You’ve heard of this quote and this book, right? I’ve never read the book but have always liked the quote. I always think of this quote when stuck in a long line or traffic. That truly is not worth getting all worked up about. For the most part though, I have failed miserably at following this advice.

This quote popped into my head over the weekend. It was mostly uneventful. We had no obligations to attend to. We went out with friends Friday night and had a good time. Saturday was….weird. Hubby seemed to have quite a bit on his mind. Numerous concerns about my behavior. Initially I felt badly. I apologized. I thought all was well but then things were still….weird. As the grievances mounted I started to seriously consider how much of what he was irritated about truly belonged to me and how much of it was really all about him.

We don’t fight dirty or scream and yell and accuse each other of horrible things and bring up grievances from 10 years ago anymore so none of this was out of control. Neither of us were particularly angry either. He seemed to be more irritated than anything else. I was mostly confused. Later I did become angry but not so angry that I felt compelled to yell or leave or consult an attorney.

None of the issues we debated that day were of major significance. They were all pretty minor. One argument was over who should have stopped at the store to purchase milk and pop. Typical, mundane, everyday marital nonsense. Small stuff.

It occurred to me that day that I don’t like this quote anymore. It simply isn’t realistic or true. At least not as applied to marriage or any long term relationship. Life is lived mostly in the small stuff. Sure, there are major marital problems that can end a marriage. But many marriages live and die in the small stuff.

On the plus side it can be a welcoming hug after a day at work, a conversation over a recent news item or shared topic of interest, a giggle over something one of the kids says or does or or teary-eyed acknowledgment of how fast they are growing up. It can be the way we cuddle when we sleep, a mutual look at a party that says it’s time to go, a suggestion of a vacation together alone, a genuine compliment, open and direct communication, an inside joke, even just a loving look. This small stuff strengthens a marriage.

On the minus side it can be a statement that includes the phrase, “you always…” or “you never…”. It can be an unexpressed expectation that never had a chance of being met, a thought that leads to an unkind word, a complaint about something without all the facts, eye-rolling, passive-aggressive comments, accusations not based in reality, sweeping judgments and even innocent miscommunication. This small stuff can rip a marriage to shreds over the years. It tears at the very fabric of the relationship and builds resentment and confusion rather than understanding and intimacy.

Most marriages have a little bit of both of these types of small stuff. Mine does. The good small stuff far outweighs the bad but it still does exist. We are each only flawed humans after all. We worked out our small stuff on Saturday and moved on. The heartfelt apologies, kissing and making up, discussing a disagreement calmly and truly listening and considering the others’ point of view…these things help make up for the harmful small stuff. The good small stuff is what keeps us fully engaged.

Sure, hubby could come home with an itinerary for a surprise elaborate vacation, three dozen flowers and a lifetime supply of books. That would be pretty big, right? But all those grand gestures…big stuff….would be erased in a heartbeat if he made one snide comment about some mundane thing that I didn’t do or didn’t do to his satisfaction, wouldn’t it?

Unless there’s some really bad big stuff going on (and we’ve been there too) I say it is the small stuff that is most important in a marriage and mine is definitely worth the sweat. What do you think?

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Being the grammar nazi that I am, I must preface this post by pointing out that there is no “m” in the word valentine. Yes, there are still intelligent, educated adults who pronounce this word, “valentime”. It drives me insane. With that PSA out of the way, on with the post….

I’m not a fan of Valentine’s Day. I probably sound like a bitter old married woman in saying that. I get it. I do. Back in the day when hubby and I were still dating we celebrated every year. For those of you who really get into it…more power to you. To each his/her own.

One year long ago there was a huge snow storm on Valentine’s Day. We hadn’t planned ahead and made reservations. I secretly did not want to get all dressed up in a sexy skirt and heels, go out into the horrible weather and then wait 2 hours for a bad table at a chain restaurant. This was my first clue that this holiday actually means very little to me. I would have much preferred to just stay home.

There was another year where our on-again, off-again dating relationship was headed in the direction of off-again. Neither of us were feeling particularly romantic but diligently went out on Valentine’s Day because it’s what couples should do. It was awkward and not at all romantic.

