Feeling guilty has been a predominant theme in my life. As a child, I learned to feel guilty about eating, ashamed about my body and, for some reason, (irrationally) responsible for my family’s collective happiness…
Tag Archives: Moms
“The Parent-Pleasing Trap”
Featured[READ THIS ON ROLEREBOOT]
My mom is first and foremost a Pragmatist.
Straightforward and matter-of-fact, she doesn’t typically let emotion distract her. I have to assume that these characteristics are innate, for this has been her nature as far back as I recall. Compounding that, it could certainly be argued that 14-plus years of raising severely Autistic children has necessitated an intensified level of efficiency and practicality.
To the nth degree.
From my own perspective, these traits can sometimes seem remote or standoffish. If I am in a particularly emotionally raw state, her straight-forward manner can feel critical and disapproving. I need to emphasize that this is How I Experience our relationship, and may or may not be accurate.
My relationship with my mom is complicated and confusing. Landmines, just under the surface of our 33-year connection, threaten to erupt at every interaction. I am her first-born. And her only girl.
Naturally, there is the implication that dreams in the realm of “feminine” glory or success are my responsibility to fulfill. How could it not be intense? My mom wanted so much for me. She has done so much for me.
As her firstborn, she literally made me the center of her life from the very beginning. Looking through my baby books, her devotion is apparent; milestones and other details are painstakingly recorded in beautiful handwriting. Thousands of pictures are neatly labeled and arranged.
She guided my educational path by teaching me to read as well as supplementing my classwork with workbooks, tutoring and other resources. During elementary school, she advocated I.Q. testing so that I had the opportunity to enter the Gifted and Talented program.
I became, and continue to be, an avid reader and capable writer as a result of my mom’s influence.
She encouraged and supported me in the undertaking of any extra-curricular activity in which I demonstrated an interest.
She taught me morals and ethics. She read me The Bible and brought me to church.
Through the years, she created homemade Halloween costumes of professional quality and indulged my childish whims.
Together we drew, completed projects, took walks and baked cookies.
My Mom is a really amazing person. A really good mom. However, as a highly emotional, rapid-cycling Bipolar, Eating Disordered adult-child, I struggle with a lot of internal, self-imposed pressure in relation to our dynamic. Regardless of how objectively successful or unsuccessful I happen to be, I have always felt as though I haven’t pleased her. Fallen short of the mark. Without exception.
The underlying concern that I am “not good enough” isn’t a recent sentiment. I didn’t begin feeling this way during my recent and significant struggles with physical and mental health. It didn’t start when my marriage dissolved, I claimed bankruptcy, lost my job and fell into legal trouble. It’s not a neurosis stemming from angst-riddled teenage years or even from middle-school.
This desperate desire to “perfectly please” my Mom has been with me always. I remember the anxiety in elementary school, in pre-school even. I probably was a stressed-out, high-strung baby.
One particularly traumatic memory from 3rd grade demonstrates both the longevity and irrationality which characterize my fears.
My teacher, Ms. F, had administered a pop-quiz in which students were to complete sentences utilizing appropriate punctuation. Apparently, the teacher was having a bit of an off-day because her reaction to the less-than-stellar performance of the class was over-kill. In a loud and (what I remember to be) intimidating voice designed to humiliate, she listed the students names who had failed to use periods at the end of their sentences and would, therefore, be receiving an F-Grade. I remembered being terrified to go home that day, dreading the inevitable confrontation in which I would have to present my mother with such a shameful abomination of school-work.
I suppose this was my first experience with failure, and I was unprepared to handle it. Ridiculous as it sounds, that experience shook me to the core. The terror in potentially disappointing my mom was sufficient to remain in my memory to this day.
From that moment on, my subconscious had become altered. My preexisting anxiety to please became augmented by the new knowledge that I possessed the capability to disappoint. The sheer inevitability of it was overwhelming.
I felt as though I was defective, somehow.
At age 33, there’s a part of me that remains overly reliant on her for validation and approval. This is an entirely different type of acknowledgment than that of which I seek from the ever-evolving relationship with my father. With my mom I feel childish and stunted, as though I’m still earning gold stars to stick onto one of those achievement poster boards lining the sad, fluorescent hallways of any school, Anytown, USA.
