The Bouquet of Flowers

Two weeks ago I called my parents to see if my mother wanted to meet me at Ikea one day to look at kitchen cabinets. Two days later, I was beaten up and made an appointment to see a psychiatrist.

That night, a Monday, my father told me that I needed Prozac because I am deeply depressed. I pointed out that my thyroid was messed up and that I was weaning myself off coffee. He said, “You are depressed! Whenever we see you, you are always upset and angry!” I said I got anxious around them, but since my sister has scolded me about it, I was doing my best to be “normal” when I saw them. He agreed I had been better that last few times I saw them and then he told me that a TSH of 3 was just fine and my thyroid levels had nothing to do with me being moody. We got into a little squabble about that, when I said new studies show that a level of 1 to 2 is best for women. My father, with his 1967 medical degree, is a little bit stuck in is ways, and disagreed. He is a doctor, but he thinks homeopathy and naturopaths are twaddle. I also told him that I get dizzy spells and have periods of exhaustion, even after a night’s sleep. He said, “If you lived in Iraq you wouldn’t worry about dizzy spells!” Well, you’re right, Daddy – if I lived in Iraq right now I wouldn’t worry because I would probably be dead! What a comfort. Really.

A friend recently told me that she has had the same difficulty – reconciling her right to have problems with the fact that there are others who suffer too. My view is: my broken finger, while not as big or as painful as your broken leg, really, really hurts, and I have the right to say so. Everyone hurts, and has a right to feel it. I really do have an obligation to myself and my DH and my babies to go see someone. I am waiting so eagerly to see this new endocrinologist, and to hear what she says about the thyroid/moodswing/anxiety realationship. Because I really do have anxiety attacks and mood swings. I am not depressed – I never just sit and cry and feel incapable of doing anything. I know I am capable of doing everything and I know I need to get it all done before the babies wake up/go to bed/get out of bed/come home from school. I just can’t seem to get it all done and that makes me anxious, nervous and upset.


A lot of my “problems” come from me having unrealistic expectations and getting all flipped out about the failure to accomplish impossible goals. I have known this and I have tried to talk myself out of behaving this way for many years, but to no avail. For twenty something years I have been saying, “Now, MOT, don’t let it bother you!” But that doesn’t work. Therefore: the therapist. I hope that a trained professional will help me find what it is I am seeking, and help me find in myself. Then I can stop looking for fulfillment in cut abs, lean legs, flawless skin and a real conversation with my parents, because none of that is ever going to happen.

I have never been skinny, so why do I think I can do it now? I need to do some deep soul searching and discover exactly what I hope to accomplish by being a size 6. At the same time, do I really want that? If I really do want to be sexy, why do I them engage in self-destructive behavior, like eating? Why do I persist in eating dark chocolate on a daily basis? Am I trying to sabotage myself so I don’t have to find out what it’s like to be sexy, because I might not like it?

I have never had a great relationship with my parents. I was petrified of my mother’s disapproval for millions of years, and I still am. If she says, “Sit and wait”, I do. She was always late to come get me from school, or from the train when I was in college, but I would just sit and wait – sometimes for hours. I got a lot of reading and snacking in, as you can imagine. In the same conversation in which he made his Iraq comment, my father, told me that my mother is now afraid of me, and vomits before I come to visit. I make her that nervous. I find that beyond ironic – the child who was scared of her mother now terrifies her right back.

I wanted to apologize to my poor mother for making her vomit, so I called the next day, a Tuesday. I thought we should get this out of the septic system of our relationship, so I asked her, “How can you be scared of me? I am helpless and powerless! Why do I make you afraid? What can I do to stop you throwing up? How can I apologize? How can I be nicer?”

She told me that I made her incredibly nervous and twitchy and that she never knew if was going to get mad and yell. She also said she didn’t have any time to talk, as she had a busy day at the office and rafts of mail to open and so much to do and proceeded to tell me about her frantic lifestyle for the next twenty minutes. She completely avoided the reason I had called, didn’t let me say more than, “Yes, but…” and “Well, I …” for the rest of the “conversation”. By the end of it all I was so frustrated I was crying so hard I could hardly breathe. Her last remark was, “I always feel I never tell you what you need to hear.” I wanted to respond, “I don’t want you to tell me anything, I want you to listen to me tell you for once,” but I was choking, so I just said, “Don’t worry about it, goodbye.”

My babies were in school at the time, so I no one to distract me, or to get mind off the frustration I felt. I just got madder and madder. The DH was in a meeting and my sister wasn't home. I thought and thought and became somewhat hysterical. I screamed, I roared, I wept and sobbed. I screamed as if my mother could hear me, and I screamed at myself. I shook my fists in the air and then took them to myself. I punched my legs, my abdomen, my arms; everything I have always hated and been ashamed of. Then I slapped my face, over and over and hard, until I managed to get a grip. I beat myself up because I couldn’t force my mother to listen to me.

I beat myself up for being too weak to make myself heard, for being incapable of telling her what she needed to hear. Because I can’t, and never will, be able to slap my parents and say, “Stop ignoring me! I have a right to be,” I gave myself multiple bruises and two black eyes instead.

The next day, a dear friend saw me and cupped my face in her hands; I saw the start of tears in her eyes. I made to note to self: Call a shrink. I actually called five, have met with three, and have decided on one. This psychiatrist says, “Tell me what you think about that,” and “How does that make you feel?” She also pointed out, as I told one of my many stories, that my mother, as a young woman and a young mother was just holding on by a thread all through my childhood. Does this mean I am like her, or does it mean I have greater abilities because I am willing to admit failure? I am comfortable with defeat and with seeking professional help. I wonder if my mother ever saw a shrink? I am 110% sure her own mental discomfort is why she became a therapist. She thinks: If you are a therapist, you don’t have to go outside yourself to seek help. Unfortunately, she is not right about that.


Just knowing that I have a sympathetic, experienced ear to listen to me is a real relief. I am not sure if I will go the medication route – I will let the therapist advise what’s best for me, and not push her one way or the other.

Meanwhile, I am going to follow my brother’s advice. I asked him what he thought I should or could do about the unhappy situation with our parents. I asked what he would do if he lived just thirty minutes away and never really saw them, unless it was at their house, on their terms on their schedule. I asked how I could get our parents to come see me, to relax a little, to play with their grandchildren and listen a little. I asked what he would do. He said, “You know, my new daughter is almost six months old. They have been away three times since her birth and have not even considered coming to see her. They can’t be bothered. MOT, they will never approve and will never love you and pet you like you need to be loved. They care, but they can’t show it. They don’t know how to show it, and can’t be bothered to learn. It’s too hard for them to change at this point. So, fuck them.”

Let’s see what my brain doctor says about that; but, when I feel like I do now, I think my brother is absolutely right.