Perspective #5

To the child whose parents are fighting, I hope these words help you.

You are not alone

I know it may not feel like anyone can understand the burning feeling in your heart right now; that no one has had to live through the same pain, sadness, anger and frustration that you are going through. And that may be true. Everyone’s family situation is different and even if you have siblings, your experiences of the same trauma may not be the same.

But what many of us have been through is the fallout- the disillusionment and disappointment that come with realising that our parents are not infallible. We have looked up to them as idols and they have proven themselves deeply flawed humans, just like the rest of us.

We lose hope and look at our friends’ families, who seem to always have it together, to always be happy. It is our shameful little secret and we can’t talk about it- we have to protect our parents. Besides, the world wouldn’t understand anyway.

What I would like you to know is that all of us put up a front. We hide our deepest secrets and pain from the world. You would be surprised at how many of your friends and random strangers on the street have felt as you feel today. Some, like you, have recently had their world crash down. Others have been living with this reality since they can remember. And all offer camaraderie.

Talk to them. Your friends, siblings- anyone that you have wanted to confide in but have felt that you could not. There is no shame in admitting your worries. You are brave to be seeking help. They may not be able to offer all solutions and you don’t need to feel obliged to act on any of their well-meaning advice. Simply wash in their concern and understanding of your dilemma. Take comfort in their stories of shared distress.

You have been hurt by the people you love the most but that hurt is not a cross you alone must bear. Share your vulnerabilities and you will feel stronger for it.

It isn’t your fault

Many times, we take the blame on ourselves. It must have been the added stress of children that made them fall apart. If you know of something that you are doing that is contributing to their conflict, then, by all means, stop it. But most of the time, their quarrels have absolutely nothing to do with us. If you look at the crux of the fights, their unhappiness usually stems back to an age-old contention, something that they have not been able to reconcile from the start. It could be incompatible principles, upbringings or world views, but whatever it is, it has been brewing since the ‘I do’. Nothing you have done or could have done would have brought these 2 people down a different path than they find themselves on today. They have advanced each step through the choices they both have made and you cannot give yourself the credit of having made those decisions for them. Free yourself from the undeserved guilt.

Their happiness is not your responsibility

The urge is there, to fix it, to make everything better again. The duty is strong too- I am their child, I should help. These are all valid emotions. Naturally, we hate to see people we love at odds. Naturally, we want to pull out the thorn that is causing our own distress. But the situation is often much more complicated than that. At times, there seems to be no amount of mediating, paraphrasing, affirming and setting straight that can save this drowning ship. Just when you think the storm has settled down for a while, another wave crashes in and topples the whole boat. It is maddening. It is disheartening. All these failed missions eventually begin to affect your mood. You can’t concentrate in school/ at work, every happy moment seems to be tinged with sadness and there is just an overwhelming feeling of helplessness and despair.

You dream of packing your parents off to a marriage counsellor, of pulling a ‘Parent-Trap’ on them and making them see that they do still love each other. Of doing one last, final, desperate act- something, anything- to wake them up from this nightmare, to have them hug and laugh and admit they were foolish, that it was all a mistake.

But it never happens. And slowly, you begin to lose hope that it ever will. This stalemate has become your new reality and there is a dead feeling of resignation where there used to be hope. You have failed in your mission. You don’t even try anymore. Your tired, glazed eyes take in scene after scene of dissatisfaction and something begins to glow from the embers in your chest. It is quiet at first but will soon grow into a raging furnace. It is resentment. At the two people you love the most, whom you gave your hopes to for protection and who have thoughtlessly ripped them apart. Why can’t they just grow up? Stop being so selfish. Can’t they see what this is doing to the rest of us? If they are so unhappy maybe they should just- just… why should I have to deal with any of this? It isn’t fair. You come to the conclusion that your parents are utterly irresponsible and that you must be the martyr that will spend the rest of his/her life trying to salvage them.

