the status quo

The Ask Amy advice column in today’s paper struck a chord for me today.

Here it is:

Dear Amy:

I just got back from my family reunion. A situation arose that caused unpleasantness. Some family members suggest that I owe an apology. I would like your opinion. As the day wore on, more and more alcohol was consumed. One of my cousins (age 50) had been seen drinking frequently, and two people voiced concern because he was intending not only to drive home, but also to drive another cousin and his elderly mother.

I chatted with both mother and cousin, who voiced some concern. I offered them sleeping accommodations. I took the drinking cousin aside and said that some were concerned that he was drinking enough to jeopardize his driving. I offered to try to find some sleeping space at my mother’s house, where the reunion was hosted. He said he would be fine. I asked him if he didn’t mind telling me how many beers he had consumed. He said that he had drunk eight or 10 beers, and I said, “That’s a lot.” He then got visibly angry and said he was tired of these games. He told his mother and cousin that he was driving them home “now,” and did so. He drove home without incident.

Some felt that this proved I was wrong to question his drinking. My cousin is now mad at me. Some have suggested that it was none of my business how much my cousin drank and noted that I was the cause of angst when everybody was so happy before.What do you think?

TRYING TO DO RIGHT

Amy says:

Following the reasoning of your family members, your cousin would have had to crash his car for your concerns to be valid — or perhaps his arrest on drunken-driving charges would have sufficed. You don’t owe anyone an apology. When someone is drunk and leaves a gathering where he has consumed alcohol, the people hosting the party can be held responsible for whatever happens once that person leaves. Your cousin’s belligerence when confronted with his drinking is typical and to be expected from someone who has a problem he won’t face.

In dysfunctional family systems, there is the unspoken rule that the dysfunction must be maintained at all cost. This was certainly true in my childhood.

My dad is alcoholic. My mother had binge eating disorder. Her mother came from an alcoholic family. My great grandfather was a violent drunk. My grandmother, who was the oldest of many children, remembers gathering her siblings together and hiding in the closet when her dad came home drunk from the bar. My grandparents did not drink, but the dysfunctional behaviors remained.

I have an aunt, now deceased, who was a severe alcoholic. She never left her house and called people asking them to bring her booze. One of my fears was that I would become like her. I don’t think anyone ever tried to get her any help.

I remember getting beers for my dad and sneaking sips when I was very young. When I found out that my dad was giving my infant daughter sips of wine I knew that I would have to put a stop to that. It was one of the hardest things that I’ve ever had to do, standing up to my dad. I told him to stop and he did.

I’m trying to take a good hard look at my own family now, and see where my blind spots are, where am I trying to stick with the status quo? What dysfunction am I trying to protect?

I try very hard to hide my struggles from my kids. I try to keep my fight very private. I think I’ve been successful in this. They never saw me drink or drunk. I was lucky. I hope this isn’t one of my blind spots.

struggles

Therapy has been difficult.  I’ve been dealing with ancient wounds.  Making progress is slow, I really don’t want to face the pain so I shut down.  T is trying to move me forward and backward at the same time it seems.

T brought up the subject of hope yesterday.  I don’t have a good relationship with hope.  T kept pressing me as to why I reject the notion of hope.  It has to do with my loss of faith.  The loss of hope and the loss of faith went hand in hand.

Then we began talking about religion.  I’m not sure I’m comfortable talking religion with him.  He is a Christian, a charismatic Christian at that.  I think he works with youth at his church.

He asked me how I lost faith and I went into it a little.  I think he understands that it wasn’t an intellectual decision on my part, in other words, I wasn’t looking at apologetics with a critical eye, trying to reconcile my basis for belief intellectually.  I’m not that smart.  I simply came to realize that Christianity did not work, not for me at any rate.

When I told t that I bought the line that God was the answer to my problems, t acted as if that was unreasonable.  That floored me.  He seemed incredulous that I would expect God to intervene in my life and be the catalyst for positive change.  I challenged him on that, but he held his ground.  I want to discuss this with him next time.

I became a born again Christian at a very dark time in my life.  My marriage was in trouble, there was physical and emotional abuse and we fought all the time.  I had 2 young girls under the age of 4 who were (and still are) precious to me.  I was isolated and alone and sinking into depression.  I could see no options for my future and lived under a profound sense of futility.

