Last night I couldn't sleep. I was having conversations with the dead and the estranged all night instead. Conversations with my grandfather about what a complete asshole he was for never dealing with all the pain, suffering, anguish and guilt he felt after going through the war and instead beating his son every day for the most minor infractions. About how not loving a child unconditionally and expecting perfection are incredibly damaging behaviors and produce a adult who cannot love unconditionally and is himself a perfectionist.
How expecting perfection out of yourself results in feeling like you're never good enough. Good enough for your parent, good enough for his love, good enough for yourself. How it results in creating an adult who has a perfectionist personality disorder that manifests itself in abuse of his children, physically and mentally, and self abuse in the form of alcoholism and an eating disorder.
About how his grandchildren suffered because he couldn't ever love his son and his son wasn't good enough. How his grandchildren now have the same perfectionist personality disorder and weren't loved without condition by their father.
I wanted to hit my grandfather. I wanted to make him understand. But I can't. He's dead. And even if he was alive he wouldn't understand anyway. People like him, people like my father, people who hurt and hurt others because they hate themselves so much cannot ever understand. Because they will never own what they did. Their perfectionism won't let them because then they wouldn't be perfect.
It took me years to remember some of the shit my father put me through. Years to finally admit that I had horrible self-loathing because I could never be the perfect person he demanded to receive his love. I had glimpses of that revelation while in college, but stuffed it down with food, drugs, sex and alcohol, escaping into books, TV, the internet. The revelation came again while in a 12 step program for eating disorders. I still stuff it down over and over when I can't deal with my imperfection.
As I lay in bed last night I had a flash of Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting telling Matt Damon "it's not your fault" and him saying "I know" and Robin repeating over and over again "it's not your fault, it's not your fault".
And you know what: It's not my fault that my dad had a dad who was an asshole and turned my dad into one too. It's not my fault. It's not my fault.
I cried a lot saying that to myself because I don't believe it's not my fault. Well consciously I do, but unconsciously I know I don't. Or at least I'm having a really hard time forgiving myself for not being perfect. Almost 40 years of conditioning will do that.
The only saving grace in my life was mother. She loved us as her parents did, as God intended parents to love their children: unconditionally. Time with her was peaceful, fun. Time with her was being a child.
Time with my father was stressful. He's a high maintenance person whose mood changed in the flash of an eye. One minute he was fine and the next minute you were getting your ass beat for God only knows what reason. Believe me, the infraction did not deserve the punishment. I learned early, age 6 as I recall, that my father's volatile behavior should be avoided as much as possible. I was at a new school, in first grade, and the kids were throwing the F word around left and right. I'd never heard the word before so I asked my parents "Is fuck a bad word?" My dad jumped off the couch yelling "where did you hear that word, don't you ever say that again!!" I was six for God's sake, and asking a totally innocent question. Way to scare the hell out of me and make me cry big man. That was when I first knew I couldn't trust my dad to react rationally.
I was so afraid to have children for so long because I had so much anger and I got so angry all the time. A lot of prayer, working a 12-step program, doing a lot of soul searching and crying, having an amazing husband and partner, and having two sibling who understand everything I'm going through helped me reach a point that I has less trepidations about it.
I lost my mom 6 1/2 years ago but I think of her every day. Especially today. It would have been her 60th birthday. Suffice it to say, the wrong parent died. But she's in a MUCH better place. I still miss her lots.
So I try to channel my "inner mom" whenever I can. I tell my son I love him all the time. I tell him I'm proud of him. That it's okay to make mistakes. That I love him no matter what. Because that's how my mom treated me and I'm a better person for it.
The cycle of perfectionist expectations stops with me. If I could go back and change something, I don't know that I would. Because I have an awesome husband and son and I love them so much. Even if I could go back and change the way I dealt with life, even if I could tell my mom she was dying of breast cancer, even if I could tell my grandfather he was a piece of shit and to leave his son alone, I wouldn't. It is who I am and it is the hand I was dealt. I've been embracing my victim status for so long I don't know how not to be one. Not yet. I've always thought of myself as strong but I know I'm not... not really. I just have awesome aggression and lame coping skills.
My conversations with the dead have led to a further evolution of my self assessment: I'm tired of being a victim; it's not a way to live. I'm tired of having the same reaction to stress, to life. I'm tired of lame coping skills. They give me nothing but trouble and pain.
Food is my crutch. It enables me to stuff down all the shit I can't seem to cope with. But the thing is, I have to experience the shit if I ever want to evolve my coping skills. I need a real life mental cleansing. I need to get all the darkness, sweep out all the cobwebs, expose the pain to the light, and forgive myself. Ultimately I need to forgive myself. And keep repeating "It's not my fault".
and this is why I love you
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