But this doesn’t have to be the case. You don’t have to go through this torture of bubbling hope, herculean strain, crushing disappointment and weary resentment. It is a toxic cycle bound to repeat itself into oblivion. Instead, admit from the start that there is nothing you can do. This is difficult, because it means also admitting that you have no control over what is happening. But that is the truth of the matter. You have no control over your parent’s actions and decisions. They are two fully autonomous adults- when they choose to wound one another in harsh words and thoughtless actions, they do this in full awareness of the consequences. Sometimes, we must accept that other people’s battles are their own to fight, no matter how painful it is to watch from the side lines.  As our parents did for us, we must trust in the necessity of letting them learn from their own mistakes. Their struggle is their own and it is unrealistic to think otherwise.

As in all things, we only have control over one person- ourselves. We may not be able to choose our circumstances but we can choose our response. We can decide that no matter how bad the chaos gets around us, we will strive to remain calm. We can set boundaries as to how much we are willing to get involved. This is not selfishness. Give counsel when it is sought, gently steer them when the opportunity arises, but do not expect to be able to rescue them from capsize; do not be affronted if your advice gets lost in their old ways.

This distinction between their responsibility to their marriage as a couple and your responsibilities to them as their child will save you a lot of heartache and headache. There will still be times of emotional fluctuation when they hit a rough spot, but you will no longer feel as though you too are at risk of drowning every single time. 

They don’t love you any less

This is a question that floats in our subconscious, afraid to breach the surface. Most times, we may not even be aware that we have this fear. If they are so unhappy, do they regret getting married? Perhaps they regret having us as well. Are we stopping them from pursuing their own happiness? These are the worries that pile up in our mind long before the D word is ever mentioned. It makes us hold back when speaking to our parents, hesitant to look them in the eye, afraid to know the answer. In everyone’s flurry to reconcile the two warring parties, the third internal battle often goes unnoticed.

We build our identities on ‘stable’ structures- our family, friends, religion, work etc. When any of these begins to crumble, so too does our sense of self and self-worth. We need assurance from our parents that though the bond between them is changing, their love for us as their child has not. It is something most parents would rush to assure once asked, but may neglect to emphasise otherwise.

So if you are in doubt, just ask. It is better than the uncertainty of not knowing. But chances are you are worried over nothing. 

They may or may not still love each other

This is a something we may blurt out to one party or the other in the lull of a silence. Do you still love Mum/Dad? It seems vital that we must know because if the answer is yes, there is still hope. If the answer is no, then all is lost. But the reality is far from that simple. They may still love each other and choose to separate, or they may no longer feel any love, yet stay in the marriage.  Emotions are so convoluted that they may not know at all. Or perhaps they have been avoiding this issue and your question has forced them to re-evaluate their relationship. When we as children ask this question, we must understand its limitations and be prepared for the consequences.

It’s okay to talk about divorce

The D word is scary. When thrown out in a fit of passion, it is meant to wound- and it does. But more terrifying still is when it is spoken in seriousness. It means a whole other world that is mutually exclusive to the one you now reside in. It is final. When Divorce happens, your current reality ceases to exist.

Except that that is not entirely true. Divorce does not have to be a mythical horror, spoken about only in shadows. If we do that, we accord it more power than it should have. It is a big decision, to be sure, and one that should not be approached lightly. But precisely because it is such a big decision, we should discuss it properly with all parties involved. And that includes us, the children.

Often times, parents are afraid to broach the topic because they do not want to make us worry. But we can see exactly what has been going on for months or years and the toll that it has taken on all parties - we are not blind.

We love our parents, we don’t want them to be miserable- we want them to be happy. And if this means discussing ALL the options that are on the table, then so be it. Just because divorce is discussed does not mean it will be taken. And just because we are open to talking about it does not mean that we have given up hope on their marriage or on them.

Sometimes, all people need is the knowledge that they have the freedom to choose if they so wish. Or perhaps the offered reality of an alternative they have long viewed as their ‘escape’ will not appeal as much as they first thought. Whatever the family decides, it should be done as a whole, with everyone upfront about discussing all options, including divorce.

