Not My Rock: The Big Switcheroo

The Big Switcheroo

I keep coming up against some confusion about my childhood.  Well, there’s a lot of confusion, but this particular point just keeps showing up over and over.  For a while it had the ability to stop me in my tracks, but the more frequently I’ve had to find ways over, around and through it, the more I begin to understand. 

About those character and role labels we tend to be quick to throw around and stick on people, especially people we have a hard time understanding; no sir, I don’t like ‘em.  Although it’s convenient to be able to share a common language with our current loved ones who (hopefully) understand and care about us, I think labels can create single dimension views of people and situations.  They encourage us to look at sketch drawings of memories and life events that really deserve technicolor and 3D on the big screen with surround sound blasting from all sides. 

They provide an all-too convenient box to place people in and often rule out mixed emotions, traits or subtleties.  If I announce to you that I am a Mother, that will be the box you put me in – you’ll never stop to wonder if I also happen to be a professional sky-diver or a lead singer in a rock band. 

If I tell you that I’m the daughter of a NM, you might never get to know that I am also a recovering alcoholic or that I am an artist of sorts.  The whole truly is greater than the sum of the parts, typically, especially when it comes to people and human nature.

So, labels can create confusion, at least for me.  I’ve had to spend a bit of time unraveling this particular knot... I blog here that I am the daughter of a NM and EF, and that is currently and for the last couple of decades been true.  But the older I get and the harder I work to unearth, examine and properly dispose of (again,) the skeletons in my FOO’s origin, the more I wonder.  Can a zebra change its stripes?

Because, frankly, up until a particular event happened when I was thirteen, I remember my parents differently than they were after.  The event is simply explained, though, it certainly didn’t feel simple and actually altered my life as well as the lives of my FOO very significantly.  When I was thirteen I told my mother that I was going to kill myself if we didn’t, as a family, seek counseling.

We did.  Now, we had to see a counselor in the nearest big city ninety miles away from where we lived, because we didn’t want anyone to know that my father’s perfect minister’s (yes, really, he was ordained and everything,) family was in trouble.  After six months of weekly visits, I revealed to my mother that my father had sexually molested me.  He admitted it and also admitted that he’d molested OS, too. 

The counselor did what counselors are required by law to do; he reported it to the police.  An interview was scheduled for me with my school counselor, whom I’d never actually met, a sheriff’s deputy and a health and welfare child services worker.   Unfortunately, I’d made my revelations right before Christmas break, so the interview couldn’t be scheduled until after.  I therefore had two weeks at home with my lovely family, and can see very clearly with retrospect that this is the first clear, direct incident of mass scapegoating that I was subjected to from ALL members of my family.  It was, frankly, what I would imagine hell will be like if there is one down there just for me.  They hated me for telling the truth and they had two whole weeks with me isolated and lacking allies to let me know that ALL THIS WAS MY FAULT!  I survived – don’t we always?

My mother and father sat me down the night before the big interview with the police and school counselor and ‘talked’ to me.  It’s the first time that I ever remember my mother having and using a voice as the primary force in a conversation in which my father was also present.  Prior to that day, my father had been the tyrant of the household – his voice, his choices, his mood, his preferences were all that mattered.  We did what he wanted to do.  What felt what he wanted to feel.  If he was angry, we were the cause.  If he was sad, we needed to behave appropriately sadly as well.  If he was ‘on’ and happy, then goddamnit we’d better put on those happy faces. 

In contrast, my mother had always been a sort of non-person; she was really only ever an extension of him.  If he was hungry, she provided food.  If he was talking (and he always was,) she was listening and nodding.  If he was angry, she was in the other room.  I remember my mother frequently in my early childhood memories as a sort of ‘Dad’s Shadow.’  She walked behind him and stood slightly behind him always.

The conversation when I was thirteen is the earliest evidence I can see of the seismic shift that happened in my family.  My mother did all the talking in that conversation while my dad sat quietly beside her, hands folded in his lap; contrite.  She told me that I should, of course, tell the truth.  Always tell the truth... but (you saw that coming, didn’t you?) that if I persisted in telling ‘stories’ to the police the next day, my father would go to prison for a very long time.  She told me that we would be homeless if my father went to prison; that we would lose our home and that she wouldn’t be able to feed or support us.  She asked me if that’s what I wanted.

I lied, of course.  I was thirteen years old and being given the very clear message that I was responsible for the hypothetical ruination of the only family I’d ever known if I didn’t lie. 

It changed everything for me – I went from being a straight A student who skipped the 8^th grade to getting D’s and C’s in some classes.  I started drinking and I had sex for the first time and then went on a run of promiscuity that I am still shocked didn’t have greater consequences.  I truly don’t know how I survived the next four years until I turned 17 and moved out of the house.

I’ve recognized how it changed my life for many years, but it’s only been recently that I’ve come to see how it changed the roles my parents played, too.  I don’t know the actual mechanics of it, but it seems clear that my parents traded their roles after or during that horrific period when I was thirteen.

Prior to that, my egomaniacal, aggrandizing, self-promoting, center of the universe abusive father had been the Narc and my weak, cowering, voiceless, bland mother had been the Enabler.  Then, like an emotional Chinese Fire Drill – they switched. 

Since then my mother has embraced the NM role – her primary manipulations center around her poor, poor self being so mistreated and abused (largely by her scapegoated daughter Vanci,) and her weak, fragile immune system and sickness (no real diagnosis in 15 years, but the addiction to pain killers is very, very real.)  We should all do what she wants, dontcha know, because she might not be around much longer... Sigh.

Dad’s turned into the EF.  He has no opinion unless she’s sanctioned it, his job is to support her and to keep her on that Ultimate Victim Throne.  His existence, best I can tell, is allowed solely to caretake and protect NM from reality. 

Weird, right?  I can’t help but wondering if anyone else out there has a similar experience?

Now that I’m all grown up and have a family of my own, I have a bit of understanding of the temporary nature of some roles in families and support systems.  I know how those of us in loving and mutually beneficial relationship alter our stripes somewhat based on the current need; if my DH is sick, I am his caretaker and if I am hurt or ill, he’s mine.  But these role fulfillments are temporary and situational, it seems.  No matter the short term hats we wear in crises, DH and I always revert back to our more permanent roles in the long run. 

The constantly shifting dynamics in a normal relationship appear to be a matter of only little fissures, subtle and fleeting changes.  Our zebra stripes may blur, in other words, but they don’t truly change.

In my FOO, the parental roles changed drastically and stayed that way, which makes me think that one of the underlying character flaws of either the narcissist or the enabler has got to be a complete lack of self-understanding.  Not an excuse for behavior, certainly, but the more I understand the sickness, the closer I seem to get to relief. 

Love,

Vanci