Growing up in an alcoholic home, I learned to constantly beat myself up over everything.
I didn't want to, but I couldn't stop.
After I joined Al-Anon, I heard "If I want to make a change, I have to actively do the opposite."
So...
Once a day I thought up five good things about me. It would take forever to come up with that many, but I stuck with it.
Now I do over a hundred several times a day. Takes about a minute.
Recent examples:
I send my cousin a birthday card and a gift bag of candy
I made myself a big salad for lunch—very healthy and delicious
I gave the cats their flea medicine.
I did some beautiful drawings for my book project.
I paid the Visa bill on time.
Every morning and frequently during the day I take a minute to look on myself the way I'd look on a small adorable baby. (When I look at, say, my 10-month old great-nephew I don’t compare him to other babies or think, Hmpf! He didn’t pick up that toy correctly. I just groove on the wonderful, lovable boy he is.)
Loving and praising myself feels really stupid. But it's proved more powerful and healing than anything has before.
I'm not saying I'm all well--I still think negative thoughts. They've just gotten less and less frequent, with shorter and shorter durations.
Examples:
You may remember our cat died last week. My first thought: “If,two years ago, I'd taken her to the vet sooner, maybe she'd be alive today.”
I thought that for only about 30 seconds. Then “Oh Poe, that’s just self-hatred; give it up.” And I did.
After we buried her, I thought, “Gee I really didn’t check one last time to make absolutely certain she was dead. What if she wakes up down there?”
Had that one for about twenty seconds. Then: “Poe, she was stiff as a board. Let it go.”
You see, I couldn’t stop self-hating thoughts before because I was standing on a base of “Poe is bad, can’t do anything right, never good enough.” Now I am building a base of Poe is good, kind, lovable, and competent.
Showing posts with label healing childhood wounds. Show all posts
Showing posts with label healing childhood wounds. Show all posts
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Friday, December 5, 2008
Rocky and Jo
We got the news this week: My husband’s Uncle Rocky has dementia. Rocky came to our house for Thanksgiving, absolutely bereft because his mind no longer works. His daughter Jill said when they got in the car to come over, he kept trying to insert his seatbelt into the cigarette lighter. Poor Jill and Lance. They were already dealing with Aunt Jo’s dementia and now both their parents have it. Of that generation only my mom has all her marbles, as we say.
The whole situation makes my mind wander far afield to when I was twelve and came out here to spend the summer with my cousins. It was a hard time for me. My lifelong playmate, Cousin Nona, had turned sixteen and suddenly lost all interest in me. There was no one my age to play with. Her brother Phil was at camp.
Sometimes my aunt took me out to Rocky and Jo’s. They were young, full of fun, and had a big ranch house with a pool in the back yard.
Their baby Jill was just a year old. I loved to place her in front of a mirror and watch her laugh and dance at the sight of her own reflection. Six-year old Lance wasn’t too bad either. He liked to play Barbies and we could swim in the pool together. I thought of myself as the loving big sister to both of them.
But one day all that came to an end. Lance and I were in the pool. For some reason I told him I would dunk him. I waited till he held his breath and then I pushed his head under water for a second. He came up laughing, so I dunked him again. And again. Suddenly he was hanging onto the side of the pool, gasping for breath and screaming. He hadn’t been laughing; he’d been crying. “I couldn’t breathe!” he yelled. I apologized profusely, but he ran inside and told his mother. Jo came out, madder than an adder, and told me, “Don’t you ever do that again!” Later I could hear her in the house, still furious, telling Rocky and Aunt Bernadine, “That is the meanest thing I ever heard of a kid doing! There’s something wrong with that girl.”
I was overwhelmed with guilt. Raised in a dysfunctional family, my self-concept comes from what others think of me. Never mind that it was an innocent mistake. Jo said I was mean; something was wrong with me.
I carried that shame for years. In fact, when I moved out here at age twenty , I was shocked to see my graduation photo prominently displayed in Aunt Bernadine’s living room. Didn’t she hate me like Rocky and Jo did?
A few years later I happened to marry Rocky and Jo’s nephew. We all get together for Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. But for years I avoided Rocky and Jo, scared I’d say or do the wrong thing.
One Easter dinner about ten years ago, I sat next to Jo and was surprised to realize she liked me. Clearly I had grown up enough to let go of the old shame and fears.
But I still avoided Rocky, mostly because he had a habit of pigeonholing people and regaling them for hours with his political opinions. Only once was I able to escape. He was going on about what cushy lives prisoners lived. "We have too many rights in this country," he railed. In most pleasant tones, I said, "What rights of yours are you willing to give up?" He said, "It's been nice talking to you; gotta go."
Now both he and Aunt Jo become more and more withdrawn. I don't know what to say to them. I’m not clever enough to carry on a conversation if the other person doesn't respond beyond one or two words.
It looks like I'll be avoiding them all over again.
The whole situation makes my mind wander far afield to when I was twelve and came out here to spend the summer with my cousins. It was a hard time for me. My lifelong playmate, Cousin Nona, had turned sixteen and suddenly lost all interest in me. There was no one my age to play with. Her brother Phil was at camp.
Sometimes my aunt took me out to Rocky and Jo’s. They were young, full of fun, and had a big ranch house with a pool in the back yard.
Their baby Jill was just a year old. I loved to place her in front of a mirror and watch her laugh and dance at the sight of her own reflection. Six-year old Lance wasn’t too bad either. He liked to play Barbies and we could swim in the pool together. I thought of myself as the loving big sister to both of them.