One night, as I was channel surfing I came across the Catholic channel, EWTN, and saw a little old nun with great big glasses wearing a brown habit, hopping mad and ranting about the movie, “The Last Temptation of Christ.” It was Mother Angelica I later found out.  I admit, I stopped to watch purely because I got a kick out of seeing a nun rip into someone like she was doing.  My only experience with nuns thus far had been seeing them walk in town when I went to visit my cousin during the summer.  I was fascinated with them, they wore full habits and carried an aura of holiness about them. Mother Angelica busted every stereotype that I held about nuns that night.

So I would periodically tune into EWTN to see who Mother Angelica was going to rip into next.  At some point, I began to listen to what she had to say.  I began to crave this peace that passes understanding that she spoke of, the love of Christ in our hearts and forgiveness.

She spoke of forgiveness one night, stating that through Christ’s sacrifice on the cross , our sins are forgiven, they are erased, gone forever. I had been carrying around a burden of guilt from past and present sin in my life. It sunk in that forgiveness is final.  It’s a done deal.  Sins are no more when we accept Jesus as our savior.

It sunk into my soul.  I was forgiven.  I bought a Bible and read it.  I watched various preachers on TV.  I heard the message from many sources that God is the answer.  I began to believe that God would be my answer.  He would deliver me from this life, from the hopelessness and isolation, from my sinful past, He would be my redemption.

I have always had a hard time fitting in. Friendship has always been elusive to me. I longed for a feeling of fellowship, of being part of a community. I prayed to God to change me, to transform the awkward, ugly, lonely, bitchy, clueless, hateful, spiteful person that I was into a Godly woman.   I began to go to church, expecting to be welcomed with open arms, with the hope that I would find a home, so to speak.

I longed to feel accepted, to find fellowship.  This wasn’t a mere longing for friends. It was a plea to be set free from the loneliness and isolation that had punctuated my life.  I had dug myself into a hole that I couldn’t get out of.  I really thought that God would answer my prayer.  I felt hope and staked my life on it, because I really was dying inside.

I tried for a few years to find peace and happiness, knowing that it would be found in God through Jesus Christ.  I prayed.  I repented.  I read the Bible. I went to church.  I became active in church.  I still felt so unclean, so different from everyone else. I didn’t speak the language, I didn’t dress the part.

I struggled.  I was depressed. When I sought counsel from peers and pastors, I was told that I was trying too hard, that I wasn’t trying hard enough, I was told to “let go and let God” whatever that is supposed to mean.  I had demons cast out of me, demons of rebellion, of depression, of whatever demon was fashionable at the moment.  By the way, I never felt any different when the demons were supposedly cast out.  I just felt stupid.

I prayed harder, read my Bible, listened to Christian music and read Christian books.  Despite all that, I remained isolated, filled with self hatred.

Two more children and a few years later, I broke.  I fell apart.  I found myself in the psych ward.

Where was God now? I was duped. I could no longer talk a walk that I wasn’t living. I was not a successful Christian, it simply did not work in my life the way that it worked in the lives of others. I lost faith. I lost hope. I carried a mantle of shame and guilt.  I lived in a state of hopelessness, a place of desolation and despair, emptiness and anxiety, a place of endings, never beginnings.

Even though I was now on antidepressants and mood stabilizers, I continued to fall.  The depression that followed was profound and severe.  Big chunks of time are missing, I have no memory of my youngest son’s first steps, his first words. I was easily overwhelmed with even the simplest of household tasks. I was afraid to be alone with my boys, who were 1 and 3 years old at the time. Making dinner was too much for my fractured mind.  It wasn’t until almost a year later that I began to crawl out of that hell.

It’s been many years since then.  I bear the scars from that fight.  Latching on to hope again just seems masochistic to me.  I don’t see the point of opening myself up to another fall.  I don’t think I would survive it.

the family of my dysfunction

My parents come from dysfunctional families.  My fathers side is fraught with addiction and mental health issues.  My mothers side has their own dysfunction, but addictions and alcoholism aren’t as prominent, and the exact nature of the dysfunction is harder for me to label, but it’s there.

My father has 2 brothers, they are all alcoholic.  My father’s sister has her own unique addiction problems.  I have never really gotten to know her, my mom and dad have avoided contact with her for the most part. But when we brought Gramma to see her, it became very obvious why they avoid her.

