When I was out walking during the week I was talking to a dog walker who was telling me about the Otters in Darlington on the main Skerne river, saying that the best time to see them was in the mornings. So I thought.
Ill get up fairly early, walk along the river, take some lovely photos of Otters, and this will be magical, and then head to my favourite coffee spot in town to then do some writing on my book.
So I did get up earlyish, after a not a bad nights sleep, ate breakfast and walked into town.
And along the river, from town all the way into South Park. And guess what.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Well, no otters anyway. No magic miracle for me today.
How long to wait? not very, just a walk down the river and back. No movements into the water (by anything different than a Mallard) and no movements in the bushes different to pigeons, doves, blue tits and a wren skuttling around.
So I left.
Disappointed.
And I got to my writing cafe in a low mood. Frustrated.
I mean, nature should be rewarding me for my efforts to find it surely?
Thats how it works?
And then I would feel the blessings of this magic moment and be inspired to write all day and do some great creativity. But instead I am writing this.
I am writing this, after I spent an hour just journaling about disappointment, and getting close to it.
Getting close to disappointment.
Unmet resentments, I deserved better from nature this morning, didnt I?
It’s not fair?
I was looking for a quick win, a solution
What was being shown to me, was another opportunity to just let be, to feel.
To not give the world the responsibility of adhering to my needs and wants, for the thing to be ‘the thing’
If only I saw an Otter then id be happy this morning?
If only X then Y
If my team wins, then that will give me a lift – that was basically my soothing strategy since 1990
along with the classic ‘ If only I prayed harder, or louder, then this would make things better’
But these are all shortcuts.
Bypasses.
So I sat in the cafe this morning. Writing out my pretty petty disappointment.
And heard that voice again.
That reminder of being loved and love not because of anything in the world, but because I just am. No-thing matters.
A reminder to let go, to surrender, to the patience of the magic.
The patience of self kindness, self compassion, of the journey of inner mystery and wholeness.
But what if ‘norm’ was a depression that I didnt realise was?
I’m pretty sure now that I was depressed but I just didnt realise how this had been my normal experience.
Thats a conclusion I came to a month or so ago.
I had never thought of myself as being depressed, that was something other people experienced and not something I would want to or could conceive of being the lens to which I was experiencing life, maybe I was masking it.
But I can imagine now how a cloud, mostly grey, was being taken into every room that I was in, and, not intentionally.
Oh and I dont mean the obvious emotional breakdown moments, the teary moments that i’ve experienced in the last few years, as my emotions have welled up, have broken up through the layers of cold, hardened exterior.
I’m more talking about the cold, prickly, exterior. The despairing hopelessness. The Self doubt and beating myself up on the inside.
So let me wind back a bit.
I read two books back to back just before Christmas, whilst also being in the process of therapy. (I tell a lie, there were probably 5 books on the go…but anyways..) The first was Stolen Focus, and the second was Lost Connections, Stolen focus was the gateway for me into the writing of Johann Hari (ive written about Stolen focus Here on my youthwork blog, as this is all about play).
Lost Connections is Johann Hari’s personal exploration into his own depression story, how he was prescribed anti depressants as a late teen, the journey of medication, and his research into the causes, indicators and alleviators of depression.
So, I read Johanns book with interest. But not with the thought that I was depressed, more that it intrigued me that he was going to talk about the importance of social relationships in mental health. But no, not that I was depressed.
If you’ve read my story (in the menus) you will know what’s coming, but it is very accurate to say that one of my survival strategies for dealing with a psychopathic mother, was to hide my emotions, including any semblance of happiness or joy. In fact I would go further and say that any moments of being happy were stolen: ‘I need to feel your joy for you passing your exams’ , and times when I felt happy outside of her influence were negated : ‘ I need to get all that toxicity out from when you were at grandmas’ – as there were and are photos of me smiling and happy at grandma’s. Any place where I was paraded or made an example of, I hid my smile, including family and school photos. If I was going to be on a mantel piece for others to see, it would not be with a smile.
