all this. I’m fed up, really fed up that I’m still seeking approval, presence, love, whatever it is, but I don’t really know how to stop. I suppose that I don’t feel that I really matter; that he comes to see us out of a sense of duty and responsibility, not out of love. What it really comes down to is that I don’t feel loved by them, either of them and that is what all this is about. Still.

Half Way Through

Tags

exercise, food, good habits, HAES, me, pressure, priorities, smoking, thinking, time

We’re half way through the holidays and I’m only just beginning to take the time to think about me.

I’ve made a good effort at writing this blog more regularly; I’ve gone back to thinking about HAES. I touched the Wii yesterday for the first time in months. I’ve started thinking about what I’m cooking in advance and I’ve started trying to add more fibre back into my food and balancing my diet more.

But it all takes time and thought and energy. I’m not going to have time to get set into new good habits before we go back to school and other pressures will take priority. I need to find a way of addressing this or I will never give myself the time.

When I stopped smoking over 5 years ago, I spent a good year thinking about it beforehand. I read Alan Carr’s book which helped a little, and was further helped by someone who said they’d read it 6 times before stopping. This made me realise the amount of thinking I had to do. But I did. I renounced my desire for smoking mentally, before I put that last cigarette out and as a result I quit without patches and without all  that feeling of deprivation that had gone along previous efforts. I wanted to not be a smoker so I was.

I need to perform the same sort of mindswitch here. The biggest and slowest switch is to throw out much of my ingrained habits formed one way or another by my parents and childhood. That’s a work in progress but I’m finally beginning to really understand how pervasive my childhood is and how much it affects everything. There’s a lot to unlearn, but I’m getting better at recognising the thoughts and feelings I need to throw out. I do need to think about what, if anything, I say to my parents about all this but that’s almost a separate issue.

Writing the previous few posts have made me realise other mindswitches I need to make.

In Fat Is My Prison I realise for the very first time how much my parents’ attitude towards sport and exercise has worked against me. They only value walking as exercise, nothing else. I taught myself to swim and did quite a bit of that when young, mainly because we had a marvellous and cheap swimming pool. That fell off when we returned to England and it wasn’t such a pleasure any more. I also learned to ride a bike with the help of 2sis and used that to go off cycling round the streets although I never got into going on big days out on it. Riding a bike is also something that stopped when I returned to London. Having learned on safe streets with good cycle paths I cycled to Weybridge once and was absolutely terrified and never got on a bike again. I do occasionally think about starting again, with all the riverside paths we have but this is something I feel I ought to rather than I want to.

Writing We’re Eternally Hungry has forced me to re-evaluate my diet. I always used to think my diet wasn’t that bad because I didn’t eat a lot of cakes, creams and puddings. Again this goes back to my parents. Nice sponge cakes with a bit of jam or icing in were all right but for the most part puddings were not deemed ‘proper food’ although we did indulge in the occasional patisserie. Just about the last time my mother made me cry was when she ridiculed me for wanting an ice-cream after a meal. The children could have one but it’s a childish thing to eat so why on earth was I bothering. I know that sounds petty and ridiculous but it hurt. Why was I not allowed to enjoy the simple pleasure of having an ice-cream along with my sons and nephews just because she didn’t want one. So I grew up with savoury=good; sweet=bad mentality. Chocolate is an indulgence we permit ourselves. So I need to throw out all that as well as all the diet indoctrination that goes on in my head.

I don’t really know how I’m going to keep up this level of thinking when term starts again. To write this blog, I need a good hour’s peace which I find in the morning if we’re not going to school or elsewhere or in the evening once they’ve settled down. I feel too much pressure on the hours while they’re at school to use that time to write which is something I need to try and address but that goes back to prioritising me over work which I find difficult. So I need to think more about that.

I also need to make the time to play on the Wii, something I don’t need peace and quiet for and don’t have to do in a solid chunk. Again I hear the thoughts that you don’t start burning fat until you’ve done at least half an hour so anything less is wasted. I need to throw out that thought and think that actually 20 minutes can make my muscles ache and that strengthening my muscles and making me stronger and healthier is actually what it’s about rather than as a source of weight loss (which according to research is a fallacy anyway). So if I can break it into 20 minute chunks that makes it a lot easier to squeeze it in during the day in a way that doesn’t make me feel that it’s pushing other higher priorities out of the way.

