I have never liked confrontations, avoiding them whenever possible. I learned to tolerate conflict though. Eventually, I’d be the designated challenger of authority and the status quo.
After moving to Fort Polk and marrying my now ex-husband, I lived in a tiny rented mobile home and looked for work. We had one car (his) and a tight budget. I was totally uncomfortable spending his money on anything for myself. Since I was home all day, I contributed by managing household and financial tasks. For example, I found a much better auto insurance rate.
I eventually got the chance to take the civil service test. I scored high and got hired as a clerk in the family practice clinic at the Army hospital. We got our first auto loan, trading his car in on our Ford Escort. Since we now worked near one another with similar schedules, sharing a single car and two jobs was manageable. That management shaped our initial lifestyle clashes.
After several weeks as a working couple, we arrived home as usual and he got comfortable and sat down while I rushed to pick up things and get ready for the following day. Then I just stopped. Looking around, I asked, “Have you noticed that I am still rushing around after you’ve gotten comfortable?” His expression was vaguely, “Okay.” After dropping the things I’d collected next to him, I explained, “From now on, instead of you relaxing while I run around like a chicken with it’s head cut off, we will both scurry about and then we will both relax.” And we usually did just that. Turns out that I cared about clutter and he cared about clean.
Once married, I moved away from home. For nearly twenty years, I lived too far away for easy family visits or too much family drama. When I moved home, that quickly changed.
Unfortunately, some family members were stuck in the past, insisting on analyzing the actions and relationships from that era rather than establishing adult ones.
Analyzing present events and interactions based on the past, leaves little room for building relationships. Slights are easily found if you are looking for them. No accommodation or concession is enough when measured against the past.
I’ve found that living through the same events does not mean you have the same experiences. When those events are memories, motivation becomes subject to the human need for patterns and storytelling.
For example, I hid my hearing loss all through grade school. Why? My sister lectures me about being responsible for the degree of loss because I didn’t tell anyone while it was happening. I believe NOW that I was trying to fit in. I didn’t want another thing that made me different. I doubt I’d have explained it that way when I was twelve.
My sister believes that I got all the attention from our parents and grandparents because of my early health issues and I can’t deny the truth of that in the early years. However, as we got older, I was independent and often solitary. Those adults had time for her, but she had to forge those relationships … find those activities … and interpret them in positive ways.
Scarcity sees attention given to others as diminishing the attention given to you. Inclusion means the quality of the attention diminishes. You are lesser. Standing up for yourself means others accepting your interpretation or else. Sadly, “or else” is often the outcome that ends relationships.
I put an end to analyzing the past (and not just for me). I put a moratorium on guilt. I also refuse to worry about how every action or inaction will be interpreted. I don’t have an “or else,” but I do have “I’m done with that.”
Reading very quickly became my favorite thing. By sixth grade, I was reading at twelfth grade level. I often spent recess or other free time in the school library. I was reading from one side to the other of the shelves in our small library. When I got through fiction, I read biography and history. Best of all, I found mythology.
Once I found mythology, I looked for stories everywhere. Meanwhile, I experienced all the common childhood illnesses, including measles, mumps and chicken pox. I usually had bronchitis at least once each winter. I had walking pneumonia and a couple concussions. I didn’t break any bones, but I stepped on bees, sprained ankles and tumbled off bikes. Reading saved me during all the down time. I loved ordering Scholastic books at school and visiting the library.
After my open heart surgery at age three, I was followed pretty closely until released at age six. Because of the heart issues, my baby teeth needed dental work. My body was not my friend. I didn’t like failing and I didn’t like sports. I was competitive and felt that I couldn’t compete. Instead, I found solitary activities. I collected frogs from the garden and released them again. I rode my bike up and down hills in nearby grassy lots. I took books and snacks to make nests in tall summer grass. I liked badminton, swings and climbing trees.
I especially liked reading books and having them turn into movies in my head and feeling like I was living them. I had adventures and experiences. I was competitive intellectually and academically. I could plot and I could plan. All this was so good in so many ways, but helped set up the disconnect between ME and my body which was always disappointing or failing me.
I will probably have to make this the introduction to any memoir I write.
As I go about the process of living, I turn my life into stories. Individuals in these stories tend to be recognizable and some of them dislike that, even though I try to show all their facets, not just the bad and not just the good. Consequently, I will probably have published under a pseudonym. They will still be able to recognize one another, but they’ll likely remain anonymous to the rest of the world.
I’m feeling light-hearted today. I and two friends from childhood have maintained our relationships for more than fifty years. One lives relatively close. We keep in touch but visit infrequently.
The other is steadfast. She’s one of the few people that I don’t censor myself with (much). We see one another’s strengths and one another’s weaknesses and all that’s in-between. We make time for one another: visiting, planning events, taking trips together, and we don’t judge.
When she lived near the ocean on the Oregon coast, I had “my own” bedroom. When she needs tech support or employment advice, I’m available. Discouragement and venting stays in the friendship vault. Late in our lives, my mom is her second mom.
We choose our friends and, with luck and some work, they form the family that lasts. As my birth family grows smaller and more contentious, I value old friends all the more.