You are not doomed to repeat their mistakes

It’s not true. Not all marriage has to be like this. Just because your parents have lost the thread at the moment does not mean they were never happy together, that they will never be happy again. Marriage has hope- Love has hope.

It is easy to be demoralised about your own potential, to watch the power couple that has always held centre stage tear each other up and think- what’s the point? If we all end up like this, then what the hell is the point.

Do not allow yourself to fall down this pessimistic, fatalistic well. You are not your parents. You are a different person entirely and you will choose how you behave in the future.

And despite how fruitless it all seems right now, there is a point in all this suffering. You have just had an excellent case study in what not to do. Every little thing that you wish you could make your parents see- store that up in your mental inventory. It is a promise to yourself and to your future partner that you will never repeat these sins against each other. Look into your own heart at the sorrow that is there and swear to your future children that you will never put them through this pain. Mister Auguste Rodin was correct when he said ‘Nothing is a waste of time if you use the experience wisely’.

It will pass

I know some days it seems like it will never, ever, end. Either make-up right now or get a divorce already- don’t go putting us through this crap any longer. That is the worse part- the uncertainty, the dread that it might go on forever. But I am here to tell you that nothing remains unchanged. For better or for worse, your family will move forward from its current situation. Whether it is because time has grown over old wounds, age has mellowed them, other priorities have stepped in, they have finally learnt to communicate better or have called it quits, there will be an end to it. Change is inevitable but we are human- we will adapt. 

When the ashes have settled and the smoke has cleared, look out- we will build our worlds again, together.

Perspective #4

Mirrors

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My sister has an interesting concept about mirrors. She believes that everyone in our lives has the capacity to be one and that it is up to us to choose who to look in to.

Some mirrors are harsh and distorting. Like the fun house madness, you can hardly tell if the ‘monster’ you are gazing at is you at all. If you can see the trick and you know to take it lightly, then it can be a laugh. But if you sincerely believe that these reflections are accurate, then you can start to get a distorted image of yourself. You may begin to believe that yes, you really are quite stupid, or no, of course you can’t accomplish that. It starts to bring you down, and before you even realise it, their words are your world.

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Other looking glasses are too lenient. I’m talking about those in dressing rooms that nip and tuck all your ‘flaws’. These proverbial Photoshops of the reflection world are only too happy to sing your praises and to forgive you for all your sins. Soothing to look at, they can lull you into a false sense of security that you really are, always right. And if you are already perfect, then there is nothing to improve upon.

There is nothing fatal about these two alternatives. You will not die nourishing your soul on either. But you might begin to develop a skewed view of yourself, which is in itself, disabling. We are all autonomous beings. Eventually, we are going to have to make our own decisions and life choices. And if we cannot trust the feedback that is given to us by our closest advisors, then how are we to navigate the world? At best, you are blind. At worst, you are headed in the absolutely wrong direction.

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The ‘solution’ to these false mirrors is the true looking glass. It neither embellishes nor whittles down. Instead, it tells it like it is- which is what you need in a difficult situation. When you ask a true mirror what they think, they will tell you all the areas you have done well, but they will also point out assumptions, errors in thinking, lapses in judgement and the whole gamut of how you can improve upon the situation. They strive to be a true compass. They will tell you when you are lost and point you in the right direction, but kindly- without loss to ego or face. Importantly, they do not force. With the bearings they give you, you then make the choice of where you want to go next.

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The best part of the true mirror is that you know you can trust them. With the distorting and overly-lenient mirrors, there may come a time when there seems to be no point in sharing the deeper side of yourself with them, as you are unlikely to get a proper ‘reading’ anyway. With the true mirror, you are able to let your guard down and be vulnerable as you know they will neither trash you nor patronize you. It is a safe environment and thus conducive to growth.

So what do we do? Our loved ones come in all different shapes and sizes. Many of our parents, siblings, friends and lovers are far from true mirrors. In fact, it is hard to say if any of us can even be 100% clear.

