family – Notes from an Invisible Woman

Respite Care

I’m revisiting significant memories from my past. My therapist wants me to think about the messages I’ve been subconsciously given about myself through the things I’ve experienced. I’m hoping to gain some understanding of how I ever reached the point where I became invisible. This is part of my backstory.

I lived with my maternal grandmother while I completed my Year 12 Trial HSC and HSC exams.

My mother organised with my grandmother for me to stay with her for the week prior to each exam period and the 2 – 3 weeks of the exams.

My grandmother set up a desk for me in the middle of her sewing room. I remember the bright light and the view of the backyard. I remember the reassuring calmness.

I remember mealtimes and snacks. My grandmother baked for me – rock cakes and biscuits and cakes and random treats. She made me corn relish dip which I ate with Jatz crackers while I studied. The creamy tangy taste of corn relish dip triggers memories of that study room even now, thirty years later. I remember dinner with my grandmother sitting at her kitchen bench. I remember her preparing the table for breakfast each night before she went to bed, placing a cloth over the plates and cutlery so that all we had to do the next morning was remove the cloth and prepare the food.

I remember the mantle clock that sat on the end of the bench against the wall, with its dark wood and fake marble columns (two on one side, one on the other, with the key to wind the clock sitting in the empty space left by the missing column). The clock had been an engagement or wedding gift to my grandparents from my grandfather’s mother. While he was alive, my grandfather wound the clock regularly and it ran perfectly. After he died, my grandmother wound the clock and it never kept proper time. She said it was because her mother-in-law had never liked her. We eventually found out it was because the clock had always been close to the stove top and a layer of grease and grit had built up inside that affected the mechanism, but the vengeful mother-in-law creating havoc from beyond the grave was always my favourite explanation.

I took breaks from my study each day. I spent time chatting with my grandmother over cups of tea. I went grocery shopping with her and sat with her watching TV. I helped her wash up and helped her bake.

I played my grandmother’s piano, the one she’d had since she was a young girl that her arthritic hands didn’t allow her to play any more. I played some of my own music and a selection of my grandmother’s music; a mix of classical pieces, show tunes, and family favourites from the 50s and 60s.

I wandered to the other end of the block where a boy from my grade lived and we’d watch a movie or chat for a while until it was time for me to wander back home for dinner. I remember him ringing me the day before our English HSC to ask if I had copies of the poems we were meant to be studying because he couldn’t find his and figured he probably should read them at least once before the test. I remember us quizzing each other on chemical reactions and mathematical formulae on the bus on the way to school for exams.

Those weeks with my grandmother remain strong in my memory – the chiming of the grandfather clock in the hallway, the bright light, the smell of freshly baked treats and the sunlight soap my grandmother used when she washed up. Conversations. The yellowed piano keys under my fingers and the rattle of the various ornaments on top of the piano when I played too enthusiastically. A sense of peace and belonging.

And here are the things I didn’t say…

My mother organised for me to stay with my grandmother because the school had flagged me as a student requiring support. I was a high achiever whose marks were in dropping and my maths teacher informed the school when she noticed I was struggling during my mid-year exam. The school counsellor talked with me about my studies and my home life, and made arrangements for me to have a placement with a family so I could focus on my studies without the emotional distractions present at home. I’m not sure what conversations the school had with my mother, but the ones I had with her about it were not pleasant. I was informed that the arrangements was unnecessary and would not be pursued or discussed. I was distraught. Arrangements were made for me to stay with my grandmother as a compromise. I can’t remember what role my father played in any of this. Our relationship was barely functional at that point. I wonder how much my mother shared with him about what the school told her.