I wanted to know where this Hallmark holiday originated and was surprised that it did not originate with Hallmark and to find this little statistic:

Approximately 85 percent of all valentines are purchased by women.
- The History Of Valentine’s Day

It seems that we always think the men should do something special for their partners on this day but it’s actually women buying the vast majority of the cards. Odd. Maybe the men are just buying lingerie. Yeah, that’s for their partners.

Anyway, back to why I don’t like it. It ranks #2 on my list of least favorite obligatory holidays (mother’s day being #1) for many reasons.

First of all, the absurd amount of commercialism surrounding this “holiday” truly rivals that of the whole Christmas season. Singles are made to feel unloved and unlovable for not having anyone to be romantic with. And who said a heart shaped box full of candy is romantic anyway? The worst part…pink and red…these colors do NOT belong together. They clash. Has no one else noticed this, seriously?! Babies with arrows…creepy.

Also, what if on the prescribed day hubby is not feeling particularly romantic? What if I am PMS-ing or otherwise cranky? What if we have other pressing things to do that day? What if we’re just in one of the low-tide places that naturally occur within the ebb and flow of a marriage? I could go on and on but you get the point. Just because we aren’t feeling particularly romantic on February 14th of any given year, does that make us a “bad” couple? Does that mean we’ve lost that loving feeling, we are unromantic or don’t care about our relationship? Of course not!

I would much rather receive an impromptu date invitation, flowers or perfume on any other day of the year. Why? Because then it’s spontaneous, from the heart and truly thoughtful plus much more meaningful. On February 14th it’s an obligation. Any other day it’s a loving gesture.

Hubby feels the same way I do about it. So, we agreed years ago, to simply ignore this obligatory nonsense. In fact this year we’re having dinner at my mother’s house. It was not planned that way intentionally. We’ve been trying to accept her offer for a Sunday dinner for weeks but have had other plans. A few weeks ago we confirmed the Sunday after the Super Bowl and none of us even realized that was V-Day. It doesn’t get more romantic than that.

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We had been friends for years. Our kids were friends. Our husbands were friends. We all spent several nights per week together in one combination or another. All of us hung out at their house at least one night almost every weekend. We went on couples’ dates together. We went on family outings together. We attended concerts, went out to dinner, had parties and barbecues…all together. They were our best friends. They were there for us when we were having marital problems and neither took sides. They were like family.

That all changed one night in July. Turns out there was a big secret lurking in their home that they hid quite well from us, despite all the time we spent over there or how close we thought we were. We knew they were having some marital problems. We knew their teenage son was having some emotional problems. We had no idea, or looking back it’s more honest to say that we had some idea, but we really didn’t know or want to know the whole truth.

My friend called and asked if I’d watch the kids. She was hysterical. Of course I said yes. It seems their marital problems were much more serious than we knew. He was threatening to leave and take all of their money. She was panicked, had some errands to run, and wanted to leave the kids with us for a few hours.

She returned several hours later and that is when the full truth came out. He was in the middle of a full-blown narcissistic rage that would only continue to get worse as the night went on. He made many threats against her, her car, our home, their home and himself. He would hang up on her for refusing to come home and then immediately call back to scream horrendous insults and threats at her. She and the kids were panicked. My kids were panicked.

At one point she was on the phone with the police and kept putting them on hold to answer his calls because she was afraid to not answer him even while on the phone with the police. The whole truth was displayed for us with all the gory details that included years and years of emotional, verbal and physical abuse against my friend and her teenage son. She tried not to let us hear but he was screaming so loudly that even at the lowest volume we could hear him clear as a bell from the next room. She finally became so terrorized that she actually believed he would come to our house and asked if we could go to my sister’s to spend the night there instead.

Of course my sister opened up her home to all of us. We stayed up until 3am talking and just sitting with her and her kids. The whole time the insane phone calls never ceased. He called his wife and mother of his children names I have never considered calling my worst enemy. He threatened suicide. He threatened to burn down the house. He threatened to bash in her car. I heard him say that she had unleashed a monster that she will never be able to escape from. He tried every form of aggression he could think of to get her to come home but she was too scared. She finally turned her phone off and we all slept on the floor in the living room of my sister’s small home.