I’ve heard that B, who is married to L, is a hypochondriac. I know that she has legitimate health issues so that has always confused me.  Now I understand.  It’s not so much that she’s a hypochondriac, it’s more that her identity is based on her illnesses.

From the moment we drove up the driveway it was apparent that there were sick people in the house.  A wheelchair ramp has replaced the sidewalk.  B was on the couch, which has been modified for her use with a thick piece of foam under the cushions to get it at the proper height for her to get in and out of.  They specifically pointed that out to us. Another badge of honor, I guess. She has a walker with wheels and brakes.  She has a wheelchair.  She is connected to her oxygen compressor like a dog on a leash.  Her bottles and bottles of pills are on the coffee table. The only thing that she talked about was her various illnesses, her dialysis, the oxygen, anything related to her disabilities and infirmities.  B is a little older than my mother, who is in her mid 60’s.

B is on dialysis and wont consider a kidney transplant because she claims that her body can’t take anymore surgery and she doesn’t want to put herself through that.  I wonder if she knows that she is signing her death certificate with that decision.  Mom commented that B has so much invested in being sick that she would rather die than get well.  I got that impression as well.  It’s so sad, so very sad. Being sick and dependent on others is her whole identity, it’s how she copes with life.

B is on a pain meds, one in the form of a patch.  B has been on various meds for years.  She legally gets high every day.  She has much invested in staying stuck in her situation.  B was addicted to Valium years and years ago.

The conversations revolved around B’s illnesses in one way or another.  B’s infirmities consume her.

B has 3 grown sons.  All of them have addiction issues. They have not had dental care and each of them are missing teeth. The oldest is just plain scary.  He is angry, very angry and is alcoholic.  He doesn’t bathe,works sporadically and no one trusts him.  D has poor personal hygiene and cares little about his appearance.

D (the oldest) and Brunhilda his scary girlfriend were there. (not her real name but damn does it ever fit…)

I’m not sure who was scarier, Brunhilde or D, but I think the girlfriend wins this contest.  She actually looks a LOT like the picture.  They never smiled.  Brunhilde never spoke, she just glared at us.  D told me that his neighbor shot his dog, then showed me a picture of the dog.  That is the extent of the conversation. Then he said that he was going to scare the mailman when he came and so he did.

But as scary as D is, his life is sad.  He is doing what he needs to do in order to survive and I hate it that it means a life of anger and addiction and misery. I hate it that the extended family distrusts him and fears him due to his addictions. I can’t imagine what knowing this has done to his spirit.

B’s youngest son N lives with them.  N is really a nice guy.  It appeared to me that he takes care of them.  He put together a lunch for us, set the table etc and you could tell that he made an effort for us.  All B and L did was rag on him, cut him down.  N couldn’t do anything right in their eyes, he set dessert plates on the table instead of just serving pie from the counter, he cut the pie wrong, and on and on.  Mom and I felt really bad for him, and Mom made a  point to complement him and counter B and L’s attacks. You could tell that he tried his best to make an abnormal situation seem normal.

N has had his license taken away via DUI.  N has trouble holding down a job and drinks a lot.  No wonder, if he’s grown up in an environment in which he is constantly belittled and cut down, he couldn’t have gotten the confidence in himself to be successful.

The house, which they’ve lived in for 40 years, looks like it has never been updated. Everything is worn out and old, except the fridge. The carpet was very worn and gold colored.  It smelled. It smelled like when you leave towels in the washer too long and then dry them…kind of musty but also an icky sweet/sour smell to the odor. It looked like it could use a really good cleaning.  It looked like it was stuck in a time warp.

What struck me was how her brothers and in turn their own families have scapegoated her and used her dysfunction to deflect their own dysfunction. I could write similar stories about the dysfunction in their own families.  I hate what alcoholism has done to my family.  I hate that so many of us have turned to such destructive measures to cope with our lives.  I hate that there is so much shame and hypocrisy wrapped up this hot mess.  I hate it that the family seems to cannibalize some of us in order to survive, rather than rally around and pull us out of the hell in which we’ve found ourselves.

My therapist has commented on the dysfunction in my family. He asked me, “what are you all running from?”  I really don’t know.  I really have no idea.