INSIDIOUS

Insidious in·sid·i·ous/inˈsidēəs/Adjective 1. Proceeding in a gradual, subtle way, but with harmful effects

Years ago, while talking with a very good friend of mine, we discovered that the word insidious best described the marriage relationships we were both in. She's blogged about it, and I feel compelled to do the same.

When I look back at the dynamics of my marriage relationship I realize, retrospectively, that while he and I are both to blame for the outcome (especially its effects on the children), the origin and progression of the dysfunction was so insidious that I was blind to the depth of its effects on me and my kids.

Losing my sense of self was the first and foundational insidious effect of our relationship upon myself and it set the tone for everything that followed, year after year. From the very start, I was stripped of my identity, and although my gut told me, right from the start, that something was wrong, I did not know to trust my instincts and so I told my gut to shut up.

The night I moved in with him, as I was hanging my clothes in his closet, he would tell me, "throw THAT one out" because, according to him, in was inappropriate, too revealing, sleazy, or "whore clothes." He assured me that he would replace all of it. By the end of the night, most of my wardrobe was in a Hefty bag, along with a  chunk of my identity.

The first of many regrets formed that night. That was the night that I began to shove things into the basement of my soul. Yet, I justified it. I had to. I was young. That's the typical response. And I was young; I was only nineteen. So I forgive myself...to some degree. But it set the tone. It set the foundation for all that followed. He assured me that if he didn't love me so much, he would not tell me that I looked "cheap" in my clothes. It never occured to me then to point out that he seemed to like how I looked in my wardrobe while he was pursuing me. It never occured to me to simply say, "I'm sorry that you suddenly don't like my clothes, but I like my clothes and I intend to keep them!"

He never replaced my wardrobe. I took to wearing his clothes and lost my femininity, my sense of style, and did not realize at the time that my identity had been assaulted. In fact, I allowed my identity to be assaulted because his methods were so...insidious.

Little by little, day by day, my identity continued to be assaulted. I was criticized for the way I mothered my daughter (I was too lenient, I didn't spank, and I played too much with my daughter who was then only three years old). I was degraded because of my spiritual beliefs (told I was stupid because I was agnostic). I was ridiculed for the music I liked to listen to (because it wasn't identical to his musical preferences). I was overpowered, little by little, piece by piece, ever so...insidiously.

It would be years before I was finally able to see the big picture. It was at least a decade before the pattern of emotional assault became vividly apparent. What was insidious in the moment, became blatant with hindsight. Whether it was my clothes, my music, my choice in friends, my vocational desires, my parenting methods, or the way I cooked lasagna, if it was innately mine, it was wrong.

Sure, that all seems so obviously wrong, so how did I not see it? Because it was insidious. Because each individual assault could be rationalized - either by me or him - to make it seem like love and concern. I had to believe that his motives were pure. And on the rare occasion that I would accuse him of being malicious, he would turn it around: How could I be so untrusting, so hateful, as to accuse him of being mean or purposely hurtful?!

And so the cycle of emotional abuse persisted, year after year, gradually and subtly eating away at my sense of self, diminishing my inner stregth, and destroying my confidence until finally, one day, there was nothing left of me but a crying puddle on the floor who wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and go to sleep and never wake up again...except for one thing: my kids. I could not walk away from them.

THE RECLUSIVE LIFE

I like people. I really do. I believe most people are good and have discovered that every life is interesting. Yet, I crave my solitude, welcome isolation, and am admittedly self-absorbed.

If I did not have to leave the house periodically, I could remain at home for days and weeks on end without ever feeling bored, lonely, confined, or trapped. There is always something to do: read a book, clean the house, go on the Internet, work on hobbies, or start a project. But is that really living?? I often worry that when I become bed-ridden with age, I will look back and wish I had visited with family more often, socialized with friends periodically, or even just ventured out into the world from time to time.

Still, I remind myself that my current life of seclusion is temporary. In August, I will be back in school as I start working on my master's degree in community counseling. I will once again be among people on a regular basis and perhaps then I will become more social.

I have often wondered when I became this way. As a child, I was quite able to entertain myself and could play solitarily. But, when friends would come looking for me, I was willing to put my imaginative world aside to be with others.

As a young mom, I craved socialization and went out of my way to find other young, stay-at-home moms. And, when I wasn't at workshops, mother's groups, or other mom-based gatherings, I was on the phone for endless hours with other mom-friends. Then, as I grew older, and my kids got older, I noticed that my circle of friends diminished. Phone calls became intrusive and I began to prefer solitude.