Yet I was aware I wasn’t smiling. It was ok when other people took the photo, like church events or elsewhere, but if it was photo heading to the mantel piece or taken by her, no smile.
Thats just one example, there were many. But what it meant, and I knew that expressing any emotion was unsafe – it was stolen. Or I had to be responsible for soothing her emotions, yes thats what happened, me aged 5 and above was the one who soothed her upset ‘only you can make me feel better, not even Dad can’ was one message from when I was a child, a young child.
Talk about being emotionally tortured. It’s what I had to do. And also, this was a survival strategy, even if I didnt have a choice to do it.
It all makes sense now doesn’t it. It makes so much sense to the extent to which I was desperate, alone and wanted to end it all, aged 9. I wanted to wake up as someone else, failing that wondered what it would have been like to jump out of my bedroom window, or wait for a midland main line train to hit me. Aged fucking 9. Thats not normal is it?
Funny thing, when I tried to talk about this in starting my testimony at a church event in my teens (17) no one actually believed me, thinking that I was making it up as I didnt think I had a good ‘Jesus saved me’ story. But, folks, it was utterly true.
I couldn’t actually talk about how I was actually feeling, because I could hardly describe it, and very few people who I could talk to were safe, or would understand. It surely wasn’t normal to be scared of your own mother. But that was my normal.
But I was stony cold, prickly, critical and only able to let my head have any responsibility in how I was dealing with daily life. Not hard hearted, but wounded, heart hiding, protected. I was trying work out things, trying to work out how to cope, having to be one step ahead to know what to do in a situation, always trying to predict.
In some ways, this is all for me just ‘coping/survival’ stuff. I wouldn’t have categorised it as depression.
That was my normal, and if you’ve been in any type of abusive relationship you will know what that is like. Adopting to their unpredictable rage, strategising safety.
I wondered what it might have been like had I gone as a 10 year old to my GP and said, ‘is it normal to feel suicidal aged 9’? or ‘I feel like I have to hide my emotions around people who should be protecting and nurturing me?’ – but I didnt, anyway back to the book.
Oh, and one more thing, this actually was the thing.
I didnt know what I wanted to do with my life.
Throughout school, throughout my twenties, thirties even, ask me, and I didnt know.
My usual answer, was ‘Whatever God wants’ that was my get out, but that wasn’t what I wanted, I just didnt know.
I had no idea that not having any concept of a future was a sign of depression, a key sign. As Johann explains, it’s like the future is wiped away, inconceivable, as the present moment is the only valid space (and the haunted past) to attempt to survive in. Getting through. Making it out alive. One day at a time.
The other reason for me, was that my future was also something stolen. It was made conditional by that person again, as I had to do something to ‘make me proud‘ ‘not disappointing me‘ or I would have to ‘prove her wrong’ by things that had been decreed as things she was upset by. Stolen Future indeed.
Another indicator of depression, described in the book, was the lack of being in control. This is fascinating. In the book, research is conducted into 1,000 people all working in the same building, from the very top, to the bottom, CEO to the cleaners. It was found that depression was linked to those who had less control of what happens, in short, insecurity of the future was linked to depression. Being able to dictate and decide gave people more responsibility and stress, yes, but not depression, because they could see the way ahead and have some say in it, Insecurity led to depression.
It reminded me of Deci and Ryans work in that intrinsic motivators are linked to Relationship (connection/belonging) , Competence (being good at something/positive feedback) and Autonomy (being able to have decisions on the future) (in Human Being by Jocelyn Bryan) . I think this is extraordinarily interesting in relation to faith and systems of faith, especially in a time when status anxiety is rife. I’ll write more about this another time I think.
Anyway, back to me.
Well, back to the book to be honest, Johann outlines 8 ‘disconnections’ that are significant causes of depression, they are
(disconnection from) Meaningful work
Other people
Meaningful values. (Capitalism and the need for stuff that kills the soul)
Childhood Trauma
Natural World
Status and Respect
Hopeful/Secure Future
and ‘the Role of Genes/Brain changes in depression’.
