Sorry this is sooo long! But, it has been on my mind for quite a while.
I was raised in a home where complaining was discouraged.
My mother had a saying that many children might recognize: "If you're going to complain, I'll give you something to complain about."
I never thought of her as mean or terrible; that's just how things were. Complaining simply wasn't done.
That is, unless she complained. Then it seemed acceptable.
I quickly learned to dodge my mother's criticisms and adopted a Stoic demeanor.
A Stoic individual is characterized by strength and resilience, confronting life's challenges with reason and tranquility. They keep their emotions in check and often manage stress and hardship without complaining or seeking others' support.
Is being Stoic a beneficial trait? I'm uncertain. It was advantageous during my childhood. Not reacting to my mother's anger was more effective than panicking. Stay calm. Stay silent.
Once, I believed she punished me just to provoke tears.
It was a childish notion. I was just a kid, assuming she sought a reaction. So, I adapted. No reaction. It might have infuriated her more, but I felt victorious in some perverse way; I had outsmarted her. It was my super power.
She could strike me with a riding crop on the back of my legs, and I would stay mute. She couldn't make me cry. I was too tough and I just gave her the death stare.
I was 18 when she had her last attempt at swatting me out of unprovoked anger.
She raised a wooden spoon and I caught her arm in mid swing. I was stronger than her and perhaps an inch taller.
I will never forget telling her quietly: "Never again. You will NOT touch me ever again." I held her arm and stared into her face. I must have had rage in my eyes that she could see.
She dropped her arm and never tried to hit me again, though the verbal abuse ramped up.
My upbringing taught me to be self-reliant and resilient. I hardly ever engage in conflicts. When someone infuriates me, I might just offer a smile and adopt what my son labels as passive-aggressive behavior.
He might be right. I typically avoid arguments and steer clear of confrontation. Yet, in some way, I ensure I have the last nod.
My mother demonstrated the most effective form of punishment: the silent treatment. She executed it with such skill that it filled our home with tension. We tip toed around her, not sure when she would erupt. Living with her was sometimes like tiptoeing around a ticking bomb.
I often wonder if she employed these tactics as a means of survival during her childhood, or if there was something more sinister at play.
Despite it all, we sort of loved her. Dad loved her no matter what.
As I matured into adulthood, I evolved from a shy child to someone who could navigate murky waters with some confidence. I became a 4H leader and a teacher. I wanted to give other children what I never had.
My father was a man with a huge heart, a mild manner, and a great imagination, who worshipped the ground my mom walked on.
Neither parent grew up with parents that were loving and caring. My father's mother divorced in an era where you did NOT divorce. She remarried and shipped my dad to grandparents who did not know what to do with my dad.
Mom was raised by a brutal father who would lock her in the wood shed for real or imagined transgressions. Her mother was ruled and abused by her dad.
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So where did that leave me as an adult? The first time my heart actually throbbed with such incredible love was when I held my first son. I knew then, what love was. My husband was an abuser also, I'd married my "mom" -- he had a drinking problem and was a control freak.
The end of our marriage came in the barn one day when my 'ex' husband held me in a choke hold and told me that he could kill me and make it look like an accident. He was a Paramedic after all. I believed him. I ran away that night with the clothes on my back in an old truck. [I don't think the kids ever forgave me for that, but my survival instinct kicked in and I ran like hell.]
Jump forward 30 years. I am still stoic.
I married a Vietnam veteran with his own issues, and somehow we two very broken people made a go of it with so much love and respect for each other. He broke through my iron heart.
But I have learned how important friends and being kind to others are. One thing I never learned [never was taught] was to do those beautiful little touches that my friends are always doing.
I get a card in the mail, I get a phone call from an old school friend. How are you? How are you coping?
How did I not learn how to be super kind and sensitive and thoughtful enough to send cards or do something unexpected to friends. I never learned those things, not those little touches that are so amazing.
I only know how to give my friendship and to jump in when someone needs something. I will drop everything to go help others.
How odd, I never learned the nuances and small touches that others have shown me. This really came to light when a very wonderful lady sent me a package this past week.
I'll write about that package and other fine things that have happened to me on the Mulewings blog.
But this morning I sat here wondering.
And I still struggle with this idea today.
I have just found that asking for help may be the hardest thing I've ever done.
While meeting with a social worker who sat on my loveseat with Charlie in her lap wiggling around ... I asked for help.
I guess facing the realities of Hospice has shown me something I've never imagined. The kindness and thoughtfulness of humans is a real thing.
I'm not doing this alone anymore.