Of course he never did any of the horrible things he threatened to do the night before. In the morning, sober and more in control, he apologized….sort of. She went home. With her kids. Alone. We offered to go with her. The  night before she had said she would be taking the police with her to pick up clothes for herself and the kids. In the morning, when he was calm, that all changed and they went home. 

My sister and I were terrified of what they were going home to. What he would do once he got them back into their house all alone. When I spoke to my friend later that day she said that they had talked and everything was fine. I imagined him standing over her shoulder or even on another phone listening. I was traumatized and shaky for two weeks afterwards. We had re-lived any given night from our own childhood and were helpless to stop it even though we are adults now.

I have not talked to her since. Her kids have not spoken to mine since that night either. I knew I could never be friends with a known child abuser but I naively thought that she and I could maintain our friendship and that our kids would not lose their friends. I was wrong. I tried for months to get together for dinner or drinks but there was always an excuse.

She and I did have an e-mail correspondence in which she mentioned that she hopes her son is happy and that she has done everything she could to make his life perfect and prepare him for adulthood. That story may still fly with the ladies at school or in the neighborhood but she knows that I know the truth. I couldn’t just go along with the delusion so I reminded her that her son is depressed and about as far from happy as he can be because of his abusive father. She didn’t come out and say why she has cut us out of her life but I can only guess that they need us out of their lives because we know the truth. His image is blown.

I had suspected he was a narcissist. There were many clues. He always had to be in control. Once he even took the wheel when hubby was driving us somewhere because he thought he was about to hit a parked car (he wasn’t). His constant efforts to convince everyone of his perfect image and the perfect home and all the things he needed to make it a perfect home. He was obsessed with appearances including, but not limited to, a perfectly landscaped and manicured lawn. He bragged constantly about his latest frivolous purchases that no one else cared about and had to have the top of the line everything. He always had to be right. I also noticed tell-tale signs in the ways they interacted. When his glass was empty, she jumped to refill it. At parties they hosted she spent the whole time keeping everything immaculate instead of enjoying the party. I could go on and on. I chose to ignore it because we enjoyed their company and because I figured their marriage was their own business.

One night in July changed everything and yet it changed nothing. We lost our best friends but that was really only an illusion anyway, wasn’t it? For all I know we are just one couple in a long line who have been cut off when he has slipped and exposed his true nature. Nothing changed for my friend and her son. I hope they are ok. I hope she gets the courage to take care of herself and her kids. I hope she believes that I will be here for her if she does.

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I’ve written quite a bit about marital problems. Looking back, it’s clear where I could have taken responsibility for things that I didn’t but at the time I probably would have punched anyone for even suggesting that maybe some of our problems belonged to me.

When hubby and I first started marriage counseling, sometime in late 2007, I was not hopeful. He went only begrudgingly. In fact, he went only because I gave him an ultimatum. He spent a huge amount of time and effort on arguing about going (as if we didn’t have enough to argue about already) before the ultimatum. I couldn’t take the fighting anymore and finally “strapped one on” (my therapist’s words) and said we had two options; divorce or marriage counseling.

We were fighting like cats and dogs. We literally could not be in the same room without fighting. I was crawling out of my skin. He was mostly confused, I think. I wanted radical changes in our lives. He didn’t want anything to change. I was accusing him of all sorts of horrible behaviors. He denied them all. I was holding grudges dating back 10 years. He didn’t know what else he could do about that. It was a no-win situation. We had to have help.

Knowing all of that, I’m sure you can imagine how thrilled he was to be there. Our first several visits consisted mostly of him denying we had any reason to be there in the first place and me sobbing in the fetal position. He raised his voice. I cried harder. Good times.

Through all of this, I was somehow able to communicate to the marriage counselor what my grievances were. The biggest one was that I had been betrayed. Never mind that it was 10 years prior. Never mind that he had done everything in his power during that 10 years to make up for it. Never mind that he had apologized no less than 1,000 times and proved over and over again how much he regretted it and that it would never happen again.

