"Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words can never hurt me."
What a ridiculous
idea. Even as a kid, I knew this didn't make sense. Some bully would scoff,
"You're stupid! You have a BOY'S bike!" And I would yell "sticks
and stones" to banish the power from his words, trying to prove that
no matter he said, I was invincible.
But I
wasn't. I knew perfectly well words hurt more than a dumb stick. A broken
bone is just a broken bone - it heals on its own, and is even stronger in the
broken places. A broken heart is far worse. It shatters your optimism,
your self-esteem, even your will to fight back - or to live.
When someone hurts
your feelings, you want to go hide, or maybe seek comfort from
a friend. You may even ruminate over thoughts of revenge, or spend
hours thinking of all the things you SHOULD have said in return. Haven't we all
come up with the perfect retort - 24 hours too late?
Here is another
quote about conflict with which I grew up:
"...and they
shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruninghooks:
nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any
more."
Because my mother
had an Aspergian tendency to repeat quotations, song lyrics, poetry, or
limericks again and again and again, I heard this quote often. She liked to
consider herself a pacifist, despite her profitable investments in things like
napalm and military contracts.
During the war in
Vietnam, my mother volunteered at the American Friends Service Committee – a Quaker
outfit open to people of all faiths. Her interest in the AFSC was not entirely
selfless. She had a huge crush on the guy who apparently supervised the
volunteers, and she talked about him constantly. I found this inappropriate and
embarrassing. My father passively looked the other way, not worried that a
younger man would run off with his alcoholic wife (or perhaps wishing he
would)!
The sad irony of
this quotation from the Bible is that my mother did not actually connect with
its meaning. She was no pacifist. She spent my entire life beating
plowshares into swords, not vice versa.
When you deal with
an alcoholic, whatever you say will be pounded into ordnance and hurled back at
you later. An innocent comment at 10:00 AM will be twisted beyond recognition
and used as a missile by 6:00 PM the same day - or days, or months, or years
later.
I knew better than
to speak to my mother after 11AM, but occasionally she would sound like a
normal person first thing in the morning, and I would be lulled into a false
sense of security. I might share some personal information, such as, “We got a
dog!”
Wow, that was a
mistake. Even though my mother had a dog when she was little, MY dog was a
source of firepower. How DARE I get a dog? How could I be so profligate? What
an idiot I was to get something so unnecessary, expensive, and frivolous.
Clearly I could not manage my money and I was a moron. All because I finally
broke down and got my son an adorable corgi.
I adopted a policy of never, ever sharing any information with my mother about ANYTHING at any time of day. For example, when I became pregnant for the first time, I did not tell her for months. I knew she would say something horrible, and I didn’t want her ruining our wonderful event. But even when I tried to stay in neutral territory, I would still get a verbal beatdown later.
I adopted a policy of never, ever sharing any information with my mother about ANYTHING at any time of day. For example, when I became pregnant for the first time, I did not tell her for months. I knew she would say something horrible, and I didn’t want her ruining our wonderful event. But even when I tried to stay in neutral territory, I would still get a verbal beatdown later.
Artiste and I once
went out to dinner with my parents - an experience that was always high tension
- at a nice little bistro. This was before we figured out that my parents HATED
going to nice restaurants and really just wanted to go to a diner. We always
made an effort to find nice places for them, not realizing that what they
really wanted was Spam on crackers.
I was trying to
explain my migraine headaches for the 3,537,279th time. This is not
a difficult concept, but my mother’s response was invariably (Every. Single.
Time.): “People Like Us don’t get headaches.”
Well, actually, People
Like Us do. What was the message here? That I was not related to her? I
explained, yet again, that there is a hereditary component to migraines, and
that my father’s sister had suffered from them all her life.
No response.
Exasperated, I
said, “You know, I wish migraines would BLEED. Then people would know there is
something wrong. Migraine headaches are not fatal; they don't even require a bandage or a splint. You usually don’t see people walking around with them because they are home in bed, puking. No one even understands what causes them. If you get something like cancer, everybody knows what that
means. They know it’s bad, and they feel sorry for you."
My mother polished
off her third drink and looked vague.
The next morning,
my parents stopped by our house. My father was irritated. “Your mother says you
have cancer,” he said. “Well, I don’t believe it.”
Holy crap! Within
twelve hours she had completely distorted what I had said and now they were both pissed off. How do you even
begin to deal with that?
When I got
Cushing’s disease, I tried to explain to my mother that I was very sick because
my neurologist had prescribed heavy-duty steroids for me for ten years to combat my migraines. My endocrinologist - a different doctor - told me I would be dead in three years if I could not get off the steroids. I had
no idea they were ruining every system in my body.