Bernie, the (Mildly) Disgruntled #ScottishFold Begins His Adventures
My first memories are of nursing from my mom, sleeping in a warm pile with my brothers and sisters, playing and learning to eat kibble. Then, we were scooped up, dressed up and photographed.
Bernie’s Breeder Debut
Bernie, the (Mildly) Disgruntled #ScottishFold Looks for a Home
After our pictures were taken, we began visiting another room in our house. First, we’d ride in a fleece lined basket to a padded table with toys. Then, strange people would pet us and lift us out.
Bernie on the Day of Mom’s Visit
Bernie the (Mildly) Disgruntled #ScottishFold Explains
My mom-to-be has described how she prepared before she brought me home. She wanted to make sure I’d feel secure in our family of four: Grandma, #Parrot Sister Erin and #Yorkie Uncle Bear.
Bernie’s Setup
Bernie the (Mildly) Disgruntled #ScottishFold – Meet Mom
Mom moved in with Grandma during COVID and then retired. Her #Parrot Erin came with her. She decided to adopt a cat and then to get a kitten – her first kitten in 30+ years.
Bernie’s Mom
Bernie the (Mildly) Disgruntled #ScottishFold Takes a Trip
Mom took me home from the breeder on a normal day. After cuddling me, she put me in a padded carrier with a blanket and toys. I rode in the passenger seat drivin home. We stopped once to cuddle.
Bernie’s Arrival
Bernie the (Mildly) Disgruntled #ScottishFold Looks Around
When mom brought me home for the first time, I had my own tent with bed, litter box, food, water and toys. I stayed in there a little while. #Yorkie Uncle Bear watched until I went exploring
Uncle Bear WatchesBernie Explores
Bernie the (Mildly) Disgruntled #ScottishFold: First Night
Mom expected me to sleep in my tent where I had everything I could possibly need – except company. I told her NO very loudly. So she spent the night there with me, taking naps on the recliner or the floor – learning.
Bernie Rebels
Bernie the (Mildly) Disgruntled #ScottishFold Playing on the Second Day with Mom
Mom seemed tired after our first night, but I was ready to play and explore.
Bernie Meets Ball
Bernie the (Mildly) Disgruntled #ScottishFold Meets Prey
Coming out of my den, I found a suspicious object. I determined that it was prey to be subdued and NOT a toothbrush as Mom kept saying.
Bernie Attacks
Bernie the (Mildly) Disgruntled #ScottishFold Naps
While the tent and my tunnel den were great for play, food and litter box, I decide where to sleep. And that means sleeping close to my mom.
Bernie Guards the SnakeBaby Bernie
Bernie the (Mildly) Disgruntled #ScottishFold Climbs a Tree
Mom padded the nearest end table to keep me close, but she left a great climbing tree (lamp) for me to explore.
Bernie Climbs UpBernie Climbs Down
Bernie the (Mildly) Disgruntled #ScottishFold Shares the Bed
For some reason, mom thought we should spend every night shut in her room. At least that meant she was available whenever I wanted to play and I had a really big pillow.
Bernie Gets Ready for Bed
Bernie the (Mildly) Disgruntled #ScottishFold Works Out
Mom seemed surprised that properly grooming, especially of my feet and toes, is very tiring! I needed a nap under my special tree.
Bernie’s Pedicure
Bernie the (Mildly) Disgruntled #ScottishFold Expands
I don’t know why mom calls this my “bear rug” pose or calls me her “little pancake.” I was just spreading out and getting comfortable. Plus, that was a long way down if I fell off!
Bernie Gets Comfortable
Bernie the (Mildly) Disgruntled #ScottishFold Spends Time with Grandma
I like spending time with Grandma watching TV, but Uncle Bear doesn’t like sharing the space. At least Grandma can pet me more easily lying close on the armrest.
Watching TV
Bernie the (Mildly) Disgruntled #ScottishFold Meets Nature
Mom found a harness for me and moved my camping tent out to the patio. Exploring was fun, but she carried me out to prickly ground! She put me down, so I jumped on her shoe and grabbed her leg. She called it “grass.” I loved exploring, but grass should never be walked on! Grass is strictly for nibbling. Grass is pokey. I preferred sitting on mom’s feet to standing on it.
Over time, societal assumptions strongly influence family dynamics.
The underlying social premises are that self-employment is harder and deserves more consideration than working for someone else. Working while raising a family deserves more respect and accommodation than does a child free couple or individual. Money is the best measure of status. Living without drama is considered cold at worst and reserved at best.
This, of course, is the perspective of the divorced child free oldest sister (me) who actually lived away from home for nearly 20 years. With no family and only new friends and acquaintances available, an inclination toward reserved self-reliance was adaptive. When coupled with my independent egalitarian attitudes and a compulsion to ask “why,” my company is less than comfortable. And, I get tired of censoring myself just to keep the peace. (Probably why I’m divorced and contentedly single!) I also get tired of having the same arguments over and over again.