I was recently talking about this with someone who put it perfectly. I took very good care of that grudge. I nurtured it and watered it and held it and talked to it until it grew into this diabolical malignant tree whose roots invaded every aspect of both of our lives.

Why did I do that? I was a victim. It makes me sick to write that today, but that’s how I felt. I had been betrayed by the one person in this world I trusted the most. He was the criminal and I was the victim. That role suited me well for 10 years. In that role, I got to view him as a jerk who I could leave at any moment if I decided that’s what I wanted. In that role I got to keep one foot out the door. In that role I didn’t have to truly commit to real intimacy. In that role I was above criticism from him. How can the criminal dare to say anything even remotely critical to the gracious and wounded victim? When he did dare, I was sure to remind him and order was restored.

The marriage counselor was right there with me. She blamed him for everything. When he complained about that, I felt further justified in my own victim role. I was right. A professional said so! I accused him of not wanting to take responsibility for his actions. I was quite sanctimonious. While it was true that there were some things he was not ready to take responsibility for, this was not one of them.

The exact amount of time we spent with that marriage counselor is fuzzy. It was a time of such turmoil that the details aren’t clear. At some point I came to realize what hubby had known all along. She wasn’t the right counselor for us. We never had one session with her in which any progress was made. We yelled and fought and cried throughout each and every session and we certainly didn’t need to pay anyone else for that, we were good at it all on our own. We left feeling further apart every single time. While I always felt like I had someone on my side, it wasn’t helping our relationship.

It took the genius of our second marriage counselor to make me see that there were things I wasn’t taking responsibility for either. The big one was, of course, that grudge that I had been clinging to for so long and my status as victim. The act of betrayal itself was not my responsibility. That was all hubby’s and he knew it. What was my responsibility was letting go of the victim mentality and the resentment. We didn’t have a single chance at success without that. Once I finally learned that lesson, the rest of our issues were much easier to deal with and ditching my victim role felt like a 1000 pound weight was lifted off my shoulders.

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This quote made me laugh. It hits close to home. If my sister reads this she will definitely agree. We did not grow up in an affectionate family. There was no hugging, no touching at all really. In fact, she remembers an actual conversation in which our father told her he was going to stop hugging her because she had gotten too old. I don’t remember any such conversation myself but just thinking of hers creeps me out.

There was no overt sexual abuse in our family. There were definitely no boundaries though along with what is called covert sexual abuse. He told us about his sex life, or lack thereof. Doors were never to be locked and he didn’t even bother closing them. Tickling well past the point of it being even remotely fun. Creepy conversations like the one I mentioned above. You get the idea.

Even our extended family…grandparents, aunts, uncles….were simply not affectionate.

This has been on my mind after some conversations with my friend Consuella over on our friend Dawn’s blog recently. I write about all sorts of details of my emotional life here on this blog but still have an extremely difficult time expressing affection…even in writing, let alone in person. I’ve written about intimacy issues before but I think my issues with affection are more than just fear of rejection, although I’m sure that is a major factor.

When I first met my husband’s mother, she had a bunch of people over. She always had a houseful. As I was introduced to each new person they hugged me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. This completely rocked my world. Why were all these people touching me?! It felt so bizarre. It was uncomfortable and awkward. For me. I’ve gotten used to this practice of greeting each other and saying goodbye with a hug and a kiss with his family. Sort of. I’m much better at it than I was back when I first met his mother but there are still times I feel awkward. My sister and I, as close as we are, never hug.

I don’t have this problem with my sons. I hug and kiss them and tell them I love them all the time. I am also comfortable expressing affection with my husband. Although he may disagree, I feel like I am because we hug and kiss and say I love you every day. That’s way more than what I was used to so it may seem like more to me than it does to him, since he was used to a very affectionate family. Unless I’m caught up in a moment (which is rare) I’m still not comfortable talking about affectionate feelings.

It’s not that I don’t want to or that those feelings aren’t there. I think it’s a combination of intimacy issues, boundary issues and that I simply don’t know how. Or rather that I’m still learning how.