Each of the chapters is utterly fascinating, each is woven with his own personal story of what he needed to alleviate his own depression, something to blame, something that wasn’t himself, a chemical (low serotonin- this is a myth btw), a story. But each of these ’causes’ made a lot of sense. When he talked about depression and anxiety being very similar that resonated too, but what’s interesting for me, is the extent to which I hid and buried all of this, to not feel anything. The other thread being the social dynamic of depression, the lost connections with the human, natural experience.
I was ok, I would say. But dont we all say this?
There was some I definitely scored myself high on. Given that its only been recently (4 years) that I have reconnected inside with the effects of childhood trauma and abuse, connecting with my feelings, and also, been able to consider myself as important and have status (and not a victim) , a lot resonated, not just the ‘future planning’ section.
The book was another window, a light into my own life, a lens even.
It was only when I could see all of this that I realise the extent to which my ‘normal’ could only have been an underlying depression.
Reconnection has been the journey I have been on, probably without realising it, some of that has been to have deep, real , brave conversations, and learn to be vulnerable, some of that has been to seek professional help, and some of that has been to do the work, to reconnect in myself – all sounds simple doesn’t it, well, its so not, its a daily ongoing process. But reconnection (and gentle loving repair) is definitely a good word for it.
I guess I didn’t realise I was depressed, or parts of me were, until I felt what it was like to feel happy, to feel calm.
As my therapist said a few weeks ago, there’s now a bright room light shining on all of the museum artefacts of past hurts and parts, rather than trying to fumble around in the darkness trying to look at things with a tiny torchlight.
As I sit here, I have candles glowing on my window sill, I have relaxing music playing, and I feel a calm inside, a peace inside, a sense of connection inside – that yes can be disturbed and im sure will be even today, but holding my hands to my heart, I sense the breath of love and life in my soul and body, a deep love that is holding me. And the warm glow of the sun shines on the trees, the love of the universe is awakening the darkness. Sounds blissful, and it is, but it’s been a hard road to get here.
I write this with peace and hopefulness, with a sense of love for my past wounded self, my ignored and hurt parts, and where I am now.
You need your nausea, you need your pain. It is a message and we must listen to that message. All these depressed and anxious people, all over the world – they are giving us a message. They are telling us that something has gone wrong with the way that we live. We need to stop trying to muffle, silence, pathologise, or soothe the pain. Instead we need to honour it and listen to it. It is only when we listen to our pain that we can follow it back to its source – and only there where we can see it true causes, that we can truly overcome it
Johann Hari, Lost Connections (2018)
And yes, I recommend the book, especially if you know or are working with people who are suffering from depression or anxiety.
References
Lost Connections (2018), Stolen Focus (2023) Johann Hari
I attended my first ‘religious’ service for quite a long time yesterday, I haven’t gone to ‘church’ for a long while, though I used to, weekly. But yesterday in my team meeting, as I work for the methodist church, we shared communion. A number of the team brought something to share, including songs, poems and prayers, and we used the Celtic Daily Prayer liturgy, including, because it was the 1st February the reflections of St Brigid. It was a genuine moving experience, because it felt as though we were all spiritually and theologically in a very similar place, it was gentle, provocative and deep, reflective and peaceful.
Yet in the context of my inner healing journey, two phrases stood out.
I make the cross of Christ upon my breast
over the tablet of my hard heart
and I beseech the living God of the Universe,
may the Light of lights come to my dark heart
so that I may live in the power of your love.
Celtic Daily Prayer, Vol 1
The phrase stood out, because, it was what I believed.
I believed my heart to be dark. To be hard.
I believed that my core was full of selfishness, hatred and impurity
I believed that
I believed that for far too long.
I believed it so that I needed a Saviour.
