Cool!
Our parents teach us the very definition of love—most of the time destructively and poorly.
My therapist thinks I should stop minimizing my friendship with my kid’s mother. That’s confusing. Let me explain.
I realized how important this friendship was. I was trying to figure out why any new development in my life didn’t feel valid unless I received a text back from her that said, “cool!” Because, I mean, that’s all I ever got. And I am not a rube. I am well aware of the fact that she clacked out “cool!” while rolling her eyes or perhaps even muttering “like I give a f*ck” under her breath. So, that little one word text had to represent something other than what it was at face value.
I hate to say it or even think it, but it was a lot like the dynamic between me and my parents. My parents, as you already know if you follow my writing, had some odd style of parenting that kind of resembled socialism. They meted out their attention on what they considered an “as needed”basis. The child with obvious behavioral issues received quite a bit of negative attention. The child with social issues was given a lot of positive attention and that left everyone else with very little.
I survived off the meager diet of “cool!” for most of my childhood. I would take that “cool!” and run with it. I’d imagine how they talked to each other about how proud they were of me and how much they adored me, but all that bullshit lived in my imagination and only when I was in an optimistic mood. But, it was better than the alternative.
I’m not entirely sure what my parents were shooting for, in terms of desired results, but when they were in bad moods, which was often, they’d give me the attitude of, “Yes, yes, we all know how great you are and how much everyone likes you. Now can we get back to what we were doing, Mr. Wonderful?”
Adolescence made me somewhat indifferent to this uncharitable reaction, but as a pre-teen, it hurt. It hurt a lot.
This lead me to wonder about the problems I keep running into with romantic relationships. I love to be in love, but tend to flake when things get difficult. I love to have my ideal person listen to me and respond, “cool!” but I love solitude, also. Many might suggest that a person can’t just compartmentalize relationships with others. That a person will only give you what you need when you react in kind. One can’t expect any grace from someone unless there exists clear reciprocation.
All of this is true but people, as a rule, are weird and this is just my version of weird. You’d have to have been living under a rock if you never saw an article in your Facebook feed that propounded the theory that we choose people to love that are like our parents. Unfortunately, that idea is a bit too one dimensional. Not altogether erroneous, but it’s an oversimplification.
Our parents teach us the very definition of love—most of the time destructively and poorly. So I kind of feel like this emptiness that I am experiencing at the loss of the right person texting “cool!” when I am begging for their praise and wanting so bad for them to be proud of me, is simply the closest thing to what I grew up with. It’s what looks like love to me—as f*cked up as that is.
But this is why people like me go to therapy every week. The task of demolishing what was built in my formative years and rebuilding in middle age is nothing short of monumental. I used to have this fantasy that after a year of weekly visits, my therapist would send me out into the world, I’d choose someone healthy and age appropriate and then live happily ever after. It’s been fourteen months now and I’m just beginning to understand the whys of my actions and behavior. Now, it’s likely time to start fixing it.
I never thought I’d ever make it through a year without getting involved with someone, so you can imagine how I feel even hinting that I am going to continue on this path for, yet, another year. Well, that’s the beauty of transference. I kind of feel like I am in a relationship with my therapist and, for right now, that’ll do. Intellectually, I know how dangerous that is, but I also know that when it is time to fall in love with someone who I am not paying, I will be able to detach from my therapist. And for now, it’s serving a very beneficial purpose.
It’s feeding me those things I’ve always longed for, unconditionally. Every single week, she looks at me, right into the nucleus of my soul and says, “I’m so proud of you.” The only thing that is missing is the ability to get that in real time. Like the moment something wonderful or tragic happens. I am sure, however, there’s something to be gained in learning to just sit with a thing for a moment without needing an immediate audience.
And it’s only going to make me stronger.
If it doesn’t kill me first.
Fuckin’ Neitzsche. 🤣
"Weird & wonderful" this one was to read, Billy. Another telling story that's so relatable, it's kinda freaky. But aren't we all made of sticks & stones, along with our tricks & bones? Seems as if our lives parallel in many ways, as I also feel very similar toward my "therapist" aka grief whisperer. He's trying to guide me back to feeling fully alive again, from afar, and that feels damn good. Way too infrequent but like you mentioned, learning to hold onto the moment is a lesson in growth. A self-awareness that brings much awaited anticipation toward the next exchange. Thank you for shining your light, repeatedly.
p.s.--I'm proud of you :) & how'd your weekend gig go down? hoping it was a friendly frozen frenzy
Billy, I love how you bare your life to us and in your voice. Holding nothing back. I am proud of you for taking time off from a "love" relationship and listening to yourself as you and your therapist meet weekly. Learning to love yourself, and all it's good and messy parts is number one, for all of us. And, that's cool.