When I stopped smoking, I wasn’t working. But I didn’t have all my children at school yet either. So pressure was still there, just in a different way. I managed to find the time then to do what I needed to do. I need to find the time again.

I also need to continue to think about the implications of my reluctance to take the time to think about me, to not see this as a luxury but as a necessity. I still need to learn to value myself more, to prioritise looking after myself as essential and to take the time I need to do what I need to do. For me.

Powerless

Tags

angry, control, decisions, feel, game, rant, rules

My source of sanity

When I was around the 10-11 age I got two expensive presents: a new bike and a radio-cassette player. I mentioned this back in a chapter of my autobiography. My parents had encouraged me to learn to ride so I could have some independence (and get out of their hair more) and had persuaded 2sis to teach me to ride on an old second-hand bike they had bought. After I learned to ride it for some reason I smashed it into a lamp post. I begged for a new one with racing handlebars rather than another second-hand one. I had to pay half of it, which considering I got limited pocket money, didn’t receive money for chores and had no other means of earning any meant that I had to save up said pocket money for six months or so. Having a bike also meant I could cycle to and from the rail station on the way to school thus saving my mother the car journey.

My radio cassette player, with headphones, was a means of escaping the world and listening to the local radio station until late at night. I still have the cassettes I recorded off this and it lasted 20-25 years which for however much it cost then is really quite a bargain. It’s possibly the only gadget I look upon with love. But along with the bike I had to fight for it as well as pay for it. My parents didn’t believe in spending more than £20-25 on birthday or Christmas presents (otherwise we’d all be spoilt brats you understand). I had to explain that this way I could listen to the radio in my room, rather than disturbing them in the sitting room and could use headphones so not bother them. I used to get in trouble if I’d used the radio downstairs while they were out and hadn’t turned it back to a respectable radio station, let alone left the volume up. My recollection is that it was probably a birthday and Christmas present combined with another six months pocket money.

These were the only large things I remember asking for as presents and they certainly helped changed my life. For that reason they were worth fighting for. I might be able to explain to my mother why I wanted something but even when she was willing it was a case of I’ll have to ask my father. He would ask silly questions like what do you want it for, why do you want it, is it a phase or are you going to get your money’s worth, how much is it? Many of which are perfectly adequate questions but I felt that I, along with my request, was put on trial. I felt I was asking for something that was reasonable, not extravagant and that I was entitled to a few luxuries. I also felt that the battle was worth it. I did once look at starting a train set but gave up as I realised that the cost was extortionate and it really wasn’t worth while although I do remember actually looking at them in a shop with my parents, so they weren’t unwilling to consider things, just unwilling to be generous.

I felt powerless and I resented that. I felt that I had to grovel and that I shouldn’t have to. I felt that their belief that I/we would be spoilt was unreasonable. The value of money was drummed into us, and as I grew older I realised it seemed to be used more when it wasn’t something my father wanted.

When I was 14 I was offered a school trip to Russia for 10 days, 3 cities for £300. That seemed to me a bargain but my father said no. I remember even the trip organiser phoning him up and not being able to get any sense out of him. What I resented then was that he couldn’t give me a good reason. I never bothered asking for skiing trips or the like as these were clearly frivolous. But I thought this was educational and good value for money. I think money was tight then, but I wasn’t in the know and my father never said, “We can’t afford it”. Words I would not, could not have argued with. It still rankles because he treated me like a child, making the decision for me which he was certainly entitled to do so, but not giving me an explanation. Maybe he was embarrassed to say he couldn’t have afforded it. Money was always found for my parents’ holidays though.

And that’s another thing. There were different rules for them than there were for me. Now, being parents and child, that’s as should be. I suppose I felt that there was money budgeted for their holidays which became increasingly extravagant as my father earned more money and my sisters finally left home, but that I was left over and there was nothing left over for me. I felt that there were carefully created rules that my parents were playing by, but that they didn’t tell me what the rules were. Certainly they got upset when I said that I didn’t know that money was tight even though I hadn’t been told; we’d moved back to London and bought a house in the centre; that didn’t tell me we had no money. But it was my fault for not working it out.

Now it makes me angry that they ignored me when they wanted to, but expected me to know or agree automatically. When the decision was taken to move back to London, my father came back from the first round of his job interview and we had champagne that evening and my parents were clearly very happy about something but told me they were just celebrating him coming home as if I was that stupid. He then went for his second interview, got the job and they announced that we were moving back, just as I’d settled into my new school and for the first time was relatively content. But they thought I wanted to go back to London. They never asked me or even told me they were considering it and were upset that I didn’t want to go. But my father did ask both my mother and I a few years earlier whether we’d like to move to Berlin. I think we got asked when he hadn’t already decided or to confirm his decision not to.