Take using chopsticks for example. If you grew up using chopsticks every day to eat your meals you would be an expert early on in life. I never used chopsticks to eat anything. It’s something of a novelty when we go out to dinner but I’m more likely to fling a single piece of rice across the room than I am to actually get any food into my mouth when I use them. For me, it’s the same with expressing affection. I don’t really know what I’m doing so it feels uncomfortable.

Just like the chopsticks, if I practice, I will get better. That is evident in how far I’ve already come. As I mentioned, for the most part I am used to, and even enjoy the hug/kiss, hello/goodbye that is customary in my husband’s family. When hubby and I first got married I not only shut but also locked, the door when I took a shower. I never wanted to cuddle when we went to sleep. It felt suffocating to have his arm around me. I even built a little wall of pillows at one point. Now, I’m all about spooning when we go to sleep and have even mentioned that I can’t believe I used to dislike it.

I still have a long way to go. When I responded to Dawn’s lovely post it felt to me as if I had just gushed all sorts of emotion and gotten all schmoopie. When my sister read what I wrote she said it was not at all gushy and was actually more like a butterfly hug (that’s what we call a 1/2 hug with a couple of light pats on the back – the only kind of hug that has ever actually occurred between our family members to the best of our knowledge). Even in writing, I just don’t know what I’m doing when it comes to expressing affection. Piss me off and I’ll write entire posts about it, but love and affection….my natural instinct is to go for the cocktail or my standby….”I love you man.”.

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I’m out of limbo.

I’ll start with the worst news since that’s how I usually choose to receive news. Bad news first. The new doctor is not going to be able to treat my friend. This is, of course, the worst possible news but not exactly unexpected. There was some hope but really nothing has changed. Her condition and prognosis are still the same as before she met this doctor. Unfortunately, she is still in limbo but fortunately, still alive. She is a fighter.

I have another friend whom I have wanted to have a conversation with since the last time I saw her in July. Since then she has not found the time to get together so I finally sent her an e-mail. Her response was actually pretty much what I expected. She cannot explain why we are no longer friends except that she has chosen to stay in a bad situation in which she allows herself to be controlled by someone else and the person holding the strings is not someone I consider to be a friend. It’s too bad. She was a good friend for over 6 years. My sons were friends with her kids and they miss them. They don’t understand why we don’t see them anymore. I explain it the best I can but in all honesty I don’t really understand it either. I do feel better having gotten it out there in the open and letting her know I am here if she changes her mind.

And finally…the good great news. I have a new job! I couldn’t be more excited about this.  It’s similar to what I’m doing now except I get to work from home full-time. Every day. No commute. No office. Ever. Plus there is room for advancement which there is not in my current position. So, the new year will also mark the beginning of a new career opportunity for me.

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How do you define family? Is it as simple as including only people who are related by blood or marriage?

My mother, for example, seems to have a very strict set of rules by which she defines family. In one of the biggest arguments she and I have ever had she pointed out that I am only related to her sisters, brother and mother because I am her daughter. No, it wasn’t a childhood genealogy lesson. I was 27 years old. I had a pretty good handle on how genealogy works. The argument was about who was to be invited to my wedding. We disagreed and she said that her family would be upset with her if I didn’t invite some people that I was not planning on inviting. It was when I pointed out that it was my decision and that our family members would be upset with me and not with her that she felt compelled to point out that they were really more her family than mine. Why can’t memories like that one be repressed I wonder?

It’s not that simple for me. Of course my husband and kids are my immediate family, as is my mother and my sister who is also my closest friend. In addition to my blood relatives and relatives by marriage, I consider the majority of my friends to be my family. In fact, I am closer to many of my friends than I am to most of my relatives.

This is one of the things I love about my husband’s relatives. I’ve always felt like part of the family. His siblings, parents, aunts, uncles and cousins don’t have such strict rules about who is family. Many friends are called aunts, uncles or cousins even though they are not truly related in any way. They are still part of the family.

One friend in particular comes to mind as an excellent example of this. I believe we first came to know him when he became a high school friend of my husband’s brother. My sister met him at a party at my mother’s-in-law house and they dated for a while. Later, he and my husband became friends. Through various parties and holidays my mother-in-law became friends with his parents. We all became friends with his siblings and his girlfriend, who is now his wife. His youngest sister recently completed a high school project by working with my sister for a day. Our lives are all intertwined. They are all family. We’ve disagreed and bickered over the years. There was some awkwardness when he and my sister stopped dating and some more when he started dating his wife since he and my sister had dated yet were still friends. We all moved on from those things and continue to be close after all these years.

