» Life Topics » Parenting » The Teen Years
A Kink In The Hose
By: By Judy Martin, MFT
After opening the garage door with the remote opener, my six-year-old daughter, Melissa, and I walked up the back stairs to our flat. Fishing keys from my pocket to open the lock, I discovered that my house key was missing. I knocked loudly on the back door, hoping my 18-year-old-daughter, Rebecca, could hear me over her loud rap music. While waiting for her to respond, I studied my key chain, as if the missing house key would suddenly appear. But neither my key nor my teen daughter showed up.
Remembering that I’d hidden a key in the back yard, I told Melissa, "Wait on the landing, I’m going out back to get the key that’s hanging on the fence." Now back up the stairs, I unlocked the door and deadheaded for Rebecca’s room. Despite my ongoing and vociferous protests, she, oblivious to my feelings, without asking, takes my things. "Did you take a key from my chain?" I asked angrily. Haughtily incensed by my accusation, she shouted, "Why would I take your key!" "What about Tiffany?" I snarled back. She slammed her bedroom door closed.
I thought about her friend, Tiffany, a teen with a broken wing. She’d been in my house with Rebecca all day. I’d never felt comfortable with their friendship, but when my daughter turned 18, I began curbing my comments and control over her choice of friends. Might Tiffany have taken the key? Yes!
The risk of theft and trespass left me nakedly vulnerable. Instantly, I conceived ways to protect myself. For sure, I’d hide my laptop, the primary tool of my livelihood. The locks would be changed. I’d hide my keys and my purse. After hours of exhaustive planning, I shuttered myself against this storm and went to sleep. When I awakened, still another key was missing! Flooded with hot angry tears, I confronted my daughter. Again, she was indignant. After all that I’ve done for her, how could she do this to me?
Realizing that I’d not yet alerted my equally vulnerable ex-husband and his brother (who live in the same building as my daughters and me), I spurred myself into action and told them: "In the past twelve hours, two of my house keys have been stolen. Either Tiffany or Rebecca took them. I doubt that I’ll ever find out who did, but I think we better get the locks changed right away." They, both weary from seven years of intractable difficulty with Rebecca, vented their anger and frustration. I, filled with despair, listened silently and held my tears back.
In the 18 months since Rebecca had returned home to live with me (after spending three years in residential treatment), amongst countless daily annoyances, I endured a flooded hallway, newly purchased furniture ruined by brown hair dye, and her ongoing failure to keep agreements. Irritating as each of these actions were, I continually reminded myself that Rebecca was no longer the thirteen-year-old girl that we’d sent into treatment, the self destructive teen who made suicide gestures, cut school, and ran away.
I wanted to "hang in there" and encourage and support her. She had graduated from high school a year early, and she had, for six months, been working thirty hours a week. Later that afternoon, while out on the sidewalk helping Melissa run her lemonade stand, I spoke with my ex-husband as he did his laundry in the garage. "I don’t suppose those keys have miraculously reappeared?" he asked sarcastically. I started crying again. "This key thing has really gotten to me. I’ve worked so hard to give Rebecca time to learn from her mistakes, but I’m the one who keeps suffering the fallout. She’s oblivious." He said nothing and walked away.
Minutes later Rebecca burst into the garage and hissed venomously, "Thanks, Mom. Dad just finished telling me how worthless I am and to pack my bags and get out." "Don’t talk to me like that," I cautioned. "I had to tell Dad and Chuck about the missing keys. They’re as vulnerable to theft as I am. We’ve arranged for a locksmith." The tone of my voice matched her surly gaze as I added, "Listen, I’m not responsible for what Dad said to you. I had nothing to do with it. You know darned well how committed I’ve been to helping you." She stomped off, slamming a door behind her.