Fortunately, I usually find a few coworkers and friends who are interested in ideas: talking about them, comparing them, evaluating them. The trick is finding people who remain civil when their viewpoints are challenged. I enjoy a good discussion and have been known to argue against my own viewpoint just for the fun of it.
Since I don’t ask for help often, I’m taken seriously when I do. When asking for that help, I try to prioritize the other person’s circumstances. When I’m asked for my opinion, I give it. I try to do it gently and may even confirm it’s really wanted, but then I express it. I’m good at problem solving, at finding common ground and at establishing the parameters of a situation. I’ve gotten better at doing what I feel is right and letting go of the outcome. I am happy to express compassion and offer reasonable support. I will not offer platitudes or accept faulty reasoning. I don’t think assigning guilt or engendering it is helpful in relationships, especially among family. Hear both sides of the issue and then move on.
Within my family, this means I’ve assumed the roles of rebel, negotiator, advocate, critic and outcast … sometimes concurrently. I play caretaker judiciously. Since I’ve given family members persona designations, I’ve given myself one to be fair. As the family Ice Princess, I value logic over emotion and fairness over winning.
I implement my beliefs imperfectly. I slip back into consumerism. I avoid confrontation and procrastinate. I question the value of life. At bedrock though, I believe that everyone’s (and everything’s) life has value. And that includes mine.
Living big, taking chances, trying new things is hard when staying small and quiet is a comfortable habit. Watching and evaluating feels much safer.
Few children lived near me growing up and few who did were girls. My parents were also very protective for the times. I skipped kindergarten and was my teacher’s favorite in first grade. Fortunately, I found a best friend and a couple of casual friends who saw me through grade school. I read voraciously, rode my bike, played with my younger sister and spent a lot of time with family. My grandpa retired young for health reasons, so I had three adults doting on me even before my dad got home from work and made it four.
The transition from grade school to junior high school (7th to 9th grades) was traumatic. My best friend’s parents divorced and I felt very isolated without her. For a long time, at home after school, I could actually replay the day to myself like a movie that happened to someone else while I watched from above.
Eventually, two of my casual friends stepped forward and were company at school, but I remained contained by family at home. I was quiet and studious during the school day. I got excellent grades and was rewarded for it with a boost to my allowance. At home, I was talkative and energetic (when not reading), but I found joining in difficult in class.
Things might have continued in the same way right through high school, but I realized part of my unhappiness was within my control. In my junior year, I decided to make changes. I joined the National Honor Society and the pep club. I attended football games, both home and away. I was a student aide in a couple classes. I got my driver’s license the following summer and it all helped.
Mt Saint Helens erupted shortly before the end of my senior year. I graduated in the top 10% of my class and left for college at the end of the summer.
My small life was getting bigger. I broke ground for my sister by fighting for my independence at home. I still felt as though something was missing, but I also had hope.
From childhood, we start apologizing. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. Sorry, Teacher. Sorry, World. At some point though, boys get a pass and girls just get habituated.
This conspiracy is built on a lie. The lie is that staying small (apologizing, not taking up too much space) will keep girls safe. In reality, this makes girls less safe because they don’t learn how to fight for themselves without also taking steps to ensure everyone else has had their needs met. That everyone else stays happy. Their power is muted. They try to keep the peace and minimize the danger. Staying small and saying “sorry” becomes a dangerous habit.
I find the current idiom of “sorry, not sorry” a useful transition. The recipient is disarmed. On the other hand, passive aggressive isn’t the best coping skill. I’ve learned to use disengagement. In a few memorable instances, I’ve said, “I’d only have this argument if I cared about your (fill in the blank). And I don’t.”
When my marriage was ending, criticism and control was so common that I slipped back into the automatic “sorry” habit to avoid constant conflict. The incident that made me realize it was:
My spouse was on overnight duty one summer weekend. Our duplex had no air conditioning and retained heat. We used fans to create air currents by pulling from the coolest side. We commonly left windows and doors open with screens only. I left the front door open and double locked the security screen door. I went to bed.
I was awakened early the next morning by banging and shouting. He was waiting at the door with a bunch of military gear. He wasn’t happy. He wanted to know why I’d locked up when I knew he’d have all his stuff with him. Still groggy, I started with “sorry” and began to explain. Then I stopped myself and asked, “Would you want to sleep alone in a house way out here with unlocked doors?” I got only an,”Oh, yeah.” I realized I’d been making myself smaller and letting him take up more and more space.
Habits are hard to break, especially when they are being reinforced. Trying to replace them with something else, like a question, helps.
I was born with a broken heart and everyone knew it. I was too small for surgery. I had to wait. While I was waiting, I had to be quiet and careful. I had to be small when I wanted to be big.
I wanted to do everything. I wanted to feel everything. I wanted to know everything. I also wanted love. I also wanted approval. I tried to do as I was told and, when I did, I got love and approval. Doing what other people wanted, gave me love and approval. This was experience not reasoning. Call it conditioning.
My world was small, but I had my imagination and then I learned to read and I HAD BOOKS. And my heart was mended. But quiet and careful were already habits for me as expected by everyone.
The Practical Bohemian 