And that’s ultimately what it’s about. He makes his mind up and then goes through a period of supposed consultation which is fine as long as my mother and/or I agree with him. He decides what I think, and then acts surprised that I don’t always agree with him.

This has rambled for a bit but I’m trying to re-feel that rancour that I felt as well as work out what it is that makes me so angry. I wasn’t allowed a mind of my own but was supposed to copy his.

 

 

The Rules of Engagement

Tags

confrontation, control, discussion, fear, frustration, power, rules

I had a really productive Q&A session with BFF2 which helped clarify my thoughts.

The only other remotely equivalent confrontation I ever had was in getting rid of my ex. We split up but he refused to leave the house and it took a year to get him out and I had 1sis and my mother with me as support. I did it because I knew getting him out of the house was the only way my children and I could hope to have a normal life, that there was no other solution and I’d left it long enough. I was desperate.

I am not currently feeling that desperate, partly because I don’t have that same degree of conviction that I need to do this and that this will enable me to move on. And because I don’t have that same certainty about the need to do this, I’m not pushing myself to do it so I am letting my fear get in the way of resolution.

What is my fear of? My fear is of the way previous attempts to talk to my parents ended up making me feel. Emotionally vulnerable, in tears, I would be crying and feeling lost and scared, anticipating the end of the discussion so I could run away even when I’d instigated it. It hurts to not get acknowledgement of my feelings; it hurts to not get that warmth, support and understanding. It was frustrating trying to explain myself in a way they could understand when they didn’t and possibly couldn’t understand. I am reluctant to repeat all this.

So I need to change the rules. As a teenager or young adult I tried to confront my parents on those few occasions. It was very much a “I want this. You’re not giving it to me. This is why you should”. There was always a feeling that I was on trial, having to explain and justify whatever it was that I wanted, that they had already decided was not in my best interest.

My father controls these conversations by not understanding other people’s points of view. I’ve always regarded this with some sadness and sympathy, feeling sorry that he was unable to empathise. But it’s also a very effective control strategy as it means he just refuses to understand thoughts that aren’t how he thinks and unless I turn myself into him, my arguments are never going to reach him because he won’t let them. He does like to win.

So again, I need to change the rules, to not get into a confrontation that is trying to challenge him, a power struggle I cannot hope to win. I need to be able to make it simple: “you do this. It makes me feel…” It’s then up to him whether he chooses to acknowledge his behaviour and how it makes me feel. That doesn’t mean he has to understand why his behaviour causes my feelings, just that it does. This is easy to say but I’m going to find it a radical departure from normal behaviour to achieve.

Because despite all my wishes, the only thing I can reasonably expect to come out of this, is that I say what I need to say, even though I’m not as yet sure what that is, any sort of acknowledgement or understanding would be an unexpected bonus.

I have spent time worrying about how what I say affects them and their relationship, pondering whether I can say things without telling things my mother has never said to my father, of what all this could do to them if they really listened and started to question their own lives and relationships. I have been protecting them all my life one way or another and it’s time to start protecting me.

Any conversation I need to have therefore needs to have precise boundaries about it: it’s about how what they do makes me feel. And that’s it. Explaining to them why I think they are how they are is not the issue. Explaining who I am is.

I find it very difficult drawing that line. Much of my initial counselling has been about understanding what happened and why my parents did what they did. I’m trying to move on from that understanding to thinking about how it all made me feel and that’s more difficult for me as that is a thought I’ve been taught to squash.

I did draw that line with my mother a few years ago, on the last holiday we spent together. How it came up I cannot recall but  I said that it was time for her to either deal with my father or stop moaning about him, that I didn’t want to hear it any more. She has barely spoken to me since, which is her way of not thinking about her issues. But that is her stuff, her choice, not mine.

Whenever we have had confrontational conversations, my mother has tended to take a back seat and only interject when she could nudge my father in the right direction but she remains passive. In fact the last one we had started off with my father saying to me “Your mother feels that you’re not getting on as well with each other as you used to.” My mother was unable to say that to me herself.

So I need to focus on what they do and how that makes me feel. Before I can focus on what I need to say to them and how.