I am the first to admit that, given my genetic predispositions (Bipolar I, Anxiety and Borderline Personality Disorder diagnoses), I experience the parental dynamic at a higher intensity than others. However, I am not alone in the seemingly uphill battle that is parent-pleasing.
A very dear friend of over 20 years recently sent me a message containing this excerpt:
So my dad was here for the week. He asked about you and we were reminiscing about that trip to the Keys. He loved telling everyone that he would wake up before dawn to go out and monitor your runs. I think I joined you once and then just kept sleeping the other times. Haha. And that wretched barracuda encounter while snorkeling. He is so fond of you and really wishes you well. Isn’t the father-daughter dynamic so strange…I am still constantly trying to impress him and win his approval even at this age. (Husband’s name) teases me about it. I tell him to remember this for his own two daughters – he needs to give them constant praise and approval.
This, to me, demonstrates that no one’s relationship with their parents is perfect. No one is exempt from the desire for parental approval….and (sometimes) the feeling that it’s just out of reach.
The truth is, I haven’t failed my mom. Not at all. Even at my rock-bottom, my mom has loved and supported me unconditionally. Yes, she may scowl, speak sharply or give me the silent treatment. But it’s less about whether I have achieved that all-so-elusive state of “success” (whatever that is) and more about her wanting “more” for me. No matter what, she wants more. More for me. And more for my brothers.
Because she loves us, she wants more.
More than anything.
[READ THIS ON ROLEREBOOT]
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Dear Sir
Featured, The Mighty, BlogHer, and The BodyisNotanApology:
To the Father of the Little Girl, Whom He Teased
Publicly About Being ‘Fat’
Dear Sir,
I’m guessing you didn’t mean intentional harm when you laughed loudly and instructed your young daughter to get on the scale at the Publix supermarket so you could see how “fat” she was. I’m sure you didn’t mean anything by your thoughtless remark. In fact, you acted quite tickled with yourself, as though what you’d said had been rather clever. You even looked around to gauge the reaction of onlookers — a goofy, expectant grin pasted on your face. You waited for those within earshot to reward your “witticism” with a hearty chuckle.
When you made eye contact with my friend who’d been there, she did not laugh. She did not smile. You may, at that point, have realized your social faux pas. You might have thought perhaps what you’d said had been in poor taste.
Maybe you felt a little sheepish, a little badly, even.
Had I been there myself, I would have stopped you in your tracks. I would have made you listen. I would have told you my story. Because I was that little girl. I am that little girl.
Every day, I relive every instance of that hateful word “fat” being directed at me. I remember every single time in hideous, gut-wrenching detail. In fact, I still suffer frequent nightmares about one boy who was particularly cruel in middle school. I am 33 years old and have dealt with anorexia and bulimia for more than half of my life.
I have no doubt you love your daughter unconditionally and, had you realized your “playful teasing” might be doing irreparable harm, you’d have stopped yourself at once.
Yes, there were times when my own parents were guilty of something similar, an offhand remark about another person’s figure or some gentle teasing when I was going through some awkward stage.
Truly, it boggles my mind, though, how parents, in the year 2016, can still claim ignorance to the pitfalls and dangers of body image issues for both girls and boys. I am not a parent, but damn if I don’t feel fiercely maternal when it comes to this topic.
When it comes to The Absolute Necessity of Positive Body Image, how can it be, with all the efforts to educate and campaigns of awareness launched, that our society remains grossly uneducated and unaware? With glazed, unseeing eyes, we view The Dove Campaign for Real Beauty ads on television, flip past the pictures of “real women” and spend more time gazing at the fantasy.
Although I readily admit to being guilty of doing this myself, I recognize it’s not the way it should be and certainly not the way I would want my own child to experience the world. There really wasn’t anything like the Dove campaigns when I was growing up. I was raised as a Barbie Girl in a Barbie World, saddled for a lifetime of body dissatisfaction. But no one knew any better! Positive Body Image wasn’t a “thing” yet.