What we can do is to take note of how we feel after speaking to the different people in our lives.  Take the time to reflect on the conversation and tune in to your emotional response. Do you feel more settled? Did their advice ring true? Or were you left feeling more disquieted and dissatisfied?

While we cannot change those around us, we can choose who we confide in. It might be worthwhile to deepen your relationship with your truest mirrors and re-examine those you have with the rest. Which is not to say don’t confide in them at all. Confiding is an act of sharing your soul and signals love, trust and acceptance. I love all the mirrors in my life and cannot imagine not sharing who I am with any of them. The important thing is to know how to reframe the input given by those who fall on the more extreme ends of the spectrum. Like the spirit level used by bricklayers, you can then make your own adjustments to ensure that the ‘truths’ you are building your self-understanding on are indeed level, and not askew.

It is a hard balance to strike, but one I feel is well-worth investing in. 

Perspective #3

Mornings.

Mornings are hard

for everyone.

It’s waking up and saying goodbye

to your bed,

your blankie,

Sponge-bobbed Patrick,

your bolster and

your dreams (yes, imaginary boyfriend, I’m talking about you).

It’s facing up to the alarm that just won’t

shut it

and

the dread of day.

Your worries pile onto your toothbrush,

angst you show in hurried strokes

1     2    1   2  1 2 121212121

ahhhhhhhPUI!

Breakfast is a lonely affair

of rummaging in the fridge for something that doesn’t repulse you

or wolfing down SOMEthing-quick!

Your feet are already out the door,

the papers unread,

you mind elsewhere.

No one turns

to watch your mother

dancing in the driveway

as you shriek off

--

Mornings don’t

have to be like this.

The early bird catches the worm?

Well, I’m determined to collect them all.

Snooze less.

Don’t undermine the decision made by

yesterday’s G.

6.30? I’m up I’m up.

Kiss goodbye to Fabio or Franco or

whatever his name was.

He wasn’t that great anyway.

And FOLD YOUR BLANKET.

Always.

Go into the toilet and greet your smiling face.

Not smiling?

Grimace then.

That’s right, reeally get into it- RAWR!!!

You are gorgeous.

Now do a little dance-

one that would make your mother proud.

Is anyone supposed to be able to see that?

That’s right- really shake your booty!

You feel lighter as you prance down the stairs;

No one can take you seriously today,

least of all yourself.

Startle everyone with pecks on the cheek-

given in jest

and merriment.

Dance out of your mother’s grasp

as she tries to tickle you

Hello.

I made my breakfast box yesterday

so that today

I eat like a King

(or Queen as the case may be)

My mother starts her day with the obituaries

and as is our ritual,

I shake my head and sigh.

We tut tut tut at the usual.

And now I am off,

not by force but by choice.

It is 5 to 7 and I am early.

I like being early.

I hum as I get into my car,

disturb my dog,

wave at my mum,

check that my sister is, indeed, in the next seat and

Turn

Ready to face the world.

For everyone out there who struggles to get out of bed in the morning, may you find your own 'happy routine' soon!

Sincerely yours,

G

Perspective #2

The Continuity of Life

Saying goodbye to yesterday

The other day, I watched as they tore down my childhood. Them- in their neon orange helmets and fluorescent yellow vests. The big dumpster truck careening over the edge of the sand pit.

We had gathered to watch the massacre. There was something almost hypnotic about the dance of the demolition head, carefully caressing monkey bar metal, the melody of the scrape of the slide. And then slowly, methodically, it began.

Years of turning the tic tac toe wheels fell in one swoop. The cheerful slide that always gave you a bum full of sand at the end, crumpled in half at the hands of the men. The monkey bars that I could never master-I would never get a chance to try again. And the platform where I went at night, to battle myself, to hide my worries from my family’s kind eyes- all gone in an instant.

It moved the ground within us. Yet, at the same time, everything was still. None of us spoke for a while, not me nor my assembled siblings. It was like we knew, even without speaking, that our childhood memories deserved a minute’s silence.

It is tough to watch them take away your childhood- to see them shred it into pieces, haul it into the truck and back slowly out of your life. After they were gone it was the strangest feeling. The memories were still there, all of them, but the physical structure that had housed them my whole life was no more.