But let me be fair on this one. Maybe this liturgy was written at a time when heart just meant ‘everything inside’ , and not ‘heart’ full of emotions and feelings, distinct from the mind. Maybe it was written from ignorance of ‘heart’ and not deliberation. Maybe, it was written by the powerful, who might struggle to open up their heart, and felt like a modern day Pharaoh (who it was said closed his heart/God closed it so that Moses had to return many times to let the Israelite slaves free). Maybe the ‘heart’ was something at the time of writing was misunderstood, maybe heart feelings/emotions was seen genuinely as dark – can I include a witchcraft reference here, for 1600’s Britain was rife with ‘sensitives’ or women deemed as witches who ‘sensed’ things. So the ‘heart’ could be feared, but it’s almost talking about cleansing a dark one, not calming a fired up one. Im just pondering. And I love the northumbria community, and contemplative practice.
Yet the Evangelical christian faith I grew up with was full of the dark heart stuff…
‘Dont let my heart grow cold’
‘Purify my heart’
And I get that there might be different/newer understandings of the relationship between our minds and hearts, our feelings, emotions and thoughts. I’ll reference a few TED talks below and other references are in my resource library. This is one of the best, by Lisa Feldman
There’s so many angles on this ‘dark heart narrative’ that I could reflect on, here are 4, briefly…
It lets our minds off scot free. Maybe the mind was seen as neutral, as dominant and unquestioned, the ‘heart’ can get the blame. The Heart may be hardened, and unable to feel, because the mind is making too much noise. It is the mind and its search for satisfaction for its thirsty ego that causes the most damage.
It causes us have less reverence for our inner workings and body. As many Spiritual people and mystic argue, spiritual awakening is through the body and not away from it (Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now), not outside of the body or in denial of it. It’s unlikely to produce wholeness and a fragmented/fractured sense of self and body.
It individualises the problem (if only I can get my hard heart to open/be more faithful/pray more/ do more church) rather than consider the external causes of these, and the body’s natural responses such in its need for self protection and survival. ‘It’s my cold/hard heart thats the problem, not the actual reality that ive been mistreated’ - an understanding of external stimuli/trauma here might be helpful.
Only God can save. Because my heart is so hard that there’s nothing in it to be able to love/care for myself… how does this marry up with being ‘wonderfully made in the image of God?’ Where is my heart then?
A heart is the source of emotions and feelings, which make us who we are, denying or hiding these is so so unhealthy.
There could be essays on all of these, and thats not for now.
My journey of healing, spiritually and emotionally has been a process of healing my inner self, including my body, and its wounded parts. Its been a journey in which, spiritually I have found the descriptions of the spiritual life, in Eckhart Tolle, Richard Rohr and John O Donohue to resonate deeply, and all take the body, the heart and the mind seriously and kindly in the process.
My heart wasn’t impure, dark or hard all along.
In fact, I needed my heart to be able to be self compassionate
I needed a heart to love, myself
I could love and care for myself
My heart just couldn’t feel
My heart had been stolen from
My heart had been broken
My heart had been wounded from birth
My heart had never been nurtured or protected, it had never been loved.
My heart had to be protected, sealed and enclosed – to protect myself
My heart wasn’t dark, it was there all along – being told that it was.
My heart could love and heal – as can yours
My heart just wanted to feel, to be healthy, to be part of me – just like yours does
My heart wanted safety to cry, feel and rage – just like yours
My heart was never dark.
It had had its flame squashed and buried
It was hiding underneath
It was screaming
It wasn’t ever dark – it was love all along.
It was me.
I had to begin the process of peeling gently back the layers and wounds, and I could only do that gently because of love and my heart. I had to learn to love my body, my heart and create safety for my feelings. Listening to my heart, listening to my core and what it needs. None of this would have been possible had I continued the pattern of believing I was broken and my heart was core to that brokenness.
May you be blessed with good friends
And you learn to be a good friend to yourself
Journeying to that place in your soul where
there is love, warmth and feeling
May this change you
John O Donohue, ‘For Friendship’; To Bless the space between us
I’ve been pondering on writing this piece for a few days now, wondering if it is suitable, wondering how to express it, especially as it’s kind of simple. Full disclosure, I have been back receiving therapy since October, on that journey of remaking, regrouping and rebuilding. One of the revelations from it, was the simple yet, deep self -love and compassion acceptance of myself, to the point where I can say and believe the three words above.
