I don't do guilt. It's just not my thing. I've found it mean and self-destructive. I make every attempt to purge it from my life on a regular basis . . . rather like housecleaning except I'm more consistent about the guilt. I've searched to find some dark little guilty secret I might have be harboring but there really isn't any. Secrets are not conducive to healthy relationships and guilt is counter-productive to anything good.
My mother wielded guilt like a battle-axe from as early as I can remember. I vividly recall her favorite phrase: "Why are you doing this to me?" As a child, I rarely gave specific thought to my mother before I did things. I believe I was an OK kid. I had friends and teachers who adored me. I was bright, articulate, active and usually polite. I was also a slob but few if any of my teachers knew that. My mother, on the other hand, would look in my room and cry, "Why are you doing this to me?" The logic escaped me entirely. To my way of thinking, it was she who did it to herself and I was spared any personal guilt. Since she knew my room would be a mess, why did she open the door to look? She could have saved herself a lot of grief by simply leaving my door closed.
When I was thirteen, it seemed like we could not get along at all. I stood in the girls locker room at school one day and listened as several other students declared, "I hate my mom." I found a certain amount of comfort in knowing that I was not the only one who could not get along with her mother, but I did not hate her. The fact was, I loved my mother very much but we seemed incapable of being civil to one another. I spoke with a counselor. She recommended the Mental Health clinic in town. I made an after-school appointment and headed to the clinic. I was very concerned about the cost but they assured me that they charged on a sliding scale based on one's ability to pay. I briefly discussed my concerns and they seemed confident that they could help. It was primarily a matter of learning new communication skills, they said. I made an appointment for my mother and me for the following week and almost danced home. I was euphoric when I told my mother about it.
"I know we'll be able to afford the fees they charge and wouldn't it be great if we got along better?" I could hardly wait for us to start working on our communication skills and a good relationship. I gave her a big hug.
My mother pushed me off mid-hug. "What? What are you trying to do to me? Destroy me in this town? We are not going to any mental health clinic and that's final! The only reason we don't get along is you and your attitude! There is nothing wrong with our relationship that wouldn't be fixed if you would just straighten up and do what you're told . . . and stop sassing me."
I stared in absolute disbelief. A relationship between two people meant there had to be give and take and compromise to reach common ground over divisive issues.
"Don't you look at me with that sassy expression." She slapped me across the cheek. I guess my mouth was open because I shut it with a snap that hurt my teeth. Then I turned on my heel and stomped out of the room, slamming the door to my messy bedroom when I entered.
"And don't slam the door, either!"
The next afternoon I called the clinic to cancel our appointment. They asked me why and I told them. "Good luck," they said and thanked me for calling.
I decided that if we had a problem and she was unwilling to work on it then the fault was definitely hers and therefore any guilt associated with it as well. I would no longer accept guilt for something that I was perfectly willing to work on and compromise over. What a sense of freedom that decision gave me. It was rather like taking control of my own life and refusing to relinquish even the smallest portion of it. It also meant that I alone was responsible for my actions and their consequences.
I developed my "withering look." I'd set my mouth, narrow my eyes and flare my nostrils. My mother would usually slap me, but I didn't care. It would reduce her to tears in a few short minutes and I knew that I was in control without saying a word. I also learned that by saying things a certain way I could manipulate what she believed. I never felt it necessary to lie to her, I simply told the truth but I knew she would believe it or not based on the way in which I said it. Communication skills were powerful tools, indeed.
And so it was that we were locked into a frequently unbearable relationship for four years. Although she was the mother and I the daughter, we stood on opposite sides of the line more like equal adversaries. I placed the responsibility and the weight of the guilt for such a relationship fully at my mother's feet. And through those years I grew strong and bold although I did slam doors. My mother grew mean and spiteful.
It was Saturday about 4:00 p.m. and I stood at the kitchen sink doing dishes. I had opened the family business in the morning and then gone home to care for my baby brother who was four. I got him his breakfast then bathed him and got him dressed. I did the breakfast dishes and started working on dinner. My father refused to eat beef tongue but I had discovered that it cost less than 1/2 the price of any other beef. I bought it surreptitiously and boiled it in the morning when he was not home. I then peeled it and processed it through a meat grinder to make Texas hash. My father loved the hash and boasted about it until the day he discovered what it was made from and refused to eat it again. This day I had the beef boiled and ground and was cleaning up all the evidence long before I expected him home. I was seventeen.