One of my girlfriends comes immediately to mind as well. We grew up next door to each other. She and I were roommates for 2 years. Her father gave the eulogy at my father’s funeral. We stood up in each others’ weddings. We’ve spent a lifetime together. Sometimes we’re caught up in the business of day to day life and don’t see each other or talk as often as we’d like. Sometimes we take trips together and see each other quite often. No matter what, we know we’re here for each other, to laugh or to cry with.

Related or not, the people whom you most enjoy spending time with, whom you care about and truly know…that’s family to me.

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I had no boundaries at all when I started dating. I had extremely low expectations about how I would be treated by men. Basically if a man was interested in me, was attractive and did not scream at or hit me, he was a keeper. One of the first guys I dated for any length of time during high school treated me like garbage. I only know that now. I didn’t know it then.

We worked together at a part-time after school job. We didn’t go to the same school. We did have some mutual friends. He asked me out and our first date was to be at a Halloween party. I was scheduled to work that night but called in sick. My boss, used to dealing with lying teenagers, gave me a hard time about it.

He stood me up. For our first date. I waited for hours making up excuse after excuse for his possible tardiness in picking me up and lack of communication about what was keeping him. When I finally stopped rationalizing his behavior I was devastated. I spent hours crying and trying to figure out what I had done wrong.

By the time I saw him at work a few days later I had already resolved to not let him know it bothered me at all. He did apologize but gave me no real explanation other than none of his other friends were bringing dates to the party. He said he still wanted to go out. I resisted for about a week but finally gave in and agreed. His chasing me was flattering. This time he was punctual. My parents loved him because he was tall, blond, good looking and behaved respectfully towards them.

He had recently been dumped by a long term girlfriend. She was a cheerleader. He was still pining over her. He even had a little shrine to her in his room complete with pictures of her and little mementos she had given him. It creeped me out but I rationalized this by telling myself it was a recent heartbreak that I would help him get over. Can you smell the co-dependency in the air even then?

His parents grilled me about my grades, what I wanted to do with my life and what extra curricular activities I was involved in. They were still pining over the ex-girlfriend too because they mentioned her and all of her activities often. I knew I could never measure up to her but I was determined to win them all over with my sparkling personality. The truth was, my after school activities involved making sure dinner was on the table as soon as my parents walked in the door and avoiding being hit or screamed at. I couldn’t exactly tell these fine, upstanding, cheerleader-loving people about that dirty little secret.

I can’t remember how long we dated but it was longer than I had dated anyone else. I was on the pill (that’s a post in itself) and decided I wanted to see what sex was all about. With him. I was extremely innocent, having done nothing more than make out with boys previously. I was curious and protected plus I figured he’d be less likely to dump me if we were having sex.

We were at his house alone one day making out on the couch when he suggested we go up to his room. I probably beat him up the stairs I was so eager to please. We were in bed, my clothes strewn about the floor of his room, about to do the deed when his parents came home early. He jumped out of bed, collected all of my clothes, threw them at me and pushed me towards the stairs telling me to get dressed in the bathroom downstairs and to hurry up. I did as I was told.

We went out once more after that incident, to one of his friend’s parties. He ignored me and flirted with some other girl the whole night. On the ride home he broke up with me. I acted like it didn’t bother me.

Once home I cried and cried, again wondering what I had done wrong. What I had done wrong! He had done everything wrong and wasn’t worth a second of my time. Reliving this is making me cringe. I want to build a flux capacitor, rent a DeLorean and travel back to 1986 to smack some sense into my 16 year old self. There are so many things wrong with the way I saw myself and my thought processes that I don’t even know where to begin. I shudder to think of what I would have become if I had had sex with him. I know I would have assumed that he broke up with me because I was bad at it and probably would never have tried it again. I’d be the creepy-spinster-cat-lady on the block most likely.

