Having been raised by narcissist parents, I admit I have some tendencies but who among us doesn't have a little selfishness in them. My sister and I were the obligatory children. The validation of a solid relationship. The confirmation that there was sex at least twice. In reality, I was planned so that my older sister would not be as spoiled; a plan that hopelessly backfired, leaving me to fend for myself and rebel against the idealization that was thrust on me to be "the little sister" toy. I find myself grasping for memories that I have somehow blocked out in order to explain why I am the way I am. I can say it is a daunting task and often I give up out of frustration. See, I am dealing with an aging parent that has a twisted sense of reality resulting in warped memories. At the same time, she insists that she never forgets ANYTHING and she knows what she knows. She will gaslight anyone that argues with her and I walk away from a conversation with the feeling of remorse and frustration that MY interpretation was not correct in any way but, instead, I was made to feel as if I was the bad guy and making stuff up.
I admit that I don't have the best memory and sometimes will say things I don't really mean. I am adamant about not being told I am a certain way, or being labeled in any any way, and I become defensive when one says they know me without working for it. I forget easily but am always the first to admit I was wrong when I was. I don't have many memories as I have blocked much of them out. Why does one block things out from their memory? Because they are generally BAD THINGS. The brain chooses to protect you from those parts of your past and keeps you safe with all the good memories of your life. The confirmation of one's life is typically collected in albums full of family photos. Parents will hold them hostage sometimes, only to bring them out in order to embarrass their children. The walls may be covered with an odd display of framed school pictures from age six to senior portraits. There may be images of family vacations and funny expressions on faces as they are captured blowing out birthday candles or hugging a grandparent that visited. Sadly, I grew up without any of those things. Our walls had pictures of my parent's accomplishments and designs. Albums were of production slides carefully labeled in chronological order and protected with acid free paper. Our childhood was on slides that I do remember going through at least once a year. We would get so excited when the Carousel boxes would appear and a white sheet would hang on the wall. My sister and I would lay on the ground and quietly watch as the projector would hum. I would sit sometimes close to the machine so that I could feel the warm air blowing from the side vents and loved the dizzying sound the machine made as my father would select the next slide. We were always camping and the slides were of times we traveled for my Dad's obsession. He was a college professor but he fostered a love for historic theater buildings. In his short life, he managed to create one of the largest collections of these buildings where his passion became a budding second career. At the time of his death, he had created The Society of Historic American Theaters and his collection was put on permanent loan in Maryland. He too had amassed a library of albums filled with slides of theater buildings, carefully labeled in chronological order and protected with acid free paper.
The slides of our childhood, the projector and all the carousels have disappeared. They have been gone since I was a teenager and the mention of them upsets me to this day for so many reasons.
Validation. I had a discussion with my aging mother-in-law the other night. She has been going through things and clearing out papers. She brings us letters she wrote when her son was a month old and wants to read to me the paragraph where she calls him the Young Master. She shares funny anecdotes she cut out from articles and giggles about them. It upsets her that my reaction is not the same as hers and I try to explain that people have different levels of humor. I ask her why she wants so much to read me these things and her answer simply is that it validates her. She goes on to say that she loved having dinner parties because it was the one time she would get credit for anything, and then she admits she too is narcissistic. She admits to this as if it is such a normal thing to say. It strikes me that there are so many different ways one can be selfish and self serving. It may not be a bad thing, as she is genuinely sweet and giving. It is such a different way to have lived and I learn that I need to adjust to allow for this process as one ages.
It makes sense to me that when one is nearing the end of their life, they will have all different types of emotions and maybe even some regrets. Going through papers is part of this process as it reminds them of a life long gone. There is a gap where their life slows down and their children's lives move so fast they can't keep up. That is even more obvious when they have lived in a different part of the country and visits were limited to Sunday calls. This desire, this need to have us know who they were before they were old reminds me of the instinct that birds have to migrate for the winter. The way caterpillars become butterflies and salmon swim upstream. It is a mixture of instinct, survival and adaptation that just naturally occurs in all living beings. The struggle is real for the aging parent and at times, far more frustrating for the child. They are not always accepting and we all know that they don't want to be told what to do. We worry about them falling, driving or being taken advantage of. We look at their homes for signs of slipping memories and safety infractions, all the while assessing how involved you will have to be and when to step in. In essence it is a role reversal. We have become the parents and they are now the child.
Suddenly the light goes on and I realize that they worried about me falling. The first time I drove by myself I had to call when I arrived at my destination. They raised me to think on my feet and trust my gut. Most everything I know, in one way or another, I learned from my parents and my remaining parent now needs me to help her. I navigate this role with hesitance and clearly understand the complicated path I am on. I am thankful for the small moments where we get along and don't argue. I have even learned to deal with the times she is stubborn and sassy because she earned the right to be. There is always that fear in the back of my head that she will get sick and we will do that dance with medical staff that I have become so familiar with. For now, we will continue to do our best, as that is all we can do, while working on being more patient and letting her take the wheel for a change. After all, they worked hard to get to this stage in their lives and it should be validated!
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