your brother, your sister and other family members, do you see?”
“OK.” I frown
because right now I’m not sure where André is going with this.
“You, your mother
and your siblings—each developed their own patterns of behavior in response to
the evils in the family, the pathology. You have told me your brother, Alex
takes nothing seriously. He makes jokes and is a cocaine addict. Your
sister—she is an alcoholic and is selfish and bitter. You, Grant, isolate
yourself from others, because you have always feared there is something very
wrong with you. And your mother? She is in denial. She ignores her family,
giving all of her attention and support to others, no?”
I snort. “Yeah,
that about sums up the Wilkinson family.”
“All people,
whatever they are doing, no matter how crazy or irrational it seems to you… it
is how they need to act— from their perspective . I do not justify
or rationalize an individual’s behavior—no. I simply tell you there is
always a reason .”
I consider this
for a moment, and it makes sense.
They say
pedophiles were abused as children themselves; and wife beaters had a violent
upbringing. My mother avoided her husband and children. Why she did is a
mystery to me. She spent all of her time ‘helping others’ who were ‘less
fortunate’ than we were.
Perhaps in her
heart of hearts, she felt she couldn’t help us.
Did she have any
idea what was happening under her own roof? This idea haunts me. Denial is a
powerful force and an effective way to protect oneself. Maybe it hurt too much
to know the kind of a man she married. Maybe she decided to help others in
order to assuage her guilt—or to convince herself she’s a good person.
I don’t like my
mother and I’ve never fully understood why. She fed me, dressed me and made me
attend to my homework. She never abused me. My mother was a cold, proud and
distant woman who commanded respect—but she wasn’t into hugging or kissing her
children.
It’s a painful
yet, bittersweet memory when I recall that the only hugs I got as a child were
from my father.
There is
always a reason, André says.
But not always a
valid excuse.
Minutes have
passed while I processed these thoughts. That’s OK. André never rushes me when
I’m reflecting on something. If I want to speak, I do. If not, he waits until
I’m no longer so absorbed.
When I finally
meet his gaze, he says, “You have been thinking very hard, my friend. Can you
tell me what your attention is on?”
I shrug. “My
mother.”
“Oh?”
“You said everyone
does things for a reason. I was trying to understand my mother. She’s in
denial—I get that, but dammit—I resent all the attention she gave to everyone
except us.”
“Ah,” André says.
“Did you know children of incest, abused by their father, commonly feel more animosity
toward their mothers than toward their abusers?”
“No, really?”
“It is true.
There are many theories. One is it is a mother’s job to protect their child.
Instinctively, children know this, so perhaps it can be considered a result of
genetics. The father abuses the child, yet the child still loves the father. It
is the mother they focus their hate upon.”
This makes sense
to me. “I don’t like my mother,” I admit. “It’s been another source of guilt.”
André grins.
“Very good!” he says cheerfully.
I have to laugh.
I’m not sure if he said “Good!” because he thinks it’s good I dislike my
mother, or because he’s glad I told him. Either way, it doesn’t matter, so I
just smile and shake my head.
“ Mon ami, you are in good company with these most common feelings. But logically?” He
shrugs. “Your mother does not know why she abandoned her family. And if you
asked her? She would be unaware of such abandonment.”
“I’ve pointed it
out before,” I say. “You’re right, she can’t see it. She’s totally blind on the
subject.”
“Few are aware of
their irrational behaviors,” he
“OK.” I frown
because right now I’m not sure where André is going with this.
“You, your mother
and your siblings—each developed their own patterns of behavior in response to
the evils in the family, the pathology. You have told me your brother, Alex
takes nothing seriously. He makes jokes and is a cocaine addict. Your
sister—she is an alcoholic and is selfish and bitter. You, Grant, isolate
yourself from others, because you have always feared there is something very
wrong with you. And your mother? She is in denial. She ignores her family,
giving all of her attention and support to others, no?”
I snort. “Yeah,
that about sums up the Wilkinson family.”
“All people,
whatever they are doing, no matter how crazy or irrational it seems to you… it
is how they need to act— from their perspective . I do not justify
or rationalize an individual’s behavior—no. I simply tell you there is
always a reason .”
I consider this
for a moment, and it makes sense.
They say
pedophiles were abused as children themselves; and wife beaters had a violent
upbringing. My mother avoided her husband and children. Why she did is a
mystery to me. She spent all of her time ‘helping others’ who were ‘less
fortunate’ than we were.
Perhaps in her
heart of hearts, she felt she couldn’t help us.
Did she have any
idea what was happening under her own roof? This idea haunts me. Denial is a
powerful force and an effective way to protect oneself. Maybe it hurt too much
to know the kind of a man she married. Maybe she decided to help others in
order to assuage her guilt—or to convince herself she’s a good person.
I don’t like my
mother and I’ve never fully understood why. She fed me, dressed me and made me
attend to my homework. She never abused me. My mother was a cold, proud and
distant woman who commanded respect—but she wasn’t into hugging or kissing her
children.
It’s a painful
yet, bittersweet memory when I recall that the only hugs I got as a child were
from my father.
There is
always a reason, André says.
But not always a
valid excuse.
Minutes have
passed while I processed these thoughts. That’s OK. André never rushes me when
I’m reflecting on something. If I want to speak, I do. If not, he waits until
I’m no longer so absorbed.
When I finally
meet his gaze, he says, “You have been thinking very hard, my friend. Can you
tell me what your attention is on?”
I shrug. “My
mother.”
“Oh?”
“You said everyone
does things for a reason. I was trying to understand my mother. She’s in
denial—I get that, but dammit—I resent all the attention she gave to everyone
except us.”
“Ah,” André says.
“Did you know children of incest, abused by their father, commonly feel more animosity
toward their mothers than toward their abusers?”
“No, really?”
“It is true.
There are many theories. One is it is a mother’s job to protect their child.
Instinctively, children know this, so perhaps it can be considered a result of
genetics. The father abuses the child, yet the child still loves the father. It
is the mother they focus their hate upon.”
This makes sense
to me. “I don’t like my mother,” I admit. “It’s been another source of guilt.”
André grins.
“Very good!” he says cheerfully.
I have to laugh.
I’m not sure if he said “Good!” because he thinks it’s good I dislike my
mother, or because he’s glad I told him. Either way, it doesn’t matter, so I
just smile and shake my head.
“ Mon ami, you are in good company with these most common feelings. But logically?” He
shrugs. “Your mother does not know why she abandoned her family. And if you
asked her? She would be unaware of such abandonment.”
“I’ve pointed it
out before,” I say. “You’re right, she can’t see it. She’s totally blind on the
subject.”
“Few are aware of
their irrational behaviors,” he
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