This week sucked.
It likely won’t come as a surprise to learn that I am sentimental, sensitive, and superstitious. I often read deeply into interactions, extrapolating meaning where others would question significance. I notice patterns in my daily life, and I rarely think nothing of them.
One of my core beliefs is that human experience teaches us lessons. I’m not confident in the reasons why. Sometimes I think it’s just because we exist, and that there’s no deeper meaning.
The only things that stop growing are dead.
Sometimes I wonder if there’s a deeper meaning. As if we are divinely attuned, whether we acknowledge the guidance is of no consequence.
Perhaps we are all just puppets.
Maybe we’re pre-programmed to have certain reactions when specific conditions are met, and our only choices are based upon whatever wiring we inherited.
Perhaps we’re just apes that only acquired sentience through dumb luck.
However, if we believe that existence as we know it is purely random – the very fact that we exist at all is an absolute miracle.
This week a pattern reemerged in my life, and it touched a few different spheres of my existence. I present to you the pattern here:
- A situation emerges
- I impulsively address it
- My actions were wholly inappropriate
- I am confronted with my own mishandling of the people and scenario
- I apologize
- I obsess over the situation in the hours (sometimes days) that follow
Let’s discuss some scenarios where this happened this week.
- Miscommunicating gratitude towards my husband
It is with great regret that I confess I am human. I have spent most of my life trying to control myself, so that I may be palatable, likeable, and worthy of love.
It has come to my attention that I can be a real bitch.
As I’ve said before, my husband and I are ‘no-support’ parents. To those who are unaware of this term floating around social media, ‘no-support’ parents are people who find themselves raising children without a village. This can happen in a plethora of ways; for some, it’s because they don’t have families. This can happen through death, abandonment, or other forms of prolonged estrangement. In our case, my husband is an ex-Jehovah’s Witness. When he left the religion eighteen years ago, he knew that he would be fully alienated from his entire community. Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t call this forced estrangement excommunication, but for all intents and purposes, their disfellowship procedures are effectively the same in my eyes. Because he decided to leave the church, of his volition as a grown adult, every person he knew and loved refused to speak to him again.
I, on the other hand, grew up in the foster care system. As soon as I turned eighteen, my living arrangements evaporated. I was homeless, penniless, and orphaned. My elder brother stayed in that house, and he never spoke to me again.
‘No-support’ parents seem to be more prolific than ever, and not just for people who experienced what my husband and I have. I have friends whose families are alive and well, but they flat out refuse to be present in their grandchildren’s lives.
“I’m retired, why would I raise your family for you?”
What an interesting way to view spending time with your grandkids.
Other friends are military spouses. Moving around the world every few years makes support difficult to find. I have other friends who just moved away from their families. I have far more friends, however, whose families choose to be at a distance because they view spending time with their children and grandchildren is far too much to ask.
“I’m not coming to your house just for you to expect me to be free childcare.”
Raising families was never intended to be the responsibility of only two people. We have a generation of parents who are trying to heal from their own childhoods while simultaneously raising the next generation, who will never know the people we grew up around.
This presents greater emphasis on some ugly aspects of the human condition – the tendency to take things out on each other when we’re mad, scared, or stressed.
I was trying to convey to my husband this unfortunate reality, and I was untactful. Imprecise. Blunt.
“You know, sometimes I wonder if I’ve taken things out on you in the past because my subconscious brain thought you could handle it.”
Oof.
What I had meant to say (but clearly did not), was something along the lines of:
“Raising children is difficult, and sometimes we get frustrated with them even though they’re small. So, you bottle everything up until you explode towards your partner over something stupid because you can’t keep the pressure anymore”.
I was trying to apologize, but clearly, I was ineffective.
“You know what, Michelle? I’m sick of this. I can’t handle it. I’m not anyone’s punching bag.”
We had a long discussion afterwards, where I apologized and explained to him what I had meant. Sometimes I sincerely hate how I speak. I’m like a woman possessed at times – I’m so damn impulsive that things don’t come out the way they should (or would if I just took a beat).
The issue with being self-aware is that sometimes people think I’m doing things maliciously. I was in therapy for twenty-five years – I am exceptional at uncovering the reasons behind my different behaviors. People often receive these ruminations as confessions.
My husband genuinely thought I was confessing to intentionally taking my frustrations out on him because I thought he could handle it.
I just need to learn to keep my big mouth shut.
2. Sibling rivalry and jokes about Child Protection Services
Buckle up, kids. This one’s a doozy.
My sons are almost two and four. They often get on each other’s nerves and today was no exception. My eldest was playing with his favorite Leap Frog toy, and my youngest came up to him to join the fun. My eldest was blind with rage (remembering that he is still three years old), so naturally, he slapped his brother across the face.
My youngest came up to my husband.
“Brother! Brother! Ow!”
My husband asked my eldest if he hit his brother.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“You know you’re not supposed to hit your brother. He’s just trying to play with you.”
“Well, you’re a mean Daddy! The police men are going to come and take me away from here!”
I saw red.
My whole body went silent, humming with energy.
I felt like a thundercloud before a lightning strike.
“NO! NO! NO! YOU NEVER GET TO SAY THAT. DO YOU HEAR ME? THE WORST THING THAT’S EVER HAPPENED TO YOU IS THAT YOU HAVE TO WAIT A FEW MINUTES BEFORE YOU GET A TREAT YOU’VE ASKED FOR. THEN, YOU HAVE THE AUDACITY TO HIT YOUR BROTHER FOR JUST STANDING NEXT TO YOU?! AND NOW, WHEN YOU’VE BEEN CALLED ON IT, YOU SAY THAT WE’RE MEAN AND THAT YOU’RE GOING TO BE TAKEN AWAY? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?”
My son bawled his eyes out.
My husband’s face twisted in purple rage.
“Never yell at him like that again.”
He walked past me to pick up our son to console him.
My youngest was close behind my husband.
“Brother! Brother!”
I stepped away to take a breather, far too late. I centered myself, and I went back to talk to my son.
“When I was your age, I was taken from my family. I never saw them again. I’m sorry that I screamed at you, that wasn’t fair.”
“I’m sorry too, Mommy. I’m sorry I said the police man was going to take me away.”
I scooped up my little boy and wrapped him in a bear hug.
I still feel like a monster.
Clearly, the lesson this week is that I need to think before I speak.
Perfectionist Rehab 
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