My sister, Liz died this week. Her death made me think about our family and how fractured it is, so I wrote this poem:
We were broken.
We were children brought up with abuse, lies and recriminations.
We were humiliated, put down and made to feel shame,
We were blamed for the failures of our parents
And made to feel responsible for their emotional contentment.
We were pitched one against the other and never learned to unite.
The accusations we internalized as children
Stayed with us until the bitter end.
We were broken.
We played roles,
But we were all too broken to play any of them well.
One became the Caretaker, but her own youthful needs stood in her way.
One became the Scapegoat, but her endless fight against this label
Only set her up for more blame and reproach.
One became the dependent Baby whose needs could never be met
By siblings too self-absorbed and lacking any sense of self-worth.
We were broken.
One became the Instigator who perpetually stirred up discontent.
And the parents who defined us? They stood on their pedestals even after death
With their long-gone but still audible voices directing the play.
Never criticize them. Never blame them. Never speak ill of the dead.
We were their victims and we were broken-
Too broken to unite and lift each other up.
Ever fragmented and tearing each other down.
We are broken still today.
Liz was a Christian, and I wonder how she reconciled the turmoil and divisiveness within our family to her beliefs? One way was by Gaslighting and rewriting our history. In the end, we must all cope somehow. Farewell, Liz. Hope you are blissfully reunited with your daughter.
My family relationships are complicated, but then, that may be true for most of us. I have five sisters and am close to only one, the youngest. I get along OK with the next youngest, but her life is problematic, and I may not be her most sympathetic listener. She struggles with an addiction to pain pills, the same affliction that robbed my son of his life. My efforts to encourage her to seek treatment has succeeded in making her avoid talking to me.
My mother, Sofie, had five daughters, the youngest of which is institutionalized for severe brain damage. My mother had Pleurisy while pregnant and in 1960, doctors did not fully recognize the threat of x-rays to a developing fetus. The sister to whom I refer as my youngest, Linda, has a different mother.
With my other two sisters, Marie and Liz, my relationships are often either strained or estranged. If they had to list which of their sisters they got along with the best, I would place at the bottom of their list. Strangely enough, none of them (Sofie’s daughters) have a relationship with Linda, and I cannot explain why. Her name would not appear on their roll of siblings.
Members of my family treat me like a pariah. That too, I do not understand. I have never done any of the truly hateful and hurtful things to them that they have done to me. My oldest son has not called me in years to say hello while his wife never speaks to me at all. I took this up with my therapist more than once because it hurts me deeply, but I don’t like where it always ends up. Could my sisters honestly be envious of me? My son, Tod, thought so. Tod always said that I was a tough act to follow. I accomplished much in my life and did it despite substantial childhood setbacks. I survived sexual abuse by my father, an alcoholic mother who rejected me, foster homes, and institutions. Yes, I have significant failings. I am damaged. I suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and I do not know how to build and maintain healthy relationships. My daughter-in-law calls this “just a poor excuse” for not being a better mother, but her opinions about my mothering skills came from my son, Michael. He envied and resented his younger brother and called him my “golden boy.”
Without the love and support of my family, I seek validation of my worth as a human being in the things that I accomplish. I earned a Master in Social Work when none of Sofie’s other daughters graduated high school. My sisters resented me for that. For decades, I had to listen to the incessant refrain that I think that I am better than them, and now, I am called one of the “educated elitists.” Sigh!
Thanks to my education, I held better-paying jobs and lived in better neighborhoods. My worst nightmare was that my sons would end up living the life of poverty that I worked so hard to escape. Those fears were unfounded as both of my sons did well. I own two houses, or should I say, I carry mortgages on two! I am in debt, but I have savings as well. Having more money would be a nice thing but my income exceeds my expenses, and I live comfortably. I mention my finances first because this society measures success by our means.
My art has brought me other measures of success. While I am self-taught and most of my work is mediocre at best, I have managed to get a few paintings accepted into museum collections and earned several national public service awards. As a member of a national military affiliated volunteer organization, I received numerous honors as editor and graphic design artist. I need this validation. You see, without the love and support of family, I constantly doubt my worth. I would gladly exchange all of my awards for a family that loves and cherishes me.
My son, Tod loved me dearly, but he is no longer living. I am grateful beyond words to my sister, Linda and her family because they do love and appreciate me. I love them dearly too. For obvious reasons, I am closer to Linda’s daughters than I am to my grandsons. I wish that were not true, but it is. I take comfort in knowing that no matter how estranged Michael is from me, he is a great father to his sons. I wish that I did not feel so alone and isolated, but life goes on. Ω
A Poem I wrote over a decade ago for my son, Michael:
The wide-eyed grin of my baby boy
Smiles back at me from pages worn.
A little boy with ball and mitt,
Next older, opening Christmas gifts.
The troubled adolescent frowns,
But other images I own…
A boy building sand castles upon the shore,
Riding bikes, and there are more….
A boy who chased through trees and moors,
A young man who a uniform wore.
Photographs of past loves and loss,
Beside his bride, content and grown.
Now separated by time and space,
Now thrust apart by memories torn,
I miss my son, flesh of my flesh,
I miss his smile and his embrace.
Still, in these pages that I turn
There yet remains the younger boy,
Who can recall the moments when,
He knew that he too loved me then.
One written for my son, Tod:
Phone Calls From Heaven
I’m lonelier now that my son has moved to heaven.
He doesn’t write or send postcards from there.
I hear it is a lovely place, this heaven,
So say the folks who’ve never once been there.
They say it is a kinder, gentler place, this heaven.
They say there is no sorrow or travails,
They say when in my dreams I see him,
It is he calling me from there.
dottieriley 