Entry #30: STICKS AND STONES

"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.

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 3,537,279^th 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.