My fury boils as he turns the gas up on our already heated discussion. He flings verbal grenades at my emotional responses, and further denigrates me with the ultimate sarcastic-dripping insult: “OK, Jan.” Really just bravado to ward off the tears that are sure to soon come unbidden, I raise my voice in anger and say, “I am not my mother.”
But the denial falls flat. Because, weren’t there times when I not only acted like my mother, but I actually felt like I was my mother? One particularly vivid moment happened while in line at the grocery store. I pulled out my stash of coupons, and systematically went through them to match them up to the items in my cart, making sure they were all valid, and that I had read them each carefully. Some were for a percentage off, others for a dollar amount, still others were two for the price of one. My gestures and even my facial expressions, as I scrutinized each one, were the perfect mimic of Mom. Sometimes, the tone of my voice or the way I turned a phrase sounded to my ears as if she was acting as my invisible ventriloquist. Was I just like my mother as he stood there accusing me to be?
No. I am different.
My mother had a terrible temper, but her’s was unprovoked by those she lashed out at. Her’s was unpredictable and inconsistent. Every day was a clean slate upon which she wrote a different set of rules. Except the rules were a secret—a minefield to be tiptoed upon in the hope of not triggering an explosion.
As my tears brim to nearly overflowing, he accuses, “You’re so sensitive! I was just teasing.”
My parents didn’t tease. Especially not Mom. No, she was self-righteously serious. All the time. And that was interesting in itself. Because she came from a family whose dry wit I came to greatly appreciate and enjoy, once I was old enough to understand it. If you’re in a room with the Hellers, there are no elephants.
Was I too sensitive? Was I not capable of getting the joke? Was it a joke? Or was it a further dismissal of my feelings?
“There’s someone who gets them, and someone who gives them,” Mom stated after I was diagnosed with a bleeding ulcer at 23 years of age. As part of the cure, I spent ten therapy sessions with Catherine, who asked, “What’s wrong with being sensitive?” What was wrong with being sensitive? I began to think that saying, “I was just teasing,” was a way of not accepting responsibility for cutting too close to the quick—an excuse for further victimizing the victim of an insult.
“Did she always have a terrible temper?” he asks one of my closest friends.
“I always thought of her as very even tempered,” is the response. I am even tempered. Only, his relentless refusal to be sorry triggers the anger in the moments before I break.
I reject “I was just teasing” as a justification. An excuse. A dismissal. The only acceptable response is, “I am sorry. I am truly sorry.” And then make and keep a vow not to do it again.
Copyright DJ Anderson, 2015
But the denial falls flat. Because, weren’t there times when I not only acted like my mother, but I actually felt like I was my mother? One particularly vivid moment happened while in line at the grocery store. I pulled out my stash of coupons, and systematically went through them to match them up to the items in my cart, making sure they were all valid, and that I had read them each carefully. Some were for a percentage off, others for a dollar amount, still others were two for the price of one. My gestures and even my facial expressions, as I scrutinized each one, were the perfect mimic of Mom. Sometimes, the tone of my voice or the way I turned a phrase sounded to my ears as if she was acting as my invisible ventriloquist. Was I just like my mother as he stood there accusing me to be?
No. I am different.
My mother had a terrible temper, but her’s was unprovoked by those she lashed out at. Her’s was unpredictable and inconsistent. Every day was a clean slate upon which she wrote a different set of rules. Except the rules were a secret—a minefield to be tiptoed upon in the hope of not triggering an explosion.
As my tears brim to nearly overflowing, he accuses, “You’re so sensitive! I was just teasing.”
My parents didn’t tease. Especially not Mom. No, she was self-righteously serious. All the time. And that was interesting in itself. Because she came from a family whose dry wit I came to greatly appreciate and enjoy, once I was old enough to understand it. If you’re in a room with the Hellers, there are no elephants.
Was I too sensitive? Was I not capable of getting the joke? Was it a joke? Or was it a further dismissal of my feelings?
“There’s someone who gets them, and someone who gives them,” Mom stated after I was diagnosed with a bleeding ulcer at 23 years of age. As part of the cure, I spent ten therapy sessions with Catherine, who asked, “What’s wrong with being sensitive?” What was wrong with being sensitive? I began to think that saying, “I was just teasing,” was a way of not accepting responsibility for cutting too close to the quick—an excuse for further victimizing the victim of an insult.
“Did she always have a terrible temper?” he asks one of my closest friends.
“I always thought of her as very even tempered,” is the response. I am even tempered. Only, his relentless refusal to be sorry triggers the anger in the moments before I break.
I reject “I was just teasing” as a justification. An excuse. A dismissal. The only acceptable response is, “I am sorry. I am truly sorry.” And then make and keep a vow not to do it again.
Copyright DJ Anderson, 2015
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