While Melissa sold lemonade to our neighbors, my ex-husband and his brother conferred in whispered tones at the back the garage. Strategizing together like two generals, their call to action was quick and decisive. My brother-in-law, disgusted and ready to be rid of Rebecca’s ongoing disruptiveness, decided to pay her rental deposit. My warrior-like ex-husband would neutralize Rebecca’s new assault against the integrity of our home by subsidizing her rent.
Picturing the reality of her living miles away in her own apartment, my ex-husband, his brother, and Rebecca (who would soon enjoy the freedom of her own apartment) were extremely satisfied with their decisions. But for the better part of that Sunday evening and Monday, moving through the day as if swimming in Jell-o, I could perform only simple, mindless tasks. Seeking a reason for this dense pall, I culled my inventory: I felt hurt. I felt judged. I felt guilty. And in some elusive way that I couldn’t quite grasp, I felt linked to Rebecca’s bad behavior.
While each of these perceptions had some resonance for me, I’d not yet mined the ore from the rock the "core truth" of my experience. But as I relived the hurtful exchanges of the previous day, what was clear, was that I’d taken my daughter’s comments to heart. Years ago, recognizing my sensitivity to other people’s moods, I devised a "cleansing" practice. I tell myself: "OK, any attitudes, emotions, or sensations that don’t belong to me leave now!" Then, I go about my life and within minutes feel lighter, happier. And that is precisely what happened this day.
Like sun breaking though thick fog, I saw clearly that, like a kink in a hose, I’d cut myself off from the flow of love within me. And, emptied of that vital force, my daughter’s belief that I was kicking her out of her own home rooted itself within me.
Initially, finding some clarity left me feeling lighter and more at peace. But it irritated the heck out of me that I had fallen into such a funk in the first place. My daughter often acted like a jerk. So why was I giving her opinion so much power? Searching for reasons resembled going through the trash trying to find a phone number that I’d inadvertently thrown away. It was an odious but necessary task.
Then...pay dirt! I had not taken a stand against my husband’s command to Rebecca to "move out." I felt guilty that I said and did nothing to stop this. Overdoing and sacrifice have been a means of convincing myself that I’m a good mother and a good person. Yet, sick to death of her unrelenting disregard for my property and disrespect for my feelings, oh boy, did I want her out of my hair!
My difficulty in allowing myself to have what I wanted "kinked my hose." I thought the right thing to do was to give Rebecca time to mature, even if it required me to endure multiple daily annoyances. I believed, were she to move into her own apartment now, she’d severely flounder. But just maybe, while still under my roof and time working in her favor, she’d become more conscious and responsible.
Yielding to my wants for peace and comfort in my own home seemed totally selfish. And, having grown up with a mother who was totally self-absorbed, the scent of my own selfishness was as noxious as being sprayed by a skunk. But I’ve earned a booby prize for trying to not be like my mother. My views on selfishness have caused me to trade my happiness for my daughter’s and society’s Good Housekeeping Seal Of Approval. Most of me protests, "That’s really stupid!" Nevertheless, fear lurks beneath the surface. My self-removal from the stream of my own love bears witness to the volatility of straying from sacrifice as a standard for good mothering. Like blackberry vines, the roots of maternal sacrifice go deep, are hard to pull, and they grow back easily.
I don’t know what the future holds. My keys never re-appeared. But in a few days, Rebecca, with her Dad’s and uncle’s help, will move into her own apartment. With the cooling of our crisis, I’ve been able to reacquaint myself with Rebecca’s capacity to learn from mistakes and I’ve faced up to my controlling, knee-jerk response to protect her from floundering.
I feel hopeful. Just as a forest fire burns old growth and births new varieties of wild flowers, our crisis has already seeded new freedom for both Rebecca and me. And though I don’t yet know what it will look like, I am savoring a burning desire to discover new ways of mothering that bear no resemblance to old forms of sacrifice. For me, exploring such new territory is both scary and exciting.
About Judy Martin...
Judy Martin is a therapist based in San Francisco and specializing in supporting parents of troubled teens, adolescent issues, marriage/couple issues, and more.
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