I remember a conversation with the boy down the street one afternoon as I was getting organised to go back to my grandmother’s house. I don’t remember what comment he made, but I remember crying and lashing out to tell him how thoughtless he was. It was something about me going home to my parents and the thought made me panic. I’m not sure if I ever apologised. I hope I did. I enjoyed our conversations and he was part of the overall feeling of being in a safe space that I experienced during those weeks, although that was possibly just a reflection of how my grandmother made me feel, or perhaps that the feeling of safety she gave me made it possible for me to feel more relaxed with others too.

I don’t think I ever thanked the teacher who flagged me as needing support either. She was one of my favourite teachers and I loved being part of her class. I wish I’d been able to admit to her at the time how much her help meant to me, although a combination of teenage self-self-absorption and the chaos at home meant I wasn’t really thinking clearly enough to show gratitude. I do wish someone had pointed out to me that I turned 18 during my Trial HSC. I assume I could have made decisions about my care independent of my mother’s choices so that the teacher’s intervention could have been more meaningful. Sadly that didn’t happen.

I have my grandmother’s piano and her sheet music. They are triggers for wonderful memories of shared conversations and musical connections. They are possessions I treasure and when I play, I feel a sense of connection with her and all she meant to me.

I’ve realised recently that I’ve never really had a safe space. I have safe people. For the longest time, my grandmother was my only safe person. She was the bedrock of my life. Being near her made me feel connected and cared for. She treated me like I mattered, made me feel welcome and loved, and was a steady, calming presence. She’s been gone for 17 years and I still feel a dull ache of grief at times when I realise she isn’t there to talk to. I’ve missed her practical, calming presence acutely during the trauma of the past few years.

I don’t think I ever thanked my grandmother for what she gave me during those weeks, and throughout my life in general. I wish I could tell her now how much I love her and how my memories of her are amongst the best I have. Memories of moments shared with my grandmother throughout my childhood are warm, happy thoughts, and those weeks in particular remain a strong memory of love and connection and calm. Staying with my grandmother during those exams was like a respite from my life.

A Married Single Parent

I haven’t spent many nights away from my children (although they’ve had plenty of nights away from me at sleepovers, school camps, etc). Excluding a few days in hospital after the birth of each child and a few small overnight trips with only one, I’ve pretty much always been at home for them.

The reality is that managing the logistics for being away from them was always so draining it was less exhausting to stay home. It wasn’t about separation anxiety (mine or theirs). It was because unable to rely on their father noticing or responding to any needs that didn’t coincide with his own. A case in point:

When my children were 7, 10 and 12, I organised a night away for myself. I travelled a few hours from home with two friends to get our old lady groove on at a Hall & Oates concert. I checked with my then husband (The Ex) before buying tickets (months in advance) and he said it would be fine.

As the date grew closer, I reminded The Ex that I’d be away overnight. He hadn’t made note of the date and seemed surprised. He quietly made it clear that it would be inconvenient but he’d be willing to help, provided I had everything organised in advance before I left. He’d have to care for the children and supervise care of our pet guinea pigs for just over 24 hours – I’d take the kids to school and then get home in time to collect them the following afternoon.

In the final week before the concert, The Ex informed me that he hadn’t realised it was this week and his work commitments would make it too hard for him to manage things with the children. He couldn’t finish work early to collect them from school. I organised for my mother to pick up the children, spend the afternoon with them and prepare dinner. The Ex was in charge of bedtime and getting the kids to school the following morning. I’d left lists on the fridge regarding pet care, school morning prep, and various other significant details like bedtimes, school hours, GP phone number, etc. The kids were also assigned responsibilities.

I left home enthusiastic about 36 hours where I was responsible for no-one but myself. In theory.

The trip was great – a French film, dinner in Chinatown, a great concert and interesting conversation. And then…

As I woke the following morning I received two text messages almost simultaneously. One from my older son letting me know that my younger son’s favourite guinea pig (Mojo) had died during the night, then one from The Ex stating ‘It appears we’ve had a death in the family’ before following up with a brief explanation. I rang the house. My older son answered.