This all came up because I’ve come to the realization that I still have boundary issues and allow inappropriate behavior from men in my life. It’s not them, it’s me. I send off this signal that gives them the green light to behave badly. I allowed all sorts of nonsense from my own husband for years before realizing we had to change our relationship or end it. Luckily that worked out.

It’s other men in my life where I continue to find myself in uncomfortable conversations that I should not be allowing to continue. I was recently having a conversation with a man about a very serious and painful subject. He kept bringing the conversation back to sex. I kept laughing as if he were joking and then changing the subject back to the topic at hand. I made excuses for him since he is going through a lot right now. That’s horse-shit. I don’t care what he’s going through, nothing is a good enough excuse for this married man to be soliciting me, a married woman, for sex, “joking” or not.

This is not the first man with whom I’ve had these sorts of conversations either. That’s how I came to realize that it’s my lack of boundaries, not their behavior, that’s causing me confusion and feelings of being used. It feels just like it did to be the aforementioned asshole’s “girlfriend” back in high school. It’s time to challenge these “absolute truths” and stand up for myself once and for all. If I don’t insist on appropriate behavior I will continue to feel like that pathetic discarded 16 year old. I don’t need this type of attention from other men to feel validated anymore. It never validates me anyway.

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I’m breaking with my usual tradition of parent-bashing after my mother clearly demonstrated to me today that on some level, she does get me. She may not approve or agree with everything I do or say but it does appear that she can sometimes at least see who I am.

Our family has a time honored tradition of using humor to diffuse uncomfortable, painful and awkward situations. I know this tradition is not unique to my family but it is truly the one thread that binds us. My father was the ringleader of this coping mechanism and he taught his daughters well. My mother is a lot more reserved, particularly in public, but she usually does laugh at our shenanigans even if only to not feel left out.

My hubby is a bit more like my mother in this respect. He’s reserved in public but laughs with (at) us most of the time. I sometimes think he secretly wishes we’d just shut up once we really get going. My sister’s hubby is completely on board with us. In fact I think he’s helped us take our game to the next level. Our specialty is inappropriate humor and more specifically, inappropriate humor at inappropriate times or occasions. We have had several conversations that began with, “Remember what you said at that funeral…”. The more twisted the better. Nothing is sacred. There are no boundaries.

I don’t know when it began but one of us must have decided that confessing to things we got away with when we still lived at home during Thanksgiving dinner was a wonderful tradition. We do it every year. I’m actually trying to come up with something for this year. I only have a few weeks left. The pressure is on. We try to out-do each other and the more shocking to my mother, the better.

Today when I came home from work my sister’s car was in front of my house. My mom watches my sons before and after school so I expected her to be here and she was. My sister being here was not at all traditional and I was actually slightly alarmed. The first thought that popped into my head (I did mention twisted, right?!) was that they were doing an intervention. On me. But the only thing I could think of that would require an intervention was blogging. Of course when I came into the house there was no intervention. She had gotten off work early so just came over to hang out. When I half-jokingly said I was afraid it was an intervention my sister said, “Yes it is. For blogging.”. We truly do share a brain.

My mother just laughed at us but said it reminded her of a sign that she saw in a catalog that was perfect for me. She tried to get out of telling me anything more because she hadn’t meant to mention it. She was planning on getting it for me for Christmas. She said as soon as she saw it she thought, “Cyndi”. Another tradition my sister and I started long ago is that when a situation like this arises you must spill the beans. Once we have knowledge of a secret, we must know that secret. Immediately. Along those lines, we insisted that my mother tell us what the sign said.

I’ve come to embrace my craziness. She may not be proud of it. She definitely doesn’t embrace it. But on some level she does get it, accept it and is able to laugh about it. That’s good enough for me. This is the sign that made my mother immediately think of her eldest daughter:

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We can’t (or won’t) always avoid chronic manipulators in our lives. They may be family members, bosses, co-workers, friends or acquaintances who, for a variety of reasons, we cannot or will not simply cut them out of our lives. My mother is a perfect example of this. There are no circumstances under which I will ever cut her out of my life.

