The Source

I have been putting this post off for long enough.  I have talked before about my need to control my environment to feel safe and how that effects the people around me.  I have talked about how relinquishing control has made me feel irrational fear.  I have not talked about where my control comes from.  What is it's or was it's source?  Why is it such a difficult habit to break? 

"Women feel the need to control because they fear that if they don't take matters into their own hands, their needs will go unmet."
Laura Doyle-"The Surrendered Wife"

There is probably no way that I can cover this subject in one post...for one, it would be ridiculous long.  For another, I think I need to deal with these things one at a time...peeling back the layers like an onion.  I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me or worry for me...my life truly is wonderful, but I know that it can be better if I would learn to give up some of this unhealthy control (FYI for those of you just joining me...I am not talking about letting someone else control me...I am talking about trying to control every detail of my life, including the way others' do things, to feel safe.)

I would like to share a song with you for each post on this subject...I love music and it will help express my thoughts.  To me, music is the words of our soul...(I am pretty sure that someone famous probably said that and I could not for the life of me find it...)

So, where do we always start...yes, you guessed it...childhood.  Wow, if you don't want to stick around while a psychoanalyze myself...it's all good...but this is my blog...and I need this, for me.  Maybe someone else needs it too.  I should start by saying that I am not going to blame my childhood...that's so cliche, isn't it? Only I can change my habits and the way that I behave.  But I do think it is very helpful to know where to start and why you are the way you are.

 

When I was a young child, say under 7 or so...I had no fear.  I had no walls...life was good.  We had a lovely home, I had siblings and both my parents.  Now, I won't say that everything was always butterflies and meadows, in fact my parents had some major issues during this time, but I did not notice.  Life was normal.  I was Daddy's Little Girl.

Right around 7 or 8 children begin to notice things that they have previously been oblivious to.  I began to notice my father's drinking.  It didn't help that I was now old enough to make his drink for him, which he daily had me do.  He was an alcoholic.  When he got home from work he would sit in his easy chair watching tv, chain smoking, and drinking until it was time to go to bed.  Whiskey and water...light on the water.  My childhood memories of this time are seriously him in a recliner with a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other.

 

Now, I want to reassure you that we were lucky in one sense...he was not an abusive alcoholic...unlike his own upbringing.  He probably thought and was correct in that he was better than his own parents had been.  He also was a workaholic.  The time he actually spent on the easy chair was not actually all that long.  He left for work before we were up and often did not come home until an hour before bedtime.

He just...checked out.  He did not notice us, unless of course we were standing in front of the television.  Then it was, "You make a better door, than a window."

I am not supposing that I am special in this regard.  My story is fairly textbook, as they say.  I know too many friends with similar stories to think otherwise.  My mother enabled the drinking and made excuses...she still makes excuses for her past enabling behavior.

I remember one time in particular that stands out in my mind.  I was probably somewhere between 8-10.  My father had had a particularly bad day.  He had had three whiskey and waters in a very short amount of time and was slurring his words.  He asked me to make him another drink and with my brave little face I told him that I didn't think he needed anymore.  My mother whom was sitting beside him told me that I should go make my father a drink and gave the "he works all day for us" reason.  I made him his drink and made it very, very weak.  (I was something of a pistol:))  I was sent to my room for the rest of the night.

I wasn't beaten, they didn't name call.  But when I look back on incidents like this, I wonder what kind of effect it had on me...when I tried to do what was right, someone else stepped in to defend him...what about me...where was my defense?  Then I got the guilt trip on top of it.  I also began to "protect" or "defend" my siblings.  I was not the oldest, but I think it was my personality...I wanted to conquer the world at this age, feed the hungry, protect the innocent, etc. etc.  I knew that I was not being defended and neither were they...so I did it for them. 

Right around the time when a little girl blossoms...I guess around 12-14, my dad had to work out of the country for a year.  We saw him twice that year...keep in mind this is before the time of cell phones, skype, and email.  We were able to call him only once per week because the phone bills were outrageous. 

When he left, I was a little girl...when he got back however, I was a teenager.  He regrets this and mentions it occasionally to this day.  He missed it, he says. 

The problem is that while he was gone and due to the constant checking out he had done before...I was defiant and didn't want to listen to him or my mother for that matter.  Part of that is of course normal teenage testing, but part of it was the beginning of my walls.  It was like..."Oh now, you want to notice me...it's a little late for that people!"

 

Sometimes I feel like my heart is the Secret Garden...when you find it, beauty awaits you.  But I am not sure where I buried the key.

 

Next Post:  Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places

 

(Just so you know...although I will probably cover this again later this week...my parents love me.  I love my parents.  My father no longer smokes and drinks much less.  He has only one or two when we are around and it is usually wine with dinner. Some days he has none at all.)