He explained that Mojo had been found dead in the guinea pig cage that morning with the other guinea pig quite distressed, attempting to feed her lettuce to revive her. I asked if his younger brother, our ‘Guinea Pig Whisperer’, knew yet. He said no, he was still eating breakfast but was talking about how he would feed the guinea pigs before he finished getting ready for school. I asked to speak with The Ex.

I asked how he planned to deal with the situation. He explained he was busy making lunches and couldn’t do anything about it straight away. I said that it was important that our son be told before he discovered the body for himself. The Ex said he’d get to it, but he really needed to concentrate on getting the lunches made and other things organised for school and work. I asked for the phone to be given back to the 12yo.

Following my instructions, my son sat on the lounge holding his younger brother while over the phone, hours away from being able to hold him myself, I explained that his beloved Mojo had died. With his older brother’s arms around him and my voice in his ear, he cried. My heart broke.

I comforted him as best I could, and then spoke with my older son again and with my daughter. I guess I spoke with The Ex again. Or maybe not. I hung up and felt the full impact of knowing my children were dealing with one of the significant emotional milestones of childhood on their own.

On the bus on the way to school a little while later, my older son called me with an update and to ask for the phone number for his younger siblings’ school. He took the initiative of calling the office and asking for their classroom teachers to be told they’d had an upsetting morning and might need some extra care during the day. I was so proud of his thoughtfulness and maturity.

At school pick up that afternoon, the younger children started crying as they climbed into the car. I leaned across to hug my daughter, who said it was the first comfort she’d received; that she’d had no hug or sympathy for her grief at home. I’d been so focused on encouraging my older son to comfort his younger brother that I’d forgotten to suggest he hug his sister as well. I felt awful, compounding the guilt caused by my absence at such an upsetting moment for them.

This is not an isolated example. This is how I lived my life – as a married single parent, responsible for everything and everyone, always. I had full responsibility for the emotional wellbeing of three children and almost 100% of the physical, logistical and decision-making responsibilities as well. The only aspects of the children’s lives that The Ex noticed were the ones that coincided with his own needs. I created the image of the family he wanted others to believe we had. He believed it was real. I did such a good job that even I believed it for the longest time, until I was so damn tired I couldn’t do it any more.

My 7yo son lost his beloved pet.

My 10yo daughter was upset and unnoticed.

My 12yo son was sad, but held his brother while he heard the news and did what he could to care for his siblings.

I broke my son’s heart by telling him his pet had died, offered words of comfort to the children, and organised the preliminary logistics of dealing with the death of a pet while 180km away. I felt guilty and worried and heartbroken for my children and their loss.

Their father made their lunches.

A Tale of Two Grandmothers

When I was young (I’m not sure how young, pre-school aged, I guess), I was apparently in a bakery with my mother. The bakery was on the main road in the suburb where my paternal grandmother lived.

According to my mother, she and I were standing in line to be served at the bakery when my grandmother walked in, pushed in front of us so she would be served ahead of us, then left without acknowledging my mother or me. She apparently saw us as she was driving past with her partner, made him stop the car, and deliberately came into the shop to ignore and inconvenience her daughter-in-law before leaving without a word.

I can picture the bakery – where it was positioned on the street and the long glass display counter filled with all the traditional 70s bakery treats. I have a hazy sense of random people and a wire display rack with loaves of bread within the store filling the space and providing a backdrop for our little family drama.

My memories of the store are an amalgam of multiple visits and probably multiple similar stores, not an accurate backdrop for that specific memory. To be honest, I have absolutely no memory of that event at all. I know that my ‘recollection’ is based entirely on my mother sharing the story multiple times over years. There has never been a spark of personal recognition when she’s told it to me, other than the familiarity of hearing her voice shape the words.

The story always ended with my mother reminding me that my grandmother’s behaviour was unnecessarily cruel and selfish. My grandmother and parents were apparently at odds about some issue at the time, but to ignore your own grandchild because you are unhappy with their parents was, in my mother’s view, unforgivable.

