Hippo Birdie Two Ewes

I may have a little debate with myself, tonight, about whether to write to my sister or not. In casual fashion, I “disowned” my surviving family some years ago. That is, I performed the ceremony in my head, with the exception that my sister knows I feel rejecting.

My reasons for being so cold are two: an immature and a mature one. The first is that I remain to this day the hurt, abandoned child who has always been unseen by all of them, and if they will not open their eyes now, screw them. My sister (nearing 71, I believe) and I have written deep-think earnest letters sparsely over the years, but I still judge that she knows nothing of empathy, cannot get, or see, outside of her polished armor over childhood injuries. The mature reason is that I have never – owing to birth trauma, early anxiety, and the neuroses of my parents – experienced the slightest atom of affection or emotional neediness for any family. Psychic neediness, yes: In fact, I will never grow beyond the loss of bond with my mother. That I feel nothing is, I believe, an honest and even high-integrity reason not to pretend, or make, a connection, even as we travel our final decades or years.

For a long time I let myself conflate need with affection. I’d write, have an ephemeral burst of faux-bright feeling, assume “the clan.” The others were more honest: They didn’t need it, couldn’t fake it, and even in high-opportunity moments remained cordial, distant, non-giving. There are two reasons for that: They were not reaching-out types; and for most of my life I was invisible, lost, unreachable. Only now, with a couple decades of self-birth and growth under my belt, would communion be possible.

But it won’t be.

Barbara –

Happy very serious birthday.

Do you remember the dogs we had when we were kids – Lady and Waggles? Do you remember anything about them? I only have the sadness of repressing my memory and feeling about them, because I repressed my life as it was happening. Did our parents get rid of Lady because a neighbor complained of her barking? Really? Did they keep our fox terrier outside? I remember nothing. What was she like? How long did we have her? I remember that I never grieved. I never knew what happened to her when and after it happened. How could I have been so meaningless in the family? I think I loved my dog, though I doubt she was mine. Mother’s? And Waggles. I don’t remember ever playing with her, but I can almost feel a happy stirring. Was I actually too shut down to get close to my own dog? I remember one night, sitting on the living room floor and seeing mom and dad carrying him (her? I don’t remember what sex Waggles was) out the door in a big cardboard box. She looked awful. All I remember or believe I heard, later, is that she had swallowed a chicken bone and was bleeding internally. I was never told things sitting down, to my face, with any attention to my response, my feeling, but only offhandedly as a perfunctory act, an aside. She never came home again. There was never a word spoken about her. I don’t know if I grieved. I remember nothing. Were you there? Did you notice we had dogs? Did you ever play with them, or hold any of the cats, or was your life too elevated on a different, superior plane for that?

– F.

I don’t know how many of my clients had lives so detached from themselves and parents and family. I don’t think I’ve heard, in twenty years, any of them describe an alienation this drastic: It’s always family problems, distance, pain, need, enmeshment; abuse in childhood and sick bonds into adulthood. But I can’t be so unique. Maybe even depth therapy clients don’t want to look in utterly cold places. One thing, though: I believe it’s made me a better therapist: understanding a bit more of human potential.