I know this thread's been dormant for a while (by cellar standards), but I've been thinking about it since I first poked around in here. First, I want to say thanks to everyone who contributed to this thread, possibly the most lovely in the fabric of this community. I haven't had a chance to look back past a few months or so, but I doubt there is as much personal reflection, so beautifully written, elsewhere in the site.
I have a moment which, while not
defining (as in affecting the outcome of) my life, certainly epitomizes my motivations and behavior. It was when I was about five. My mom had been 'asleep' for a few days (as an overwhelmed teen mother with 2 active kids, she 'slept' a lot in those days) and dad was in and out of the picture -- out for a while at that point, I guess. We lived in a reasonably nice apartment in Queens, NY. At that age, I was unaware of the squalor within our apartment -- I thought all kids had to shove laundry, food, dishes and other debris out of the way in order to play on the living room floor.
Anyway, mom had drifted in and out over a few days, and I decided that when she woke up, it would be nice if I had the laundry done for her, so I got my (six year old) brother to help me load it into our cart to take to the laundromat down the block. We realized that we shouldn't go ourselves, so I rang the bell of the nice old lady across the hall and asked her to help us. She obliged, after taking a peek into our apartment.
A few weeks later we suddenly moved to a different apartment in Queens (leaving most rooms knee-deep with crap -- for years I thought that was normal, too; leaving your unwanted junk behind when you move to a new place.)
I had forgotten all about this story until a few years ago, when a therapist was asking me how long I had felt that it was my job to clean up other people's messes so that they wouldn't be "upset." Huh! All my life, I guess. That realization helped me to see clearly that this episode epitomized my basic nature, and helped me escape from a deteriorating marriage whose messes I had not caused, and which I couldn't "clean up."
Funny, that realization, based upon this long-ago memory, really shook up some of my basic beliefs:
1) I thought psychology in general, and talk therapy in particular, were a crock; people should be able to help themselves, or the problem is biochemical, and can be dealt with pharmaceutically;
2) I took great pride in my belief that I knew myself through and through -- I had been there for the whole thing, after all, so there was nothing new to learn about myself -- surprise!
Now I think more about my motivations for the choices I make, and am not so quick to scoff at some seemingly implausible method for someone else's relief of suffering. (Except for that damned
Ciara -- I'm not sure why her presence here was so upsetting to me.)
Funny postscript: When I related the laundry story to my dad, (with whom I have been happily reunited for the past 20 years), he said "So
that's why we got evicted from that apartment -- we never knew who got us kicked out!"
Even funnier postscript: my mother, a high-school dropout, eventually "grew up" to become a licensed PhD psychologist with a thriving practice. Despite the years of penury and neglect, my childhood was also filled with good times and love, and I wouldn't trade pasts with anyone (although there are a few episodes I could do without).