In the past when I’ve randomly thought about this anecdote, the mental and emotional pathways have been reasonably linear. It’s a memory from my childhood where my grandmother was mean to my mother in my presence. There are no associated emotions. It’s consistent with what I know about my grandmother, but I don’t remember feeling hurt or rejected at the time (because I don’t remember it at all), so it’s not really a factor in how I feel about my grandmother except in a purely academic sense of being another (small) facet of the picture of her that I have in my mind.

The reality is that this story isn’t really about my grandmother, it’s about my mother. I have no memory of this event, but I have strong memories of my mother sharing it with me – repeating it to me over and over. I have clear memories of my mother using this story as an example of how difficult my grandmother was and how inappropriately conditional her love was, that she reserved her affection for those who made choices she approved of and that she was superficial and inconsistent in the way she demonstrated her love.

And that fact – that this memory says more about my connection with my mother than with my grandmother – means that this is no longer a linear family anecdote, mentally or emotionally.

I’ve wondered at times about the details of this particular story, although when it comes down to it the details don’t really matter. It doesn’t even matter if it actually happened because I don’t remember it and so nothing I’ve ever heard about it has been about explaining my perception of things. It’s always been about creating a memory, not explaining it or providing reassurance. (ETA: extended family has confirmed that it did happen and it was something my grandmother bragged about doing after the event.)

Taking that into account, why would my mother share this story with me so frequently that it’s become a pseudo-memory that feels like it belongs to me when it really belongs to her? What was there for her to gain in demonstrating to me that my grandmother didn’t care about my feelings? Why would she choose to remind me that I’d been rejected by someone I should have been able to trust unconditionally? If my grandmother’s behaviour was so hurtful and inappropriate, why did my mother put so much effort into making me relive a hurtful moment?

Perhaps she felt she was helping to protect me from my grandmother’s inconsistency – forewarned is forearmed, so the saying goes, and what better warning than a real-life example of her selfishness? That doesn’t explain why she continued to share the story with me into my adulthood, however, and well beyond my grandmother’s death. What protection would I need from her at that point? And I was always encouraged to spend time with my grandmother and to show affection towards her. I was encouraged to stay with her in school holidays and visit her regularly on my own as I grew older, so why encourage me to do that while giving me reasons to keep my distance?

I have several pseudo-memories like this one and as far as I’m aware, my mother hasn’t bombarded either of my sisters with hurtful memories from her life or their childhood. Why was I the one selected to hear my mother’s memories of hurts inflicted by others and reminders of how many times I’ve personally hurt and disappointed her?

And more relevant to my life now, why did my mother put so much effort into passing judgement on my grandmother’s lack of love and concern for her grandchild when she’s distanced herself from my children because she’s so disappointed in the way I managed my separation and divorce? Barely any contact with the children for the first 18 months of the separation and nothing for the past 12 months – no cards or texts for Christmas or their birthdays. She’s even moved to a different town without letting them know or making any effort to contact them, even though they’re all in their teens and she has their phone numbers. By her own standards, her rejection has been heartless and inexcusable and my children will remember not because I embed a pseudo-memory for them, but because they are all old enough to understand that their grandmother rejected them for no reason at a time when they most needed her support and unconditional love.

In many ways it’s an innocuous anecdote and as memories from my childhood go, this one is far less traumatic than many others. For me, the significance is how it contributes to my growing awareness that my mother’s baseline for choosing right and wrong behaviour is how it makes her feel. It’s a skewed way of looking at the world and it’s given me a lot to think about as I look back over my relationship with her.

Unravelling

Once, when I was very young, my grandmother removed a splinter from my finger with a sewing needle threaded with a strand of cotton. I asked why she needed to thread the needle and she replied that she would use the thread to pull the needle out if she lost it in my finger. It didn’t occur to me that she might be joking. I was in my teens before I reviewed this memory and had a WTF moment as I realised the absurdity of what she had said.

