Parents will all say that there is no book on parenting, but how many children said the same about being a child? This is a hard one to put into the world because it will make my parents (should they read it) feel like I am calling them out. I am not calling them out. I am also not absolving them. I am not wishing that my life were different or that they come to me to talk about this article.
I am the son of hard working, well meaning, loving parents that struggled. If you are a parent that has a perfect solution to being a parent, maybe this is meant most for you. My parents weren’t perfect. It’s those imperfections that made me resilient. It’s those imperfections that gave me something to improve on. It’s those imperfections that they come to me as an adult to discuss or apologize about. I have different imperfections that will impact my children in ways I cannot foresee, but they will not be to the extremes I’ve had to learn from.
I do not see myself as a victim, but I will yield to having been one once. Anyone that has been abused mentally, physically, or emotionally may rationalize the abuse or blame themselves despite being reassured that there is no blame they should hold.
The counsellor is not the victim and will not understand a victim’s self-blame. It’s not one that says we caused our victimization, but that we blame ourselves for not having the strength to not be hurt long after the initial pain has healed. We blame the memory, not the action. There is a life that was normal that kept moving straight when we were turned away. That life will eventually blend into a horizon where we will no longer be able to differentiate them.
Time will pass. We will live without that life in the same way we will live with the loss of a loved one. The vast majority of days will be normal, but… every so often we will look in a mirror and see who we think we should be. I wrote about how a mirror cannot do anything more than show you what’s behind you. How it’s what gets in the way of seeing the future. I was really hard on the mirror because there is too much power given to it, but there is another side to the mirror.
The other side of the mirror is grey, opaque, and sucks light into its dull chalky depressed side that’s always kept away from what we see. This part of the mirror never sees the smiles, or hugs or laughter. It never sees the lovers, or the nervous last check of the nose, or teeth before that fateful first date.
This other side of the mirror is me, but I’m not depressed. I don’t have bipolar disorder, and I have not sat with a stranger I’ve paid to help me understand my emotions. I’ve lived behind the glass of the mirror in an alternate universe. When other family members had the right amount of attention to protect them, I was left with just myself.
Where they have had the nurturing, an effort to understand, and opportunities to shine, I was left to oxidise. A layer of paint was placed over me and I was set to face the prison of a surface that would be used to mount them on a wall. Thinking about it now, I didn’t lack attention, I lacked light from them.
I’ve been told countless times “I’ve never had to worry about you because…,” insert whatever excuse you can imagine. I’ve heard them all. Even though I’ve heard them I’m still struggling with accepting them. Even though I don’t reflect on them often when they are brought back into my life, the weight that comes with them is heavy.
Conversations that helped them rationalize, cope, or heal scars of remorse are punctuated with apologies. These are painful acknowledgements of abandonment that say, “I saw you struggling but knew you’d work it out.” What goes unsaid is the last part of that statement. “I saw you struggling but knew you’d work it out, because you have no other option.”
I was left without an option because there was another pulling their attention while I was fighting just to keep my head above water. Maybe I didn’t need the same amount of help, but who’s to say I didn’t need any? Maybe is neither yes or no, it’s the limbo of an inevitable, eventual no.
I never learned what it was to have their help, so I learned how to help myself. I never knew what it was like to have them show up for me, so I made sure to never let myself down. It’s clear now just how much of an impact that had. Where the other could not consume enough of their time and attention I was left glimpsing at reflections futilely wanting just a head nod.
Getting an accidental fraction of the energy they gave anyone else would have been a rage inducing inconvenience to them. Getting attention only amplified the rejection and developed into a disappointment at my perceived weakness. I was seen and never heard. My success was not a result of being the one that didn’t need to be worried about, it was the result of being self-sufficient at an early age.
Not being in the light meant that I was the shadow, the mirror under the paint that was behind the reflection protected by glass. Without their need to worry about me I created a fictional version of myself that accidentally became amazing. I saw what no-one else did and I gave him all the help and attention he needed. Together we adventured to libraries, ate with bums, raced stray dogs, went on urban quests with other shadows that didn’t need to be worried about, and created the Internet.
Not being needed to be worried about was a bastardized definition of liberation. Like any form of liberation this one came with hardship. The hardship of being the shadow for who had the light on them. The liberation of the shadow because it grows beyond the length of the light that cast it. A long shadow does not keep a hard edge. It softens the further it stretches, until it stops needing their light to know its own shape, and it turns back toward me and becomes part of how I walk.
In this freedom, “I never had to worry about you” stopped hurting. It stopped being seen as I didn’t love you as much and turned into “thank you.” What that thank you means is not for us to care about. I assume it means “thank you for growing up without my guidance and sorry that I couldn’t be there for you too.” Only someone like me, or you if you were a shadow too, would be damaged enough to feel grateful for this type of attention.
That’s what the victimized part of me thinks. However, the liberated me won’t get close enough to their light to ever become their shadow again.
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