It took the healthcare community a long time to recognize anorexia and bulimia as serious (and deadly) problems. Bulimia didn’t even make it into the DSM until 1980, and the term “bulimia nervosa” wasn’t coined until 1987. I was born in 1982, and eating disorder advocacy didn’t really begin to gain momentum until the 90’s, and even then, it wasn’t broadcast widely.
Before I became sick, the only eating disorder case of which my parents had even heard, was that of Karen Carpenter. How could they know any comments or observations, however well-intentioned or harmless, might be 1) Misconstrued and 2) Solidly ingrained in my memory and thus have an impact on my body image well into my 30s? They didn’t know. They didn’t know I was genetically predisposed to developing an eating disorder. They didn’t know I was battling a constellation of cognitive issues including bipolar disorder. They didn’t know what they might say about my body, their own bodies or the bodies of others would be interpreted as a guide for self-evaluation.
I was (and am) hypersensitive to any and all comments and (perceived?) criticism, seeking external validation constantly. Awareness. just. wasn’t. I think it’s interesting to note the contrast in education and awareness between then and now. Although I stand by my assertion that continued societal ignorance borders on negligence, there are now more resources available resulting in an improved sensitivity within child-rearing.
Of course, eating disorders are incredibly complex, and the causes are myriad.
However, prevention can start at home if you Watch Your Mouth:
-
Foster Positive Self-Talk.
- Be careful of disparaging your own body’s flaws in the presence of your children.
- Be careful of disparaging other’s bodies in the presence of your children.
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Resist the urge to comment or criticize your child’s appearance and/or how their eating habits have an impact on their appearance.
- Healthy eating does not require motivation by shame or guilt. Instead, emphasize improved health instead of improved appearance.
- Prioritize other qualities as having greater value than appearances such as intelligence and character attributes like kindness, generosity, honesty, i.e. fruits of the spirit.
Note: This Body Image “Prehab” applies to girls and boys.
Eating Disorders do not gender discriminate.
Protect your children and Watch Your Mouth.
Valentine’s Déjà vu
FeaturedHi!
Below you’ll find a fun re-blog! from last year’s
Valentine’s-themed-window-of-blogging-opportunity.
Please enjoy! And if you are a silly goose who pronounces Valentine’s Day with an “m” substituted for the “n”, you can just move along. 
From as far back as my memory allows, Valentine’s Day has consistently borne a great deal of significance to me.
In elementary school, I relished the activity of constructing a personalized “mailbox” that would allow classmates to “send” me cards and candy.
Then there was the shopping trip with my mother to select the box of cards that I would be sending out. I have always had trouble making decisions, especially when presented with many choices. This particular errand was a true testament to her patience as I painstakingly deliberated over the selections. In my childish estimation, my card selection was the utmost important decision I would make in all of February, if not the entire school year!
Which design??
Did I want The Little Mermaid or Garfield?
Wait, they have ones with yellow lab puppies! And New kids on the Block!! er… NKOTB! (yeah, cooler to say it that way!)
What did the cards say?
Did at the least one of the cards in the box communicate the precise sentiment to send (fill-in-the-blank) with whom I was currently “in love”?? Continue reading
Dr. Candy Crush, Dogs, & Triggers
FeaturedI saw my psychiatrist today for a medication management appointment. Yes, Dr. Candy Crush, again.
In her defense, she was actually pretty focused today.
I attribute this mainly to the brevity of the appointment and the fact that I came straight in, disregarded the usual pleasantries, and immediately stated my request. I’m growing fairly certain she’s ADHD.
Although, the perpetual communication breakdown probably lies with me. I’m the patient and am therefore, the affected one.
Hard-knuckling through a bi-monthly face-to-face of endless, repetitive droning about my *horrible life cognition* has got to be brutal, whether her time’s compensated or not. I mean, who would sit, hands steepled, transfixed, while I regale them with fresh hell from neuron-to-synapse-to-mouth?
Protected: O Happiness, Where Art Thou?