Still, on the rare occasions that I would visit with one of my few remaining close friends, I would find myself feeling so alive and I would revel in the sense of companionship and wonder why I avoided socialization to such a degree.

I like people. And, people generally like me. I can easily and comfortably get into engaging conversations with just about anybody. Most people who know me would never guess that I possess such deep preference for solitude. In fact, that preference is so deep and so profound that it has generated an anxious response to social commitments. I have become socially phobic to some degree.

I remember one incident that most poignantly illustrates my tendency to sequester myself. A few years ago, my 30th high school reunion was coming up, along with an informal reunion picnic for not just my classmates, but for the residents of the town where I grew up. I was so excited to hear about this because I had lost contact with school friends after dropping out of high school. I knew right a way however that while the high school reunion sounded like fun, I knew that my anxiety would keep me from going. I decided to attend the community reunion picnic - since most of my former classmates would be there too - and skip the class reunion all together.

I was really eager and excited about the picnic. The night before, I picked out the clothes I wanted to wear to the picnic and imagined how awesome it would be to see people that I hadn't seen since my teen years. I miss my hometown, am very nostalgic, and cherish my childhood memories.

The next morning, I got up, got in the shower, and got dressed. I looked good and felt good. But then the anxiety hit. I started to feel hesitant. I began to feel unsure about how much I would enjoy the reunion. I started to feel dread and anxiety. And I began to rationalize why I probably shouldn't go: I didn't really hang out with a whole crowd when I was a kid, but had a few close friends here and there, so what's the point of going. The people I'd like to see probably won't be there any way. Besides, look at how much weight I've gained; I don't want people to see me like this. And really, what have I accomplished with my life? I'll have nothing of value to share or talk about. Nah, the reunion picnic thing is really stupid. I'm gonna just stay home. And that's exactly what I did.


A day or two later, I saw pictures posted on Facebook of the picnic and heard everyone talking about how much fun they had - and I was sick with regret. WHY DIDN'T I GO???


Yeah, I like my reclusive, solitary life, but am glad that it has an end in sight. I really do love people, and so I need to spend more time outside these four walls, among other human beings. I cannot allow myself to have just a virtual life; I want a real, authentic life, but it is up to me to walk out that front door and create one.

IF I COULD DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN

Although I stand by the notion that "everything is as it should be," if I had to do it all over again, knowing what I know now, there are certainly changes I would make. But at what point in my life would I initiate the changes? When I think of regrets, and things I'd do differently, I automatically think of errors I made raising my kids. But it goes back even further. Would I have even chosen parenthood for my life, knowing what I know now?

I think of who I was as a teen. In fact, I did NOT know who I was, at that point in my life. So perhaps I would start there. Naturally, I would've been a more dedicated student. When I was a teen, I felt so eager to become an adult. Throughout my childhood, I felt like an adult trapped in a child's body. Perhaps that is the curse of the first-born child. Perhaps being the oldest, I was pressured, at some level, to always be the grown up. And it was a comfortable aspiration. I couldn't wait to grow up because I wanted so badly to be a mom and to be a schoolteacher. So, as quickly as I could, I pursued motherhood. I felt like I had to prove - to the world and to myself - that I could do it...that I knew how. Loving a baby was easy. In fact, mothering seemed familiar, comfortable, and natural. It seemed like the real me. But I didn't understand parenthood. I didn't know, initially, that just because that child came forth through me didn't mean that it belonged to me like just another possession. I didn't realize that kids come into this world with a personality all their own. So, one child after another, I plunged into eternal motherhood, thinking that I would shape and form my children to be who I wanted them to be. I didn't realize that children come into this world already who they really are and it is up to the parent to help them - or hinder them - on their path.

So my first regret - falling short as a parent (putting it mildly) - comes from not realizing that my job as a parent would involve getting to know who each child really was, and then helping and guiding them to self-actualize. My job as a parent was to lead them. My job was to be their guide. My job was to give them the tools they would need to become themselves.

Distracted by everything else around me, misinformed by popular culture, and still determined to prove myself as a competent parent, I made every mistake with my kids. Sure, I loved them, nurtured them (at least during infancy, toddlerhood, and early childhood), and provided them with a roof over their heads and food in their bellies; but I did not seek to discover who they really were. Driven by my desire to prove how competent I was, I became harsh, over-bearing, impatient, and cold as a mother. Distracted by sinkfuls of dirty dishes, endless loads of laundry, and night after night of interrupted sleep, I craved solitude, isolation, escape, freedom, and a chance to simply be. I welcomed distractions: long chats on the phone with other young mom friends; soap operas; romantic relationships; housework; LaLeche League meetings.

