Not long after finishing Wally Lamb's "She's Come Undone," which is a massive excuse for bad behavior caused by trauma, I started thinking about my own traumas and how much bad behavior I could attribute to them.
Then Sunday night I watched the episode of "Ruby" on the Style network where all the fat ladies went to a six-day intensive training retreat to free themselves of their food addictions. The exercises were nearly identical to the alcohol rehab sessions the drunk mommies on "20/20" had undergone a couple of nights before. First, we find out what events in our childhood traumatized us. Then we get our revenge by slamming an ottoman with a rubber bat. Then we cry. People hug us. We're cured of our addiction.
Most of the traumas included abusive daddies and people we are dependent on dying and leaving us adrift. Childhood sexual abuse didn't come up on TV, but I'm sure it's a big one. It's the centerpiece trauma of Lamb's book.
In the early '90's, I tried to get some psychological help, but since I couldn't afford it and had no health insurance, I had to go to almost equally crazy people affiliated with various charities and religious organizations. We tried hard to unearth a childhood memory of sexual abuse -- there were adequate outward signs -- but I never could find a memory or a culprit. They'd give me crayons and I would draw ducks.
I've been thinking about listing all my traumas here, but it's too hard to do it succinctly without each one becoming a long story to itself. But let's try.
My mother slaughtered my pet ducks. What I took away from that is the person you would think should have been most protective of me was devoid of any empathy for me.
My first dog was run over. That probably happens to a lot of children, but maybe because of the cold way my family handled the situation, I never attached myself to a dog again. To this day, I'm afraid of dogs -- not that they will hurt me, but that I will love them. The dog was buried outside my bedroom window and for the rest of the time we lived in that apartment, I never slept in my own room again. I slept on the floor of my sister's room. You would think that would give my parents a clue.
My first divorce. It was actually a relief that the relationship could now be declared over with a reason my family would accept -- infidelity -- and it's not like it came as a surprise. I had sacrificed everything that did mean something to me -- my future -- for a relationship that actually didn't mean much to me, ended up losing both, and having no idea why I didn't have the strength to get out of it before the damage was done. Being a single mother at 22 with no family support in town is a tough way to start a career in a demanding profession, especially prior to women's lib.
My second divorce. This time I had no good reason my family could accept, so I was ostracized. I was escaping from 17 years of a co-dependent relationship with an older alcoholic, and finally thought I had found a safe place to land if I jumped, but I was wrong. I quit the husband, the job, and sold the house to pursue a dream which fizzed out spectacularly with a huge helping of betrayal from people I trusted. I was knocked for a loop that lasted for two years. Then the person who picked me up and shook me off also left me, which knocked me for another loop, but out of those ashes, I finally found the strength to create for myself what I most wanted instead of waiting for someone else to give it to me.
Good things happened for awhile, and then I got to the point where I actually had something to lose again and couldn't take the risks anymore. With security comes the death of creativity. With security comes the fear of losing that security. And with fear comes inertia. Hmmmm. So gradually, I am becoming the fat lady, and although I am not quite in need of an intervention yet, I might be in another few years if I start waddling toward ridiculous poundage. What pain am I feeding? Which trauma on my self-image board is to blame here?
What should I be yelling while I slap the ottoman with my rubber bat?
i hope you can find the culprits to name while screaming at the ottoman. if not, you should give yourself credit for even thinking about how to be better - let alone doing something about it. you have already done a lot of work from the sound of it. and from a selfish perspective, i'm glad to hear of other's struggles with mental/emotional stuff, not to mention bad decisions.
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