Perfectionist Rehab

It’s too easy to dehumanize people.

I concluded that abusers are created and not born a few years ago. Obviously, there are select few who possess a predisposition for violence.

Psychopaths. Sadists. Sociopaths.

The vast majority however, mirror the treatment they have received. Some don’t know any better. Some possess a righteous indignation when confronted with alternative opinions.

“Who are you to think you deserve better than what I received?”

I still think that for many, they’re simply blind to the pain they inflict. They can’t see past their own suffering. That’s not to say that poor treatment is justified; it’s simply human. If we receive treatment that we don’t like, we always have the option to walk away.

I’d argue that it’s our duty to ourselves to walk away from situations that harm us.

People love the debate “nurture versus nature”.

How much of our behavior is conditioning?

How much of our behavior is inherited?

I like to think that we enter the world with a blueprint. Our default settings may be predicated on the way we were treated, our genes, and our environment.

Default settings can be rewritten. They can be updated, enhanced, reprogrammed, and archived just like any other technology.

There is peace in knowing that our choices define us far more than our origins.

I think about my mother an awful lot since becoming a mother myself. She was twenty-three years old when she became a mother. She had four children in total in a six-year timeline.

She surrendered her rights to all four of us.

I won’t go into detail here describing the circumstances, because that’s not the point of this story.

My early years were harsh, brutal, and violent.

I was saved.

It wasn’t until many years later that I learned that my mother had been severely abused herself. She recognized that she was treating her own children the same way.

It was in that moment of lucidity that she altered the course of my destiny.

My mother sacrificed her relationship with me to give me a chance.

She chose to say goodbye to me – something that was incredibly hard for her to do – so that I could receive what she could not provide.

It’s so easy to learn stories like mine and demonize the parents. Perpetrators. Abusers. Scum.

The reality is far more complicated.

I come from a long line of abuse. My mother, her mother, and her mother’s mother all suffered the same treatment from which I was saved. Each generation made some improvements but abuse still stained the fabric of our family.

But no one was as selfless as my own mother. She tattled on herself. The older generations of my family hid their afflictions. They scolded in secret. Covered their bruises with extra layers of clothing and concealer.

They knew when to keep their damn mouths shut.

I was born stubborn. I have experienced seasons where I absolutely hate my stubbornness, but I had an epiphany recently.

My stubbornness may be how I managed to break the cycles I was born into.

It’s not necessarily a positive trait. Oxford dictionary defines ‘stubborn’ as having or showing dogged determination not to change one’s attitude or position on something, especially in spite of good arguments or reasons to do so. Difficult to move, remove, or cure.”

Aint that the truth.

I broke my right foot my first week in undergrad. I was walking to class in a pair of rubber flip flops, uphill, while talking to a cute boy I had just met.

Typical.

I rolled my ankle, and an audible snap caught his attention.

“Woah, are you okay?”

“Oh yeah, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I can walk you over to the infirmary.”

“No, really, I’m fine. I think I’ll just walk it off. Thanks so much!”

That’s right. I managed to break my foot, simply by walking up hill.

How terminally uncool.

I flat out refused to accept help from this boy, because I was determined to come across as unflappable. Cool, calm, collected. I didn’t want to impose myself on him by accepting his help.

My dumb ass walked a mile uphill on a broken foot to save face. Once I got to my building, I was determined to attend class.

My foot was purple by the time my class was over. My professor was equally appalled and amused.

“I’m pretty sure your foot is broken.”

“Yes, ma’am, I think it is.”

“So, if you ever miss class?”

“It will be for a really good reason.”

I’m not going to pretend that stubbornness is always a positive thing. I have had my fair share of stupidity because I refused to back down.

My stubbornness is also the singular reason I’ve been blessed with the life I lead.

I had a rough start. My parents are addicts who took their rage out on their children. My foster family are also addicts who took their rage out on their children. Every single piece of criticism I received growing up was in concert – two separate families saying the same things to you will have you questioning your sanity.

I know I questioned mine.

I had evidence stacked up against me. There were a million reasons to give up.

I never did.

My stubbornness taught me to keep moving forward, even if I didn’t see the path ahead. I was so delusionally optimistic that if I kept trying, eventually I would reach my destination.

 I didn’t have a plan, I just knew I wanted to get out.

I wanted to see things. To learn. To hate myself less. To fall in love. To live somewhere for more than two years. I wanted roots. A family.

There’s power in stubbornness. Practically, stubbornness is conviction on steroids. My stubbornness is how I managed to breastfeed my children.

Breastfeeding can be painful, even if you’re doing it correctly. Some women experience pain for the first few moments, and it can be excruciating. Once the hormones and the milk start flowing, the pain goes away.

You have to survive the initial latch, though.

The first two weeks have always been the hardest for me. Your nipples are chapped. You breasts are inflamed. Everything hurts. You’re feeding your baby every two hours, and each feed could last ten minutes or two hours. You feel glued to the chair, trapped in an endless cycle of nursing, burping, diapering, and rocking.

If all of this weren’t enough to be overwhelming, some women experience an adverse reaction to milk expression: rage.

It’s me. I’m some women.

I learned that some women experience rage when their milk lets down. This fun byproduct is from the hormone that allows lactation in the first place. Not all women experience this symptom, but I did.

And it’s debilitating.

There were so many times that I was in tears, biting back screams as I tried to latch my baby.

“Michelle, you could have just stopped. You didn’t need to suffer like that.”

You’re right. I chose to suffer because I was unyielding in my conviction: I wanted to breastfeed my children.

As time passed, breastfeeding stopped hurting. I was able to relax when I was nursing my children. I was able to enjoy the bonding time. As my body became used to the prolactin drops, my lactation rage evaporated.

If I were not stubborn, I would not have experienced the gift of nursing my babies. Perhaps I wouldn’t have suffered if I had given up.

I want to make it very clear that I’m not saying that people should breastfeed their children. I’m saying that I wanted to, and I was unwilling to give up on that desire even though my symptoms were certainly sufficient for a less masochistic person to have thrown in the towel.

But, as I’ve said before, I tend to choose the hard way.