And then, ten years into parenting, a created what would become another deep regret as I became involved in religious extremism (Christian Fundamentalism). Still striving to prove just how right I was, attempting to prove to myself and the world that I knew what I was doing, I decided to follow the rigid, punitive, black-or-white, right-or-wrong, angelic or demonic world of Bible-based living. Spiraling deeper and deeper away from the gentle, kind, loving mother that I wanted to be, I became critical, mean, abusive, and stick-yielding mom believing that parenthood was somehow defined by my ability to discipline and punish, all in the name of god, of course.

Knowing what I know now, if I could do it all over again, I would have had one or two children instead of six. But that implies that I regret my third, fourth, fifth, and sixth-born children and I do not. What it really means is that I believe I did each of my children a disservice by bringing them into the world. Even putting my own lack of maturity, wisdom, and understanding aside, I also realize now that perhaps prior to marriage, and prior to conception, it would've been wise to evaluate the potential genetic makeup that my children would inherit. That evaluation may have spared my children the mental health predisposition that has fallen upon each of them from both maternal and paternal genetics. Another regret, not taking genetics into consideration.

I often feel frustrated as I near my fiftieth birthday because it has suddenly become so clear that youth really is wasted on the young. It has taken me all these years to see the big picture, but now it is too late. What good will all these insights be when it is far too late to actually apply them?

Sure, I know NOW that parenting requires forethought and preparation, but my kids are now adults. And I know NOW that parenthood requires enormous stores of patience, but where was this realization when I was reprimanding my children for acting like kids?

I know NOW that I had my OWN self-actualizing to accomplish and I know NOW that my own personal growth was hindered by the distraction of parenting. But so what? What good is that knowledge now?? Too little too late. I know NOW, for example, that had I known myself better when I was a teen, I might have been best suited to become a funeral director and realizing who I might have been or even who I could've been has been a realization that has come far too late for me to do anything but mourn the loss and lament about having missed the boat. Is it any wonder that at the same time I was first becoming aware of what I could've done and where I should've gone that I was having recurring dreams every night about getting on the wrong train or missing my exist once boarded? And isn't it ironic that I would dream, night after night, of struggling to find my way back home, and never quite making it?

I regret my passivity. I regret my impulsivity. I regret my need to prove myself. I regret not first getting to know who I really was before creating six beautiful, wonderful children who all deserved so much more than they got. I regret screwing it up so badly.

HYPERGRAPHIA

If hypergraphia is the compulsion to write, then certainly hypertypergraphia must be the compulsion to write via typing and I admit to having both.

I remember being told that I simply think too much, and perhaps I do. It is through writing and typing that I am able to release those excessive thoughts, as my large crate filled with journals from over ten years of compulsive writing testifies to.

A lot of my writing consists of redundant ruminations about my hopes, dreams, fears, regrets, and countless other emotional responses to Life itself. At other times, my words become insightful, poetic, and deeply philosophical...like Life itself.

I have wrestled with the long-time desire to become published, but then convince myself that I have nothing unique to say. What have I experienced, discovered, concluded or concocted that has not been previously been featured in book format? Certainly, I am not the first to feel the elation of accomplishments, the regret of a decision poorly made, or the fear of my own mortality.

And yet, I am compelled to write. I am compelled to tell the story, explain the details, and chronicle the events. It is as if writing about my life's experiences will somehow diminish the regrets, make up for short-comings, and minimize the fear of my eventual passing from existence. I want to live forever and while that is not an option, my words may survive and my story may endure for generations to come.

And so I must now begin to tell the story...of who I am, of what I've learned, of mistakes I've made. I must tell about over-coming obstacles, beating the odds, and rising above. But I am also compelled to admit my defeats, confess my guilt, and offer explanations and rationalizations for the wrongs I have done. It will help you understand just as it helps me understand.

I have lived full-spectrum. I have experienced and committed terrible things. But equally, I have accomplished miraculous achivements, felt the hand of the Divine in my life, and reveled in the simple joys that are triggered by feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin, hearing the laughter of a child, or being filled with the satisfaction of a job well done. And I am willing and ready to share my full-spectrum life, not so that others might learn from my mistakes or vicariously experience good times; rather, I share to prove that I am not unique and that what I have experienced and the conclusions I have reached are what make me - and you - human. I remember reading somewhere that each of us are (a) like no one else, (b) like some other people, and (c) like no one else - and THAT is a paradox that I find most intriguing about being, well, Human!