277) The Children Remember: Toxic families, and how and why they resist change, growth, and healing

I’ve wanted to talk about this situation for, oh…about 40 years. But when you’re part of a family that is far-too-controlled by the anger, outbursts, immaturity and general unpleasantness of an abusive person who refuses to get any help for themselves and instead dominates the family through their own emotions, you tend to stay silent. 

Why?
Because everybody else is.
Because rocking the boat will just make things worse (or so it feels).
Because others in the family protect them and you don’t want them to turn against you.
Because you were also raised in that environment and have internalized all sorts of unhealthy shit that leads you to perpetuate toxic cycles.
Because you’ve come to feel it’s “normal” or “there’s nothing you can do anyway”. 
Because you don’t want to embarrass your loved ones by airing the family’s dirty laundry.
Because, because, because — there are so many reasons why people in abusive/toxic families or relationships end up perpetuating them.

Now I’m in my 50s, and I’m not willing to hold onto this anymore. I also feel it is a moral obligation to society in general to share these experiences and insights, and for a variety of reasons the things that used to hold me back, well, honestly, I’ve just outgrown them.  I’ve gone through way too much in life to let some small person who won’t face their own suffering and learn to grow as a person, control me anymore. 

This is a society-wide problem. We see it in families, workplaces, and most definitely, government. We are far-too-often controlled by the most unhealthy, the most narcissistic, the most lacking in empathy, the least wise. And yet, we give them power over us. Sometimes for our whole lives.

It’s also a moral obligation to help others in similar circumstances find their own voices, their own power, and perhaps, help inspire them to bond together with the allies in their families and stand up, together, to put a stop to abusive cycles. Because that’s how you stop these things — you bond together, stand together, say “no” together. AND leave together.

I also was protecting my mother, and our relationship. Because I know that she would not support speaking out in the way I am doing so right now. But that is precisely the problem — the people who are most directly under the thumb of anger-management-cases, narcissists, and toxic people, are too afraid, ashamed, dependent, depressed, or disempowered, to speak out.  Probably, they are people pleasers.  Probably, they feel empathy for their abusers because years and decades of emotional conditioning and self-deceptive dissonance-reduction, has led them to drink their own Kool-Aid and believe…well, exactly the things I am about to talk about.

But my mom died last year.  And her children, husband, family and friends will never even gather together to mourn her passing, celebrate her life, have any sort of memorial service, share stories, and turn to each other to grieve and honour her.  Nope, we are all supposed to “move on” as though nothing happened.  No funeral.  No songs.  No poems.  No pictures.  No stories shared. No laughter, nostalgia, hugs, well wishes. Nothing.

It is important to our souls to honour our loved ones who pass away.  The treatment of the dead is literally one of the first pieces of evidence paleo-anthropologists use to determine the degree to which a species has attained some form of higher sentience and collective society.  Honouring the dead, and acknowledging their passing is absolutely fundamental to our humanity.  It’s also central to the ability of people to process loss and grief. 

Imagine grandchildren losing a beloved grandmother and….nothing.  The family barely even talks about it and just “moves on”.  This is how we have treated my mom, to the detriment of all of us.

And why?  Because of one person’s anger, one person’s prejudice, one person’s emotional immaturity, and one person’s decades-long suppression of true emotional sharing in this family.  And now, the cycle continues, and my mom simply fades into history, unacknowledged in any official way, with any rituals, any community gathering, any…anything.  

So it’s time, long past time, to speak out.  I’ve decided to do so in a poem, of sorts.  My mom loved poems, although she liked them to rhyme, and I’m afraid I just don’t have that in me for this one.  But here’s a poem for you, Mom, in memoriam.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Children Remember

“But he’s a good man. Deep down inside.”

Growing up in the gaslit reality of a toxic family, childhood is filled with confusion.
That person who yells, who gets red-faced with anger, who makes you afraid, who is so often selfish, explosive, irritable, unhelpful, controlling, intolerant, and downright scary,
also laughs, 
is charming sometimes, 
is kind sometimes, 
helps you sometimes, 
is vulnerable sometimes.
Even, sometimes, maybe, apologizes.
(Although the apologies become pretty empty after nothing changes, and the cycle continues.)

You grow up hearing “But he’s a good man, deep down inside.”

No doubt this is true.
For it’s true, as a latent potential, for all people,
carrying the Spark of Divinity in our souls.  
We all have potential for Goodness, 
the capacity for love,
tears, sadness, remorse.
We were all born innocent. 
And THAT is who we are, “deep down inside”.

But the fact that someone CAN be good, CAN be caring, CAN have moments of empathy and compassion,
does not mean that you should ignore all the rest, 
that you should endure the disappointment, fear, lack of freedom, 
the walking on eggshells.

Life with someone you love should not be a daily struggle.  
You should not be afraid of them.
Or that’s not really love.