It was a traumatizing afternoon. The rest of the day we spent, sitting at the dining table, talking over our shared past. We were glad to still have each other. And thankful for the one swing set they had left behind.

The fear of now.

The week before I turned 21, I remember being scared. It was the year of the birthdays. All my friends had been turning into adults for months and it was, at last, my turn. I had thought about this age since I was a kid. I remember being 12 and looking at my sisters in university and thinking they were the coolest people on earth. I remember trying to imagine myself their age and coming up with nothing. A big blank black hole of a person. I was me and I couldn’t imagine being any different- any more grown up. And here I was, going to become one- a grown up. But the thing was, I didn’t feel very different. In fact, I felt small, the smallest I’ve felt in my whole life. The idea of turning 21 terrified me. I didn’t have it all figured out- I didn’t know what I wanted to do in life, what was important to me, who I was-anything. That’s what I thought being an adult meant. And I wasn’t ready.

I kept this to myself and was unusually quiet the whole week leading up to my birthday. I felt like a fuse about to burst. And the worst thing was that I couldn’t stop it coming, the days ticked steadily by.

One night I decided to take a walk with my sister. I was anxious the whole time, trying to decide what to tell her. It seemed childish to have my fears. But I trusted her enough to not laugh at me. Besides, she was an adult, she would know what to do.

The truth shocked me.

My sister told me that it was a lie. That you never really ‘became an adult’. That even now at 26, she was still trying to figure life out. You never really arrived you see, you just kept trying. Turning 21 meant people would start giving you more responsibilities and expect you to handle them. But more importantly, it meant you needed to start seriously trying to be responsible for yourself. No more excuses that someone else would take care of it. No one would expect you to change overnight. Everyone would still be there to support you. But you owed it to yourself to try to begin to stand on your own two feet. Like the baby giraffe that has just been unceremoniously born. Though his knees buckle, he must push and push and try desperately to stand up. His mother nuzzles him and attempts to use her neck as a crutch. But ultimately it is the baby who must find it within himself to stand. If he can, he has so much potential ahead of him. One day, he will reach heights he cannot even dream of.

And it all begins with the first step, the first push, the first struggle. Fall, fall as many times as you need, but always get back up again.

I felt like I had been let into the secret society that night. I had a new powerful truth in my mind and it made me bold. I didn’t have to feel scared to turn 21 because nothing happened- because everything would still stay the same. Yet inside, I knew the way I saw the world had changed.

The promise of tomorrow

The day my sister told us she was pregnant was a screamer. The whole house erupted in cheers. There were weird sounds mixing in with incoherent congratulations. My aunty who was in a bathroom upstairs thought something crazy must have happened below. And she was right, because in a moment, our whole world had changed. We were welcoming a new life into our family. Prouder grandparents there couldn’t have been, and gleaming siblings beating the actual parents to taking their baby’s first ‘welcome to the world!’ video. It was really something special.

After the initial furore died down, we began- as all good would-be families do- to plan. We called the as-yet-unborn-babe ‘Sprog’. And Sprog would need everything. Enthusiastic aunties volunteered to baby-sit, uncles spoke of grand playroom lessons and the grandparents prepared to behave themselves and show a good example to the young ones. The old attic room that was my sisters would now become the playroom for all the future children, starting with hers. You couldn’t see it now, but a play mat here, a table there- we would have it ready in no time. The old board games needed to be brought down and dusted for use. The stories our parents once read to us would once again be cracked open at the spines, ready to enchant a new batch of pyjama-wearing scholars. And our toys- oh our wonderful mismatched toys!- would fall into tender grasping hands again. It was a wonderful future to behold and we set about our task with a happy purpose.

Even as I look out the window and feel a twinge that we cannot take them to the playground their parents played at, I can see the new hope just over the hill. They’ve built a new slide, monkey bars, watch tower-everything, to make up for the one they took away. It looks and smells different from the one we knew, but it has room to house the dreams of the next generation. And at the end of a long play day, when they are tired from the running, screaming and catching, we will take them to the old swing set that we all know and love. We will boost them up, draw them back and watch them swwwwwwwing as our parents did before us, squealing as they try to catch the sky.

