The following story paints a dysfunctional portrait of my childhood parents. Keep in mind, they did the best they could. I forgive them and can’t stress enough how different they are today. I only wish to shine light on the circumstances that shaped me. On to the show:
My friend and I were talking about past relationships, when a familiar stress crept its way through me. A hundred romantic failures bubbled into thought, flowed into the pit of my stomach, and I winced. I hadn’t anticipated how uncomfortable the subject still made me. I took a breath and focused on the present.
I asked her to speak about her late husband. She did and I was grateful to hear the story of when they met. I imagined what it might have been like to be her while it played out. She was loved. It was pleasant. It was foreign. It was a state of being for which I had no clues how to attain.
It dawned on me that my model for romance was different than hers. Where were the insecurities and the yelling? How could she be close to someone for so long without building resentment? I looked at my past and at the examples from which I learned love. I saw flaws and a lack of definition. It was time to put them to words and to free myself.
I grew up on a vineyard outside a small farm town. The nearest neighbor was a quarter mile away, through high brush, in rattlesnake country. Needless to say, I didn’t see people much.
I learned a sense of affection from my parents’ relationship. Dad worked all day, building a winery from scratch. Mom stayed home to raise us children. In the evening, the parents spent time together, they fought more often than not.
When I heard their voices raise, I went to my room. They’d shout. Loudly. Neither listened. I tried not to.
The fights progressed in stages. The first ended when one of them stomped away and slammed a door. I wouldn’t feel safe to leave my room at that point.
The next was the silent treatment. It could last for hours or days. They just completely ignored each other, or turned to ice if they had to be in the same room.
It ended when their need for affection outgrew their need to be right. One apologized for fighting, both embraced, and things returned to normal. I don’t ever remember an admission of being wrong or a problem being resolved. This is what I thought love was.
In middle school, my parents habitually teased me about girls. Every day, they’d make some hint or comment about it. I heard “Is THAT the one you like?” or “So, when are you going to give us grandchildren?” at least three times a week. The more they teased me, the less I shared, and the less I shared, the more they teased.
My hormones broke the cycle when I actually started liking girls. One girl was even worth being teased about. I watched her from a distance, avoiding conversation. I’m not sure if it was out of shyness or fear of fighting like my parents. It took a month to work up the courage to ask her out. I wrote a love letter and held onto it, waiting for the prefect moment to hand it to her. I was still waiting when my parents picked me up from school. It wasn’t until after dinner that my brother convinced me to look up her number and call.
He listened in silence as the conversation went something like this: “Hi, this is Dave” “Dave who?” “Dave P, from class” “Oooh, hi, what’s up?” *awkward silence* “Would you like to go out with me?” *more awkward silence* “No way!” The emphasis was ambiguous disgust or disbelief. “Oh, okay, bye.” and I hung up. I was sad, but my brother was proud. He congratulated me for taking a risk and told me I had huge balls. It was ridiculous, but it made me feel good about myself.
I took my pride to my parents and told them about the call. They scrunched up their faces in worry and rubbed my back as if I were in pain. I felt fine…but they looked like they were in pain. It took me a moment to connect the dots, but my actions made them sad; I failed at the first step of making grandchildren. The pain they felt was me being rejected.
The girls I liked and the methods I used changed, but the disappointment I felt from my parents didn’t. By the end of high school, I had such a fear of rejection, I’d only asked out one girl. I didn’t manage to start my first adult relationship until after college graduation. What I think made it possible was that I never had to formally ask her out.
That relationship validated my existence; I wasn’t a disappointment to my parents anymore. We spent every free minute together for a week. Then, she started paying attention to the demands of the real world. There was homework to do and friends that needed time. We spent slightly less time together.
In those hours apart, I only saw existential validation slipping away. If my parents could live in isolation, why couldn’t she and I? (I am so embarrassed to have thought like that) I nagged her when she spent time with friends. I hovered when she did homework. I let myself be controlled by my insecurities, and I didn’t give her room to breath. She hated how controlling I became. We fought. It was just like home.
The relationship didn’t last long, and she broke up with me. Today, I am grateful she had enough wisdom to end things. I cried for a few days while I came to terms with failure. I still wince when recalling how I treated her.
After that, I returned home to work at the family business. The relocation forced me to develop a new social group. I really liked a new girl, but just as a friend. She was exotic, and had a brilliant sense of humor.
One day, she and I were walking down the sidewalk with a group of friends. I wore a large hat and she stuck by my side, chatting away. After a moment of unexpected silence, she looked up at me, and said, “I think I love you.” Time slowed down as I noticed the group chatter die. I didn’t want to embarrass her, but I also didn’t like her that way. The best I could come up with was, “Oh, it’s just the hat, see?” as I took it off, gently put it on her head and continued the conversation as if nothing had happened. We couldn’t make eye contact through our height difference and the hat. I hope she wasn’t crying, but I’ll never really know. The following few months was a hard lesson for me that people don’t want to be your friend if you reject them. I still miss her.
Later, I got to experience what she did. I remember being invited in this other girl’s front door, no euphemism. I’d liked her for a long time and was so nervous, I could barely speak. I just stared at my shoes and mumbled compliments. Then, I asked if she’d like to date. In a tender tone, she responded with a compliment and let me know she just wanted friendship. I left as fast as I could, breathlessly saying goodbye before tears prevented me from saying anything. It was the most gentle rejection I ever received, but I was too self-conscious and awkward to really contribute to the friendship after that.
I eventually found a girl who gave me a taste of my own neurosis. When I didn’t spend enough time with her, she acted mopey. She yelled at me for not going on family trips. When I had a strong opinion about our future, and we disagreed, she always got her way. At first, she acquiesced, then went passive aggressive, and finally poked me with complaints until I relented. I realized, through her behavior, how unhealthy my actions were. I broke it off and withdrew from dating altogether. I needed to learn to manage my insecurities single.
I devoted myself to work. Collaborating with my brother at the winery, we focused on improving wine quality. He found the right oak pairings, aging techniques and improved workflow in our limited space. I searched for the right yeast and bacteria, performed chemical analysis and maintained a log book of our progress. What we produced ended up being world class, gilded with gold medals. I finally found validation through work.
Then, I hurt I my hands; Repetitive stress injuries in both arms. Doing household chores became out of my reach, so winery work was unthinkable. I made so much progress and it was all taken from me. Time was all I had in an apartment I couldn’t even clean.
I adapted. My family cooked meals, opened cans and bags, did my laundry, took out the trash, and pushed my shopping cart. I figured out how to control my computer with voice, eye tracking lasers, and toe clicks. It was painfully slow, but enough to distract me from my worst moments. I got medical treatment for my arms and they slowly started healing.
After a year, gratefulness welled up inside me for the continuous help I received. I was running out of money, and my hands were still out of commission, but I needed to express my thanks in a way more significant than the standard “Thank you.” So, I listened to my family for cues on what they needed. The more I listened, the more they had to say. It just kept pouring out and it dawned on me that what they wanted most was just to be heard.
I learned to speak with kindness, so as not to undermine their willingness to share. I learned to encourage, so they would speak about what matters. I learned how to listen so I wouldn’t judge what said. I learned to be silent to express my love. In turn, these actions gave my life meaning. A validation for existence. I’m not an expert, but I feel the demand for hearing and I don’t need functional hands, a job or a relationship to practice. I just need to listen and love.
If you have an experience similar to mine, want to talk about your own validation, or how you’ve overcome your fears in dating and friendships, please share in the comments below. I’d love to hear your stories.
Just Off Kilter 