As children we absorb the words of those we trust unprocessed and unchallenged, and as adults we often don’t unpack those memories to evaluate the validity of what we have accepted as truth. With some memories, such as this one, it’s not a particular issue one way or another. It’s a nice memory of my grandmother and serves as an amusing anecdote but not much more. Other memories are not quite so easy to process.

A significant component of my C-PTSD (Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) therapy has involved working through old memories, reviewing the messages I’ve taken away from those moments, and evaluating the validity of those messages.

Reliving memories from my marriage and the first 18 months after I left it has been awful, triggering guilt, self-doubt, anger and panic. It’s been confronting and has left me feeling bruised and exhausted.

Dealing with memories of my childhood has been far, far worse. I feel like I’m unravelling.

As with the splinter anecdote, reviewing memories connected with my parents has involved rethinking the ‘reality’ those memories imprinted in my mind and it’s not as straightforward as simply realising I misunderstood the first time around.

As an example, when I was about seven (or probably a little younger) my mother asked me to choose between her and my father in a very tense situation. I chose because I was asked to. My mother has reminded me of that moment, and that choice, repeatedly throughout my life, always emphasising how hurtful my choice was. Those reminders reinforced the message that I am, and always have been, selfish and thoughtless.

I’ve never had a rose-coloured glasses view of my childhood but there were plenty of happy moments amidst the conflict and challenges. Creating a timeline of memories with my trauma therapist has revealed a pattern of judgement from my parents that has caught me by surprise and accepting the dysfunction of my relationship with my parents on several levels has been disorienting and upsetting.

I want to rail against my parents for the unfairness of the way they raised me – that I was expected to be perfect and judged for falling short of that goal, made responsible for things that were clearly beyond my control (including the behaviour of others) and reminded often that my choices were disappointing and my attitude selfish. While other family members caused drama and difficulties at every turn and were forgiven, it was made very clear to me that my failures were unacceptable and disconnection as punishment was far more frequent than I realised until I began to create the timeline. It’s been confronting, but it’s also helped me understand why my response to others choosing to disconnect is so strong and so painful (and why I always expect people to walk away).

With the help of my therapist, I am slowly allowing myself to process the events of my past in ways that don’t simply reinforce that I’m always to blame, always inadequate, always a disappointment. Seven-year-old me responding to a request to choose between my parents isn’t proof that I am thoughtless, insensitive and selfish. It’s an impossible situation for a child to navigate, and blaming me for my response and spending the rest of my life reminding me how hurtful that response was says more about my parents than it does about me.

I want to be angry. I want my parents to take responsibility for all the hurtful, diminishing, undermining, self-esteem destroying things they have done and said. I want them to understand that I tried my best, and beyond my best, to be what they expected me to be, even though it was never enough. I want to respond to accusations by both of my parents in recent years that I am selfish and think of no-one but myself with a list of all the ways that I am damaged and incapable of prioritising myself because they taught me, explicitly and implicitly, that my thoughts, feelings and opinions are insignificant. When asked to make a choice, even a simple one like what movie to watch or what takeaway to buy, I instinctively choose what I think will work best for others. Prioritising myself takes effort on my best days and is impossible and distressing in my lowest moments. I have my selfish, self-absorbed moments, of course, but to accuse me of caring only about myself is particularly hurtful coming from the people who taught me that my needs don’t matter at all.

I’m gradually realising that processing these memories isn’t breaking me, it’s helping me to discard thoughts and beliefs about myself that I should never have taken hold of in the first place. It’s unravelling the network of lies and unrealistic expectations that have kept the real me restrained and silenced, and stopped me believing in myself and *being* myself. It’s about removing the tangle of distorted perceptions and expectations imposed by others so that I can be myself, not the person they’ve told me I am.