Perspective #1

On Reading… (Genesis)

When I was a child, I didn’t like reading. I remember my siblings bribing me with stickers for finishing each new book. My sticker album was my pride and I revelled in every addition. There were shiny Digimon stickers that I didn’t particularly care for ’cept they appealed to the magpie in me, furry apple stickers that I delighted in running my fingers over and my favourite- the 101 Dalmatians. Each Dalmatian in this series was the size of a polypocket and my siblings capitalized on my awe at how big they were to further my vocabulary. Earning them felt like a true challenge, and with each paperback I blazed through, I felt more and more accomplished. The crowning jewel was the A5-sized ‘Queen’ of the Dalmatians. It was ostentatiously large (it couldn’t even fit into my sticker book), unassumingly under-embellished (the dog in question didn’t deign to decorate itself with any colourful outfit to set itself apart from the other 100), and I REALLY wanted it. To my 7 year old self, it would be the sticker to end all stickers. After this, I was done.

The obstacle I had to surmount for this ultimate reward was a worthy one. A thick volume called ‘Goodnight, Mr Tom’, its tiny words and narrow spacing were elements that had long daunted me. My brother had been trying to persuade me to read it for some time but I had resisted in stubbornness (and, if I’m being honest, fear). Now, I began my conquest in earnest. It was a difficult read- some of the themes in there were hard for my young mind to digest- but slowly, and surely, I made it through. The day that I finally earned the rights to that mammoth Dalmatian, I felt as though I had won the lottery (well, in manner of speaking. I doubt I even knew what a lottery was back then) and couldn’t stop smiling.

It wasn’t until years later that I realised how pivotal that moment was for me. Looking back, I think I owe my siblings much more than I often admit. In my quest to ‘collect them all’, I had unwittingly developed a taste for books. Perhaps it had started out as an intention to steal my siblings’ best prized stickers but, as I ploughed through more and more tomes, the struggle to decipher hard words got less and less and, almost without my notice, I began to actually enjoy what I was reading.

As I stared at my hard-earned bounty days later, I was surprised to find that the excitement had worn off. I no longer felt like I held the world within the flimsy spotted canine in my hands. But I was not left bereft- for, in the place of childish want, I now felt a sense of possibility. Those stories that I had read over the past months- Roald Dahl, Mallory Towers, Nancy Drew, Narnia and the like- they stayed with me. I could still see the smoke from the sordid plane crash that had threatened to tear Ned and Nancy apart, smell the grass of Miss Honey’s homey cottage and feel the shiver of The Witches’ toeless monstrosities. It was all real- and fresh. I had only to stumble upon the tag of a phrase, catch the whiff of a scent or listen to the refrains from my neighbour’s haunting piano practice, to be pulled back into these worlds. A magic door had opened and I had, at last, stumbled upon my very own Wardrobe.

And so, it began- my love affair with books. I joined the ranks of my siblings, setting up camp at our local library, each of us jostling for the extra-borrowing rights (because, clearly, 8 books per visit was not enough). And it has been a happy marriage thus far, notwithstanding the occasional dry spell and subsequent reinvigoration (but more on that in another post).

Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I had not happily bought into my siblings’ grand plan to make me a mercenary little sticker grubber. Would I have eventually found my way into this land? Or would I have continued on my stubborn, ignorant path? At the very least, I can attest that the person I am today is due in large part to the influences I have received from reading, digesting the ideas I find within and rehashing them for discussion in the real world.

And I am grateful to my oddball siblings, who were sly and wise enough- even in their tender years- to devise a plan that so brilliantly ensnared me in the world they so dearly loved, and had longed for me to see.

I will always treasure the memory of that oversized sticker, for it reminds me of a little girl who was so hopeful, her heart fluttering, as she stood gazing out at the endless worlds of possibility beyond.