Then this morning I saw the image I’ve included below, by my friend Andy, it was the spark to the flame of this piece. Do check his work out, he is an incredible artist.
If you knew what I had done I the past, you wouldn’t like me
But. But.
I’ve been told i’m full of sin and shame
I was abused and neglected
I feel overwhelmed and responsible
I feel out of control
I have so many feelings
I can’t like me, I can’t , there’s just too much about me not to like
Is that true? really is that true?
My friend, that voice is lying to you.
what about the daft things?
like what?
like when Ive forgotten to send that email, or I tripped over the cat, or put peanut butter in the fridge, or when I let those plants die and..
I really beat myself up for letting the plants die…
It’s ok, you give yourself such a hard time, listen but doubt this voice
It’s time to realise that you don’t have to believe this voice anymore.
There is nothing stopping you from being able and willing to like yourself.
Genuinely, 100% genuinely.
Who is listening to the voice telling you that you’re not good enough? Thats you. And you are more, you are bigger and you are the listener of the voice.
So, you can say the words, however, brave or courageous you need to be, its not weird at all – its just not been your norm, but now, now its time…
Go on, say it, say it slow, write it down, look in the mirror with love and peace.
I. like. me.
There is no frailty, no addiction, no secret, no action, no torment, no worry, no fear, no concept, that is you.
You are not those things, You are YOU.
And you can like you.
It is time to say the words.
I like Me
I like me, and I can breathe now
I like me and when I sit it stillness, there is no torment, no mind fuckery
I like me, and I dont need to do ..anything
I like me…and I can rest
I like me… and knowing this gives me freedom
I like me… even with peanut butter in the fridge
I like me…even if it cries
I like me… even if it tries
I like me….even if it feels
I just like me.
I like me… and I am not broken
I like me.. and I deserve Happy and love and joy and all the best things
I like me…
When ‘I like me’ is more than a meme on Facebook, and self-care just a coping mechanism, but self love and compassion means a genuine sense of self acceptance (beyond self knowledge).
I like me.
If used properly, the same mental voice that has been a source of worry, distraction and general neurosis can become the launching ground for true spiritual awakening.
Not the beach ones, the ones that get filled with sand, or get fought over by those who’ve paid the tourist tax to hire then on a British cloudy (but was sunny that morning) kind of day.
No, I don’t mean these ones.
Im thinking about the ones that get referenced in the times of personal, collective, or organisational despair.
Because, there’s nothing more despairing that when someone trots out that phrase. The one about Rearranging Deckchairs on the Titanic.
For, at that moment, there does not seem to be anything more despairing. Imagine, (and it may not be that difficult to imagine, given that most of us have seen ‘that’ film) what it might have been like, seeing or feeling the iceberg hit, and being the ones to know that there would be only 2-3 hours left. Time spent trying to convince only those who had read the news that the ship couldn’t go down. But it could.
If you weren’t able to read this, then neither you or I have been in such a situation, such a perilous state of emergency with almost no escape. (or you’re reading this and you survived a miracle).
But let’s just imagine, for a moment, that this is you, what would you do?
Given the utter pointlessness of the situation, do you clamber on to what is worth saving? Why not just sit an eat a meal in the slightly sinking cabin? Sing along with the band? Watch a favourite movie? Hold hands and enjoy the final embrace of a loved one? Dance or play the piano? Say a prayer? Save others, try and save yourself?
Deckchairs – would re arranging them even cross your mind? At that moment?
If we’re prone to depression, despair and cynicism – or when we might be told often enough that the company, organisation, institution or ideology is waning on its final death-knell – then it can often feel like there’s no way out, no alternative, no escape.
And that can be what we tell ourselves, when things feel futile and pointless.
But there is a subtle difference, always, between whatever our situation is, and to those stuck on that ocean liner in the early 1900’s.
We have Time.
And, in the main, we also have more Choices too. (even if we can’t think of them, thats our inner critic lying to us again)
That time thing though, is the crucial thing.