My mother got home before my father and came straight to the kitchen. "Are you wearing rubber gloves? How many times have I told you you can't get the dishes clean with rubber gloves on."
I continued to wash the dishes. "Turn around when I'm talking to you! Why are you doing this to me? Just to be obstinate? Take those off right now!"
I turned from the sink, my rubber-gloved fingers balling into fists. I had already vacuumed the house, changed the sheets on all the beds and had the third tub of clothes in the washing machine. The ironing was still waiting for me. I narrowed my eyes but did not stop with the "withering look." "I am not your slave. If you don't like the way I do dishes, do them yourself."
She slapped me so hard it slammed my head to one side. I instinctively swung, stopping my dripping yellow rubber fist barely inches from her face. I was horrified. I had let her push me to rage and she was in control. I threw the rubber gloves at the counter, grabbed my coat and purse and rushed out of the house. I walked for a couple of hours to cool off and rethink my position and my feelings. I saw a white sweater in a store window that I knew would look good on her and stopped to buy it. I had it gift-wrapped. I was frightened to think that I could respond to anything in such a violent way. Or that I could be provoked beyond the bounds of what I found acceptable. It was a revelation to me and an ugly one at that. As humans, if we're not prepared, anyone can be reduced to the vilest, basest behavior under specific circumstances. Our intellect must be honed to circumvent such occurrences.
I took the gift to my mother and apologized for almost striking her. That was the one thing I was sorry for. I was not sorry for the lesson I had learned about myself, though. Knowledge is power and I had gained more power to control my own life and destiny. I had an opportunity to steel myself against unacceptable reactions. I also learned that boundaries needed to be a bit flexible so they could be bent when needed to prevent them from exploding. In retrospect, if I had known then what I know of myself today, I might actually have struck my mother. It I had, it would have been a conscious act, though, and not an involuntary reaction. And if I had, I would not have apologized because I would not have felt guilty. The guilt I felt on that day was because I had lost control. I dealt with it immediately and didn't let it interfere with my life any longer then necessary. It's better to dispense with issues regarding guilt in a timely manner or they'll get worse.
"How did you manage to grow up, be fairly well-adjusted and stay cheerful when Mom was always so mean to you?" my sister asked several months ago. My sister is three-and-a-half years older than I am and spent our childhood stressed to the limits. She always tried to find and fix anything that might upset our mother before she got home from work. She never talked back, rarely got spanked, never got slapped and seemed to accept everything stoically. It is she who suffered years of guilt at her inability to protect me and I never even knew. The one time our mother whipped her with a plastic belt and (unintentionally) welted her back, I locked us both in the playroom and refused to let our mother in until our father got home. I would have fought off dragons for my sister and our mother seemed like small change at the time. I was as sassy as I wanted to be behind that locked door and our father took care of the matter.
For whatever reason, my mother's life has been riddled with guilt. She feels guilty that my brother is retarded, that she wasn't with my father when he died, that she wasn't as pretty or as talented as her sisters. It seems to have started at a very young age and when my grandfather divorced my grandmother, my mother internalized that guilt as well. Whatever the reason, guilt has been her companion and her weapon for years and it is powerless against me.
A few years ago my mother had a serious stroke. It left her a little tenuous regarding life and her thoughts. It has been a lovely change. She let go of guilt entirely for a while. As she becomes healthier over time, some of it has returned, but for the most part she is agreeable and things no longer need to be done exactly (and only) her way. She is a nicer person when she is not harboring guilt and she rarely uses it purposely to control others. I still love her very much. My older children remember the "old" Granny and do not much care for her. My younger children only know the "new" Granny and they think she's great.
No, guilt is simply not a part of my life. I have never found it to be useful or productive in any way. Not surprisingly, none of my children has ever been able to pull off a "withering look" that does anything but make me laugh. It's infuriating for them, I'm sure, but they've all learned to deal honestly with their feelings instead of trying to use them to manipulate other people.