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Protected: C is for Catharsis
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Protected: Magical, Mutable Systems
FeaturedA is For Apraxia
FeaturedWhen it comes to various modes of communication, I’m much more effective via the written word than I am through verbal discourse. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. And if my dialogue happens to be extemporaneous? Well, then you can just forget hearing me utter anything remotely articulate. I fall apart, my thoughts and words turning haphazard and rambling. And in the moment, my arguments become so poorly reasoned, so weakly constructed, that I’m convincing absolutely no one, least of all myself.
I think the difficulty I have with any “off the cuff” exchange has more to do with my being overly influenced by emotion and less to do with any malfunction in cognitive processing.
Because I am both self-centered and myopic, I first consider this theory and how it pertains to me.
“Does this mean that I’m a good writer, but I’ll never be successful because I fall apart in person? My life is such an embarrassing disaster–nobody will ever believe my work legitimately came from me. Who will ever take me seriously?”
I then discuss the National Crisis that is ” Kristen and her Writing” at length with my parents, whose unconditional loves bids them do so. Readers, did you happen to catch that uppercase W? That may indicate significance. You might consider making a note. ***Sarcasm***
When they are unavailable to pander to my self-obsessed verbal loop about me and my “Writing”, I debate the concept with any random stranger who makes eye contact at the market, God save them. Just kidding! I’d bet most readers aren’t fooled into believing that last statement; I’m far too socially awkward for that kind of wild abandon. Unless, that is, I happen to be with my Dad. If that were the case, I’d have miraculously gleaned at least iota of his charisma that he seems to radiate in endless supply. I’ve subconsciously dubbed it his “Host Charisma” which is Warm, Loud and Silly.
Dad, Me
In contrast, when I am with my Mom, I also absorb a segment of her personality. When I was growing up, I spent much more time around her than with my dad, so I’d venture to say my personality developed more closely to hers. She has a Charisma which is Cool, Quiet, and Quirky.
Me ( At Healthy Weight), Mom, Grandma
Ok, that became tangential very quickly. I feel pretty sheepish since I’ve spent the last few paragraphs expounding on the direct nature of my writing, but, as evidenced, I get easily distracted in any forum. ***Incidentally, I’ve switched psychiatric medicines once again, just prior to Christmas actually, and the “Flight of Ideas” symptom should hopefully be curtailed soon. Getting back to the main point, I’d recently been discussing with reasonable frequency obsessing over the disparity in communicative skills when my second-youngest brother, Mark, interrupted my mom and I because he was struggling to communicate. Mark is fifteen years old and has severe Autism.
Marky (age 15), helping me open a Christmas present, 2015.
Mark was diagnosed at 18 months old and also has Apraxia of speech, which is a motor speech disorder. This is when there is difficulty connecting speech from the brain to the mouth. Apraxia affects nearly 65 percent of children with autism. Do not misunderstand. This is just one disability of the myriad that comprise his Autism. Those diagnosed can be anywhere on the spectrum. Unfortunately, both he and my youngest brother, Aaron, who is thirteen, are on the profound end of the Autism Spectrum.
My brother, Aaron (age 13) at his first basketball game, 2015
Aaron, while also profoundly Autistic, is slightly higher functioning than Mark, but interestingly, non-verbal. His Apraxia is worse than Mark’s, but his cognitive ability is more advanced. He is able to write words and communicate at a rudimentary level to indicate if he is hungry, feeling aggressive, or wants to do an activity.
Aaron (Age 13) receiving Equine Therapy for Sensory Issues.
Mark’s Apraxia limits him to a few “words” that sound sort of like a baby’s babbling when they’re learning to speak. He’s very low functioning, and has disabling anxiety, cognitive impairment, and difficulty self-regulating his moods. Compounding that, he has sensory and pain issues that he’s unable to explain in clear, coherent language. And unlike Aaron, he’s unable write as an alternative form of communication.
So, for me to talk endlessly about how my brain feels clicking onto that one perfect word, versus how ineffective I sometimes feel speaking in person, well, I guess I should talk about it less and write about it more.
If you are interested in learning more about Autism Spectrum Disorder, check out my other related posts: Autism 101 and Autism Awareness Month. You can also visit Autism Speaks.org to learn more about Apraxia and Autism Spectrum Disorder.