But one day all that came to an end. Lance and I were in the pool. For some reason I told him I would dunk him. I waited till he held his breath and then I pushed his head under water for a second. He came up laughing, so I dunked him again. And again. Suddenly he was hanging onto the side of the pool, gasping for breath and screaming. He hadn’t been laughing; he’d been crying. “I couldn’t breathe!” he yelled. I apologized profusely, but he ran inside and told his mother. Jo came out, madder than an adder, and told me, “Don’t you ever do that again!” Later I could hear her in the house, still furious, telling Rocky and Aunt Bernadine, “That is the meanest thing I ever heard of a kid doing! There’s something wrong with that girl.”
I was overwhelmed with guilt. Raised in a dysfunctional family, my self-concept comes from what others think of me. Never mind that it was an innocent mistake. Jo said I was mean; something was wrong with me.
I carried that shame for years. In fact, when I moved out here at age twenty , I was shocked to see my graduation photo prominently displayed in Aunt Bernadine’s living room. Didn’t she hate me like Rocky and Jo did?
A few years later I happened to marry Rocky and Jo’s nephew. We all get together for Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. But for years I avoided Rocky and Jo, scared I’d say or do the wrong thing.
One Easter dinner about ten years ago, I sat next to Jo and was surprised to realize she liked me. Clearly I had grown up enough to let go of the old shame and fears.
But I still avoided Rocky, mostly because he had a habit of pigeonholing people and regaling them for hours with his political opinions. Only once was I able to escape. He was going on about what cushy lives prisoners lived. "We have too many rights in this country," he railed. In most pleasant tones, I said, "What rights of yours are you willing to give up?" He said, "It's been nice talking to you; gotta go."
Now both he and Aunt Jo become more and more withdrawn. I don't know what to say to them. I’m not clever enough to carry on a conversation if the other person doesn't respond beyond one or two words.
It looks like I'll be avoiding them all over again.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Pilgrimage to L'vull
Why this pilgrimage? Why have I travelled 2000 miles back to L’vull, my childhood home which I left 30 years ago? Like all pilgrims, do I hope for transformation? Will I find myself in the presence of God? Or am I just returning to “the scene of the crime,” trying to get it right this time?
Thursday morning I step outside and the very texture of L’vull air catapults me back. Suddenly I am seven years old. Running through wet grass. Green beans with bacon fat. The reflection of my face in the bathtub faucet. Nighttime traffic noises. Everything had magic in it.
But magic also carries danger. At age seven everything bad got stuck inside me too:
When L’vull built its first freeway, my family took a spin on it. Such novelty! Imagine having a minimum speed--35 MPH! Windows down, fast breezes rushing in. It’s a beautiful May day. We barrel along, happy.
Then my mom yells, “Dad, you’re supposed to exit here!” He swerves, but can’t make it through the flow of traffic. Suddenly he is purple with rage. “It’s all your fault!” he screams, driving with one hand while he beats her with the other. No more happy family. We kids cower in the back seat.
Before I left home on Tuesday, I called the 800 number to locate an Al-Anon meeting in L’vull. The operator said, “There’s one at the Star Hill Library…” Before she could give directions, I said, “Say no more.” Star Hill was OUR branch library, just half a mile from our house.
I park a few blocks away, so I can walk down the same sidewalk I’d trudged so many times as a kid. There, just as I remembered, is the big gothic building, warm light shining from the windows. In the basement, a cardboard sign: Alanon Spoken Here.
I sit down as the chairperson reads, “We welcome you…and hope you will find the help and friendship we have been privileged to enjoy.” At once huge tears float down my face. I remember all the years I’d spent alone in this town, thinking I was the only person in the world with a crazy alcoholic father. What a difference if Lyttle Poe could have wandered into her branch library and found a room where she didn’t have to cower any more.
I do walk out transformed, get in my car, and drive down the old freeway. Enchanted by the jewel-like trees, the Abe Lincoln fences, I realize I am all grown up now. If anyone gets violent, I can leave.
L’vull has become my Lourdes.
Thursday morning I step outside and the very texture of L’vull air catapults me back. Suddenly I am seven years old. Running through wet grass. Green beans with bacon fat. The reflection of my face in the bathtub faucet. Nighttime traffic noises. Everything had magic in it.
But magic also carries danger. At age seven everything bad got stuck inside me too:
When L’vull built its first freeway, my family took a spin on it. Such novelty! Imagine having a minimum speed--35 MPH! Windows down, fast breezes rushing in. It’s a beautiful May day. We barrel along, happy.
Then my mom yells, “Dad, you’re supposed to exit here!” He swerves, but can’t make it through the flow of traffic. Suddenly he is purple with rage. “It’s all your fault!” he screams, driving with one hand while he beats her with the other. No more happy family. We kids cower in the back seat.
Before I left home on Tuesday, I called the 800 number to locate an Al-Anon meeting in L’vull. The operator said, “There’s one at the Star Hill Library…” Before she could give directions, I said, “Say no more.” Star Hill was OUR branch library, just half a mile from our house.
I park a few blocks away, so I can walk down the same sidewalk I’d trudged so many times as a kid. There, just as I remembered, is the big gothic building, warm light shining from the windows. In the basement, a cardboard sign: Alanon Spoken Here.
I sit down as the chairperson reads, “We welcome you…and hope you will find the help and friendship we have been privileged to enjoy.” At once huge tears float down my face. I remember all the years I’d spent alone in this town, thinking I was the only person in the world with a crazy alcoholic father. What a difference if Lyttle Poe could have wandered into her branch library and found a room where she didn’t have to cower any more.
I do walk out transformed, get in my car, and drive down the old freeway. Enchanted by the jewel-like trees, the Abe Lincoln fences, I realize I am all grown up now. If anyone gets violent, I can leave.
L’vull has become my Lourdes.
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