It’s scary to do that. The dysfunction is familiar and my overwhelming self-doubt is safe in it’s own way. There is a weird sort of comfort in assuming that I’m always to blame, always wrong, always inadequate, always responsible but never good enough. Being myself is scary and overwhelming. It’s like I’m having to relearn how to think and feel and function, yet life goes on at the same pace and there is very little time available to adjust and recalibrate. As a result, I’m making lots of mistakes, frequently triggering the well established pathways in my brain that tell me I’m inadequate. It’s a constant battle to reject the influence and control of people who never liked who I really am (a thought expressed by both my mother and ex-husband)

Taking a step back and realising that I’d blindly accepted my grandmother had a Plan B if she lost her needle in my finger was amusing. Taking a step back and realising I’ve blindly allowed my parents and my ex-husband to define how I see myself – that I’ve accepted their disappointment as valid and reasonable – has left me feeling vulnerable and disoriented. It seems stupid to say that at 47 I’m having to relearn not just who I am but how to be that person when I interact with others, but that is where I’m at. It’s so hard to resist the behaviour patterns of a lifetime. The task of working out who I am and what I want seems impossibly huge, especially when I’m trying to integrate that with my existing relationships and responsibilities.

As always, I feel completely inadequate for the task ahead, but I’m holding on to the hope that there are better days ahead. Unravelling is just another necessary step in this journey.

Accepting that I am Broken

Several events recently have forced me to accept that after decades of fighting to be strong and confident in a relationship that constantly made me feel insignificant and invisible, and another 15 months of an emotionally manipulative separation, I’m not simply emotionally battered and bruised, I’m broken.

I want to write about it – about what it feels like to not be able to trust yourself, to be vulnerable to so many emotional triggers, to be constantly debating with yourself and analysing your thoughts and emotions in an attempt to discern the reasonable from the irrational.

I want to describe what it’s like to accept that you’ve been a victim of abuse and all that means – the sense of weakness and failure and frustration and guilt. I want to share how it feels to realise that the only counselling that provides meaningful support and comfort comes from domestic violence and trauma specialists.

I want to describe what it feels like to stand on the sidelines of public debate about how evangelical churches handle abusive relationships, reading comments by those who are criticising the presentation of research, deflecting attention away from the main issue and feeling offended by the suggestion that Christian communities would condone any kind of domestic abuse. I want to share what it is like to listen to these discussions while feeling overwhelmed by the memories of my own failed attempts to seek help from leaders of the four different churches I attended during my marriage.

I want to describe what it feels like to have some of the most significant people in my life look at me in my most vulnerable moments and tell me that they think I’m self-absorbed, selfish, lacking in faith, unnecessarily emotional and inappropriately focused on my own happiness. To have my father tell me I only think of myself and my mother say that she can’t bear to be in the same room as me, while they mention that they are willing to invite my abusive ex-husband over to their home for dinner. To have Christian friends pass judgement because I’m not valuing the preservation of my marriage ahead of my own emotional wellbeing. To face a wall of silence from people I assumed would be the foundation of the network of support for myself and my children.

I want to share how terrifying it is to encounter an unexpected emotional trigger that leaves me shaking and in tears and feeling so incredibly isolated. What it feels like to be curled up on the floor having a panic attack feeling weak and fragile and hating myself for not being able to control the flood of anxiety that makes it so hard to think clearly.

I want to write about how much I hate that my brokenness impacts on those I love.

I want to talk about all of these things and more. The thoughts swirl in my mind and I want to share them, but when I sit at a keyboard suddenly the words are flat and meaningless and convey none of the intensity of what I’m feeling. It’s just another part of me that is broken.

I’m hoping that accepting that I’m broken and making the effort to get the words out more regularly – dull and lifeless as they are – will help me to reach a place where I feel less shattered and better able to pull the pieces together to redefine myself and my life.

Today I am broken, but hopefully accepting that brings me one step closer to feeling restored.