Listen to the Getting Back to One discussion
– the genesis for this article
RED THREAD: LOVE
In our lives we seek to find love, be loved, and feel comforted and safe in the embrace of another human. Moms become the archetype of love that drives much of our distress and dysfunction. We seek a return to the mother-and-child relationship. It is a quest that is fruitless and flawed from the start.
In my earliest memories it is my sister, ten years older, who represents foundational love and safety to me. Mom was around, attending to the work of being a wealthy socialite with a new position of power, a new lake house worthy of fame, and the charm and charisma of an artist. She married a man who was handsome, from a good family, and set for success as a family doctor. Perfect.
My sister, often referred to as my favorite sister, was where I learned and evolved in the constant supportive love of a “parent.” She was ten when I was born. A perfect plaything, a living doll, a moldable foldable friend. She taught me spiritual values, the power of meditation and TM at ten. She gave me an aspirational artist’s passion, something I look for in a future partner. But, did she warp my prospects too powerfully? Could I be happy with an ordinary person? Someone less obsessed with making a mark?
My mom plays both a supportive and antagonistic role. She rejected my father’s alcoholism and its devastating effect on our family. She booted the king from his own castle, then paid dearly for the loss. She never let herself be drawn into another romantic relationship. Her love life was over. She’d married the man of her dreams. She folded her aspirations into her children.
My other sister, the closest sibling, was not much of an ally. She resented being booted from the baby of the family role, and never really forgave me. She did often crush me at Monopoly. That’s pretty much her game and her strategy for life. Not mine. We don’t really connect on much. She is the only remaining family member I have.
My daughter forms the core of my resilience and aspirational parenting. She is doing well. Drinks a bit much. Is currently withdrawn from me, but that’s a cyclical thing. I’m okay letting her run without me for a bit.
Now, let’s back up to the top for a quick rundown of my relationships as an adult.
Wife #1: my sister’s doppleganger. A huge mistake. Damaged emotionally. Beautiful. Thin. Artistic. Enough said.
Wife #2: mother of my two children. Damaged emotionally. Athletic. Artistic. Detached from her emotional history: mentally ill mother, stoic father. She struggles to define and maintain happiness, seems to imagine it is someone else’s fault if she’s unhappy. She’s still unhappy.
Alcoholic: a loving and hilariously fit runner. I learned about an alternative path called “harm reduction.” The bottles of wine arriving from all over the globe won her over. I learned, again, that I can’t force someone to change.
Sexy: an unhinged young teacher showed me the dark side of “dating” sites. Had straps under the mattress of her bed when we met. Um… Nope. Great ride, though. Someone who absolutely knew what would get her off and was unafraid to tell me how to facilitate her pleasure. A necessary skill. She bonked and fled at six months, says it was a pattern. I still get aroused at the idea of kissing her.
Hippie: a solo mom of a sperm-donor kid. She wanted that boy more than she wanted anything in life. Only problem was, she forgot to develop any adult relationships, so when it was time to have a kid, there were no appropriate candidates. She breastfed her son until he was nearly three. Um, red flag. Still wiped his ass at eight. Lives in Vermont near her alcoholic brother and his family. Brrr. I guess they are playing ice hockey. She acts like she wants to remain friends for her son, but doesn’t make any effort.
Angel: loved me deeply and fully. While I experienced “secure attachment” with this amazing woman, another teacher, I was not able to get beyond the she’s beautiful. She is beautiful. She is not sure what she wants to become as she retires from teaching. I couldn’t help with the quest. Even asking the question about her dreams was seen as a threat. Without the presence of a “third thing” I learned even the perfect woman gets boring and complacent. I am not ready to settle. Just beautiful and loving me was ultimately not enough.
Self: back to solo. Here’s where the proof is in the execution. I am not happy with my current life situation, but… I am happy. I am filled with joy. I write and find my own happy place. This then, this tappity tapping, is part of my life’s joy. I may be going to work in an hour, but I’m going to write and dream until I have to leave the house. This joy, this expression of myself, is part of my resilience.
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