Even in the midst of despair and hopelessness, there is time, and, in the midst of that time, there is still you, able to note and notice the time.
So what if the ship of your mental or organisational health is starting to tilt, wobble and begin to sink?
Maybe rearranging the deckchairs might take a colossal effort at that time, panic setting in, but it’s important to do something that seems menial, just to give other people somewhere to sit. Maybe it is time to sand down the decks and give it a proper paint job too, because thats just what you need to do in the midst of that state of despondency, just to paint the floors, be useful and do so maybe even with the tiniest of proud smiles on your face. Well done you, that takes effort just to do that one thing. It wasn’t pointless at all, was it, no, not for you.
There might well be other things to do, on that sinking ship, that show bravery, courage and creativity – or maybe were creative, that showed bravery and courage: drawing, painting , songwriting – or just looking out from the deck at the sea beyond, trying to catch a glimpse of whales, puffins or other sea birds flying in the distance, just because thats what you love to do – and loving what you do in the midst of that despairing spiral might just be exactly what you need to do. One brave showing up for yourself step at a time. Binoculars might just give perspective.
Dancing on the ships deck might seem the most ridiculous, but there are no rules at that point of paralytic fear and hopelessness, if you want to dance and smile, shake it out, then let the critics judge, its only your recovery that matters – and even if we might feel that the situation is a disaster , we might as well enjoy ourselves, might as well see what happens when we give ourselves time to have fun – like go to that movie, football match, or play darts on the ship deck.
Life is going to throw us curveballs all the time, some as serious as Titanic ones, some far lesser, sometimes these challenge our expectations, sometimes they question our realities, sometimes, maybe all times, we have time, we still have complete responsibilities for the choices we make, we can try something new, reassess, and emerge far far different, and look back and realise, that it wasn’t pointless re-arranging deckchairs on the titanic after all.
Maybe, just maybe, it was the absolute right thing to do, in that very moment after all.
and… surrendering to the final inevitable, might just mean that the important things, like those birds in the binoculars, come into sharper focus than ever before, like joy, wonder and life..
The mind goes clear, the fog lift and the words come out again. Truth. Hope. Love. Wonder. Words. Feel. Alive. Soul gives. Hope springs. Forth. Writing. Writing. Making. Shaping. Creating. Meaning. Trying. Giving. True. Soul. Energy. Life. Feeling. Bliss again. Just writing. Fingers pounding. Not making Sense, of it all. Just writing. Let writing flow. Soul writing. Edit freee. Sharing. Writing. Alive. The Feeling. Lifting. Breathing, words, breathing, in and out, make a shout, and about, life words, feeling free to fly high in the sky, so blue so clear, so wondrous, just like you. Writing , soul, Expression. Timing, having, yearning, longing for belonging in the midst of time that takes so long and frustrating patiently tick tock shaking. Yearning into being. Faking into reality making constructing heading into truth telling in the shaking, breaking and wondering if the pain will end, writing, writing. Writing into love, Mind emptying and flow writing, giving over, surrender.
Surrender.
Mind surrender
To the flow. The Urge, the passion to write.
Stemming from the soul. bursting.
Soul bursting. Busting. Song. Shape. Writing.
It’s time, again. Follow the flow.
Ready, are you ready? The joyous soul adventure, lived life again.
Writing Writing Writing Writing
Life Writing. It’s coming out. Dont hold it in.
Words feeling free again.
dancing words, freedom being on the page. Joining together
Writing in a dance, across the space of the page and imagining the dance of the pen, the dance of these fingers and words dancing with each other as they combine on the movement and share in the wonder they create in the life, magic and love, dancing together in the space of your soul, combining, twisting, fast and slow, dance of the divine. Magic and Love to the music of Joy. Making their play on the page of your soul.
Writing, light writing. Like dance, light movement, light, wispy letters, feeling graceful and playful and free. Writing the moment, writing the play, living the dream in the creating of meaning.