When I first began my quest for understanding my own depression, anxiety, insomnia and overall feelings of hopelessness, I had to go way back to figure out where my thought processes started and that, of course, was in childhood. Once I came to the realization that my mother was not a co-victim of my father’s abuse but in fact, a co-abuser, I was extremely angry. During that period of time I learned to distance myself from her, to the point where I sometimes wouldn’t return her calls for weeks. This was as much self-preservation as it was an act of kindness towards her. I recognized that I was dredging up all sorts of pain from the past, that my anger was about things that cannot be changed or fixed, and I didn’t want to completely lose it and unleash all that anger on her in the present. I was working on myself not on blaming her forever.

Before I realized all that, I had a lot of questions for her about different events from my childhood. I asked them of her when I was feeling calm and was not accusatory. I would wait anywhere from several days to several weeks to actually ask the questions that came up in order to be certain that I didn’t start the conversation off in a hostile manner. I was open and honest about why I was asking.

I finally stopped asking due to the manipulative ways in which she would answer these questions. I wasn’t gaining any real insight and was actually feeling much worse about myself and angrier towards her. There are hundreds of examples but the real value in those seemingly pointless conversations was that I learned how to stop being manipulated.

This cooling-off period not only served as a way for me to avoid venting all my pent-up anger at a 64 year old woman for things she did or didn’t do over 20 years ago. It also served as a break from the manipulation game we were still playing. She used many different tactics, I always gave her what she wanted, and then I was left feeling used, pissed off or depressed.

Once we resumed more regular communication, I was more honest and open with her than I had ever been. She seemed to be as well. When I started to recognize a manipulation ploy I would call her on it or simply not respond to it at all. I would either calmly refuse, tell her I’d have to get back to her or sometimes even laugh at the absurdity of whatever she was saying. She learned that I was no longer allowing her to pull the strings. I wasn’t even upset about it. It just wasn’t happening anymore.

She still tries once in a while. The most recent example I can think of involves this blog. She does not like that I write about such personal things, particularly if they have anything to do with her. She is still of the belief that everything should be kept secret and only the false image should be shared with the world. Obviously, I disagree. I have never really felt compelled to explain much to her about why I do this and she rarely acknowledges that she reads it at all if she does. But she does throw in little barbs about how I should be careful about what I write, sometimes requests that I not write about specific things she tells me, and one time suggested I try a different type of writing. Are you ready for this one? Harlequin romance novels.

She set it up well, claiming that my grandmother was the one who suggested it because I’m such a good writer and I could make quite a bit of money from writing these types of novels. As in all good manipulation attempts, there is a grain of truth to it. My grandmother does read Harlequin romance novels. That’s where the truth ends. My grandmother has no idea what a blog is, has never been on the internet and has never read anything I’ve written.

If this conversation had taken place two years ago I would have been enraged. I would have angrily accused her of not understanding me, not supporting me and trying to tell me what to do. She would have become defensive and blatantly criticized me for the things I write about. I’m certain she would have gone so far as to imply or outright tell me that I am intentionally trying to hurt and/or embarrass her as a guilt-tripping tactic.

Instead, since I have learned to ignore this nonsense and do as I please, I calmly and even amicably, called her bluff. I laughed and explained that I have no interest in fiction writing, find writing about personal issues therapeutic and have no intention of stopping. I scoffed at the idea that my grandmother has any clue if I’m a good writer or that she could possibly even know what a blog is or what mine is about.

That was the end of that conversation. She may or may not have been happy with me. I’ll never know. I was happy with the way I responded and since there was no payoff, she did not pursue it again.

It takes two people for a manipulative transaction to be completed. Both people play a part in the game. The manipulator wants something. The target doesn’t want to give it but does so anyway just to avoid the manipulator. In this game the target always loses twice. First, the target gives the manipulator whatever it is they wanted even though the target does not really want to give it. Secondly, the target experiences negative feelings for having given in.

Therein lies the answer to how to deal with a manipulative person that you are not able to completely remove from your life. You stop playing your part in the game. The only reason manipulation works is….well, it works. If the target stops allowing it to work, there is no payoff for the manipulator. The relationship changes dramatically once the payoff is removed.

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