When I first went to the migraine doctor, I had already tried a couple of local neurologists who were no help at all. This time around I was going to the top. This doctor was a
renowned expert who had written several books and had published research papers. He lectured all over
the world, and often was followed around by younger neurologists when I was
there for appointments. He was highly recommended to me by an intelligent person,
and his practice specialized in headaches.
What my mother
took away from our conversation was, “You certainly picked a lousy quack.” I had told her I was dying, but to her, the moral of the story was
that I was stupid. I certainly did not deserve help or sympathy.
Over the coming months, she showed
absolutely no interest in my illness, except for the fact that it had made me
fat. She never missed an opportunity to make a crack about my weight.
“My neighbor
started a new ice cream store in town,” I said conversationally.
“YOU better stay
away,” she answered snidely.
I didn’t eat ice
cream. I didn’t even especially LIKE ice cream. Plus... SHE was
criticizing ME? An alcohol addict was telling ME not to eat ice
cream?
Anything I said turned into shrapnel.
Once I mentioned someone who had a $200,000 yacht that they “forgot about” (today we live in
Newport, where there are many such boats). My mother instantly responded that I
was equally irresponsible.
“What do you
mean?” I asked, genuinely confused. I can pinch a penny until it cries, and I
sure as hell do not have a yacht.
“You have a DOG,”
answered my mother. Ten years later, and was she still complaining about the dog. She also equated having a dog with forgetting about a $200,000 yacht. A well-aimed
stone would be a relief compared to this never-ending emotional mortar fire.
Back when my
brother was applying to colleges, there was every reason to believe he would
get into all the ones to which he had applied. He was at the top of his
class at Episcopal Academy, he had gotten straight 800s on his SATs, he was
brilliant and well-behaved and clearly born to be an academic superstar. When
April 15 of his senior year rolled around, his friends called him up and said,
“Where do you want to room together at Harvard?”
My brother did not
get into Harvard. My mother had written the admissions department a long,
rambling, drunken letter in her indecipherable handwriting, probably on the
handmade “stationery” she used to make on a Xerox machine by copying a New
Yorker cartoon in the corner. I have no idea what she said, but it was enough
for Harvard to put my brother’s application in the “we don’t need this lunatic”
pile. He was embarrassed, and crushed.
When I applied to
colleges in my senior year, I had every expectation of getting in. I was among
the top students in the class, my SATs were OK, and I was the only senior to
take five subjects just because I felt like it.
When April 15
rolled around, I was not accepted anywhere. Not one college. How often does
that happen? At a COLLEGE PREPARATORY SCHOOL?
I can’t prove it, but
I am sure my mother wrote drunken letters to those colleges, too.
I had to scramble
for a different place to attend, and ended up at Bennington College in
Vermont. This turned out to be fine, because I met Artiste there, and I also made
some lifelong friends. But after two years, I was ready to move on.
When I applied to
transfer to Bowdoin College, I purposely said nothing to my parents about it. I
did not want my mother to contaminate my chances of getting in. It was too
important.
I was thrilled
when I was accepted. Bowdoin was just beginning to take women, and it was a
very difficult college to get into.
And then the truth
came out.
A note had come
from Bowdoin to my home address, and my mother had opened it – and then written
ANOTHER drunken letter.
“I know why you
got in,” she said smugly. “Because I wrote them and told them I would pay your
tuition.”
So. It was not my
academic record at Shipley, or my grades and recommendations from Bennington,
or my personal essay, or my interest in everything Bowdoin had to offer. I got
in only because SHE had written the college a screwball letter. I don’t
know what she said, but I guarantee it was not normal. It’s a miracle the
college was willing to overlook it.
I believe all
drunks are loose cannons. They take hostages. Their brains are scrambled, so
you cannot predict what they will say or how they will behave – all you know is
that it won’t be good. They hear what they want to hear, not your actual words.
They never take responsibility for their actions, and they certainly don’t care
about the consequences. In their own minds, they are geniuses, and everything
they do is not only justified, but above reproach.
If there is a
silver lining in all this – and I am looking for one as hard as I can – I think
it is this: I learned very early that words are powerful. I learned how to
wield mine for good instead of evil. And I never, EVER criticized my children
with hurtful insults. A nasty remark from a parent is branded into the child’s brain forever and becomes Truth. If the child trips, you do NOT say, "Wow, you're clumsy." If the school picture makes them look like a troll, you do NOT say, "Jeez, you're ugly." If
you’re mad, it’s okay to ask, “Why on earth did you leave your new sneakers out
in the rain?” You do NOT say, “You’re an idiot.”
Sticks and stones
may break my bones, but hurtful words cannot be taken back, and are never
forgotten.