It’s about the way in which the unconscious expectations are placed on a child, it’s the story of how a child, then teenager, Jeannette McCurdy, has to resist growing up to maintain the fantasy of her mother, whom she adored, of being an actress.
I have read many books on parents and narcissism, but this is the first book I have read that describes the story of what the child had to do, and the effects long term.
There’s much in the book that I can relate to, there’s much that I have seen in other situations too.
If you want to get an idea of the damage emotional and coercive abuse, by a mother, can do and looks like, and how it sits under the radar of criminality, but is wholly self absorbed and destructive, then this is it.
It’s telling that the behaviour in the book has generational patterns, the grandmother was a similar whining moaning complaining woman. The men got all the blame (not doing enough, not meeting their needs, aloof, blamed for affairs to disorientate as the women were actually having affairs.. I’ll not tell spoilers) , the women sat aloof , controlling them all.
The thread of the mother’s perpetual victim story, of having and surviving cancer runs through. This story is forced down her own children’s throats on home videos, and used as a lever to get acting roles for Jeannette, ‘tell them your mum survived cancer as part of the audition’ is often directed.
The effect on Jeanette is continual people pleasing, pretending, orientating her entire life around not upsetting her mother,(who was always liable to cry, get angry, scream ‘ungrateful’ , or be disappointed) at any or regular occasions. Jeannette is on emotional alert all the time, in a life that until near the end of the book is not hers, but her mothers.
Jeannette takes on, since childhood, the emotional regulation of her mom, as the one who can soothe her, who can make her mum happy, yet.. to keep the relationship and Jeannette in her mothers orbit, nothing, not even a good audition or making a part is good enough. So Jeannette is perpetually emotionally exhausted, and notably is comes as a shock in her mid twenties that she can think of herself also. But by this time she is high on alcohol and the effects of 12 years of eating disorders.
Im glad my mom died is raw, it’s funny at times, and I found myself cheering Jeannette on for every healing conversation with a therapist and every step forward she was making, yet the catalogue of abuse and those who could take advantage of her extended beyond just her mother, which isn’t surprising.
It would be easy to dismiss this book as only being relevent in the culture created by child acting, the media and production companies, but it is easily relatable to other organizations and cultures, especially with a high performative, high expectation , moral expectation. The fact that Jeannette also experienced a high rigid culture of Mormonism and it’s expectations, and it’s associated shame, is a pointer. It’s interesting that Jeannette mothers pulled her away from church, as also projecting criticism of them to Jeannette, causing Jeannette to not continue to go, and feel the shame. Jeannette mom was just invalidating those who might be critical of her to her daughter.
What I like too is that Jeannette doesn’t use the N word until the very end of the book. But what she describes throughout is her experiences, as they are, the treatment and behaviour she suffered, and her responses to it, so that when she uses the ‘N’ word (Narcissistic) is carries all the weight. Again, those of us who experienced then normalised, then survived in and amongst this will likely get this, how the naming of it heals, but also the categorising hides the varieties of behaviour behind it. It reminded me of when I first read the pink book – the words I discovered were ‘self absorbed’ or as in Lindsay Gibsons books, ‘Emotionally immature’ rather than the oft-banded around N word. But when we learn the terms having suffered it, we know.
I was warned that I might be triggered by the book, and maybe that warning meant that I read the book prepared for what it may do. Yes, there are some aspects I relate to, high expectations, perpetual victim, emotional eggshells, at least, there are some differences, not every abusive mother looks or is the same.
Some are more covert, some overt
Some rely on victimhood, others entitlement
All have prey and supply, all divide, all use people as extension of roles, none take any responsibility, all create drama.
I’m Glad my Mom Died, is one such story of the effect of one type of narcissistic abusive mothers, it’s relief to those who’ve experienced something similar (to know we’re not alone) and insight to those who start to see the patterns from this example.
Cheering you on Jeannette, keep on going putting yourself first.
Thank you to my new Daughter in Law Meghan for recommending this book to me, much appreciated, and to my lovely Christelle for transporting it across the pond.
James Ballantyne 