It’s not your responsibility to save someone.  
It’s theirs.  
And trying to, does them no good.  
You become an Enabler.  
And your support backfires, because with the “supply” they need from you still bountiful, they never change.

Sometimes, the most loving act, is to leave,
to force someone to confront the fact that the way they treat you,
or your children,
is not acceptable,
and will not be tolerated.

* * * * * 

“He loves me.”

Growing up in the gaslit reality of a toxic family, children hear this all the time.
Every challenge of the status quo, every expression of concern, every question of why things are the way they are, gets this response.
“But he loves me.”

What is love then?

Not being allowed to get a job, because you have to be home to make sandwiches for his lunch break?
Is that love?

Your friends knowing to call only when he’s at work?  
Is that love?

Teaching your children to lie and hide things and do things behind his back, so they don’t “set him off”?  
Is that love?

Your parents feeling uncomfortable when they visit, these strong, wise people who once raised you now reduced to tip-toeing around the powder keg you married?
Is that love?

Watching your children leave home as soon as they possibly can, with only one even making it through high school before getting the hell out of there?
Is that love?

Is love family visits cut short because one person is getting irritable?
Is love having the TV turned up even louder when the grandchildren visit, so he doesn’t have to listen to them?
Is love watching your friends drop by less and less and less, because it’s simply too uncomfortable to be in your home?
Is love not being able to talk freely on the telephone, because he’s always listening, and the person on the other line can hear the snide remarks and irritation that you try to hide by covering the phone with your hand when he interrupts?

What did it mean that you were “loved”, when you lived most of your days, most of your years, in a constant state of tension and stress, knowing that at any moment, for any reason, he would be “set off”?
Is love spending your life energy doing everything you can to prevent that from happening?

A child who grows up in a toxic home learns very little about love.
They do learn about fear though.

I learned, because my mom taught me, that honesty is always the best policy.
But only as a saying, because in reality, to get through the day, I learned that lying is often necessary. (Although after a decade of therapy, I no longer believe this.)

I learned that it’s important to stand by your values and be authentic.
But only as words, because in reality, to get through the day, I learned that backing down and placating someone who is more prone to anger than you are, is the way to survive.
(Although after a decade of therapy, I no longer believe this.)

I learned that it’s important not to ‘rock the boat’, because that just makes life difficult for everyone.
(Although after a decade of therapy, I no longer believe this.)

I learned that abusive people “mean well” and you “shouldn’t give up on people”.
(Although after a decade of therapy, I most certainly no longer believe this.)

But no, I did not learn all that much about love in my childhood home.
Although she tried.  
But no matter how hard a person tries, it’s damn-near-impossible to teach kids about love when they live in a house dominated by anger.

* * * * *

“No matter what, he’ll never get between me and my family.  Especially me and you kids.  Never.”

But the children remember, with their own years and decades of memories, that this was never true.

The children remember Christmas mornings ruined because they were “making too much noise” as they opened their stockings and “caused” an angry tirade to stomp down the stairs from the Master bedroom.

The children remember their grandpa, with a lifetime of farming experience, trying so hard to help, to give tips on how to do farm-things, to drive a tractor or help in the barn, only to be brushed aside by someone who knew very little about these things, but was too insecure to receive help. They remember the slump in Grandpa’s posture as he would walk away, rejected and dejected, trying to hide his watering eyes.

The children remember sneaking rides into town while he was “out in the field” and therefore wouldn’t get angry that they had been given a ride.

The children remember being given money behind his back, so he wouldn’t get angry.

The children remember paying rent and supporting themselves financially, while still teenagers in high school, rather than living with him.

The children remember NEVER (after the first time) saying anything in French at the dinner table because of the angry tirade that followed. “WE DON’T SPEAK GODDAMN FRENCH IN THIS HOUSE!!”  (It was a playful “merci!” after being passed the milk…).

The children remember bringing a date home and having him call her “a whore”.

The children remember bringing a fiancee over to meet the family, and having her called racist slurs.

The children remember their partners not being willing to let their kids stay over at your house, because it was “emotionally unsafe” for them to be there on their own.

The children remember hearing their siblings talked about behind their backs, and knowing it happened to them too, when they weren’t around to hear it.

The children remember visits drowned out by the TV, where FOX News and Nascar were more important than the questions, laughter, games and play of the grandchildren.

The children remember how you were prevented from celebrating your own daughter’s 30th birthday, because “30 year olds don’t need a goddamn birthday!”  So instead of visiting your own daughter on her birthday, which you had intended to, you just stayed home.

The children remember how you “would never sacrifice Christmas” when you travelled.  And they also remember how a couple years later, you all stopped getting together for Christmas.  And never did again.

The children remember their grandmother’s funeral, when you, Mom, were pressured into leaving early, leaving your own family’s celebration of your mother’s life, because “it was taking too long”.  And when you didn’t want to leave right away?  The children remember him storming out to sit in the truck in the parking lot.  Instead of being there for you while you grieved your mom’s death, he was pissy and wanted to leave. And made sure you, and your children, knew it.

The children remember how much you loved your car and the freedom it provided you.  And they also remember how it was taken off the road, and you had little to no freedom after that. Of course you could “ask for the truck”. But it was conflictual, and so usually, you didn’t. And as a result, you missed most of your grandchildrens’ childhoods.

The children remember being taken, a couple of times, to your friends’ houses to play cards, because friends would not visit you to do so.

The children remember the disquieting disjunction between the smile you constantly kept on your face, combined with the discomfort and stress in your eyes when he was around. The children remember how you would relax and be more like yourself again, when he was at work or out tending to the yard.

The children remember what it felt like, knowing that if they stepped one step “out of line”, spoke their minds, asked for help, or often, even joked around, they were risking an explosion.

The children remember what it felt like in high school when one of their friends phoned them, shivering in a phone booth, suicidal, and you were not allowed to give them a ride to go and be there for their best friend who was reaching out for help. They remember getting on their bicycle, in February, and riding to one of your neighbour’s houses about 2 kilometres away, to get a ride.

As years passed, the children remember visiting less, phoning less, sharing less. And the once-robust family that our grandparents shepherded for decades, withering into occasional phone calls and couple-times-a-year visits. Short visits.  

The children remember their own children growing up with far less of a relationship with you than they had had with their grandparents. 

On your deathbed, your children remember an unhinged, hostile tirade against your youngest child.  Maybe 10 or 15 feet from your hospice bed, as you lay there, dying that very night, they remember words of anger, red-faced rage, insults.  That youngest child stood there for as many minutes as it went on for, knowing that the last thing she wanted, the night of you dying, was a fight.  So she said nothing, except at the end, “Those were asshole things to say”, and then walked away to spend a couple of minutes beside your bed, saying goodbye to her mom of 50+ years.  A couple of minutes.  No memories.  No stories.  No songs.  No nostalgia about the good ol’ days. Just a couple of minutes.

And that child remembers that the last thing she ever saw of you, after this tirade, was a tear running down your cheek, although you otherwise appeared asleep. That will forever be your youngest child’s last memory you.

The children remember how your youngest child was erased from your obituary.  She became, officially, a non-entity, erased from your family after your death, his anger and prejudice and pettiness so profound he wouldn’t even include your own child’s name in your public obituary. The last public statement your family ever made to the world, about your life, pretended that your own child did not exist.

“He’ll never get between me and you kids.”
That was never true. 
He ALWAYS got between you and your kids. 
And your grandkids.

Children always remember.
While adults spin their self-justifying stories, 
make their excuses, 
give their false wisdom about “seeing the best in everybody” and having “good Christian values”, 
the children remember the stark, experiential truth, the lived experiences that never aligned with everything else they knew about love, about family, about parenting.

Your children and grandchildren loved you.  
And still love you.  
But half a century of their relationship with you was drained of energy, of joy, of happiness, of Family, because of the lies that people tell themselves when they are too afraid, too guilty, too people-pleasing, too ashamed, or whatever-else, to confront the difficult truths of their lives, and stand up for what’s right.

* * * * *

“But I’ll never give up on him.”
No, tragically, you gave up on yourself instead.  
And the children remember this too.  
And will grieve all that lost time for the rest of their lives.

* * * * *

This is one family’s, our family’s story.  
But it’s also the story of countless millions of families.
And the story is always the same, always.  
One or a few people inflict their anger, toxicity, lack-of-wisdom, and lack-of-healing, on everybody else.
Most everyone else tells themselves stories that it’s not really that bad, makes excuses, and “learns to cope”.

And the toxic person?  They have their moments of Goodness.
They might even take care of you, unfailingly, as your health fails.

But is that love? 
When your own individuality was denied for your whole life? 
When your loved ones were made to feel unwelcome? 
When your friendships were strained and kept at-a-distance?
When your desires for how to grow as a person, were denied?

Or is taking care of you in your time of need simply them getting what they wanted all along? 
A person subject to them, a person who must listen to them, a person who continues to be their “supply”?
It’s hard to see care as love, when it is coupled with isolation and control.

To change this story in a person’s life, is difficult, but extremely simple.
It starts with facing reality, facing the truth that you are giving your own life away.
And then realizing, you are worth more than that.
And then standing up.  Saying “no”.  And being willing to leave.

THAT is how things change.
THAT is how a toxic person’s grip on a family, is overcome.

People stay because of “love”.
But love REQUIRES that one protects themselves, and their children, from harm.

And love, even for the toxic person, requires that one stops enabling them.

THAT, is love.
And is what every person, including you, deserves.