Enough

I always have weird dreams in the days leading up to Father's Day.  I dream I am a child again and my father is yelling at me.  Sometimes, he has just died and I don't know how to react:  am I supposed to be sad or relieved?  When I awaken, I am usually just numb.  I know I have daddy issues.  I always have.  It is difficult growing up with a father who is withholding and unloving.  At some point, I internalized the fact that I was unloveable and unworthy.  I was never good enough for him; so now I am never good enough for me.  He will die someday, probably sooner, rather than later; I will have no closure.  I fear that he will take a piece of me with him, leaving the puzzle that is "me" unsolved.

I have tried to sort my daddy issues out.  I have tried forgiveness.  I have tried releasing him psychically, emotionally and psychologically.  None of it worked.  So, in my desperation, I confronted him.  I told him how I felt unloved by him.  How, no matter how much I've tried to please him, it was never enough.  How painful it was for me to see him develop and enjoy his relationships with my siblings, while the only thing he bestowed upon me was disdain.  I looked him in the eyes as I pleaded with him to explain to me where our relationship had gone so horribly wrong.  And ... he got up and walked away from me. Without saying a word.  Without denying his lack of love for me.  I think that one action at 40 was worse than all the emotional abuse, the distance and the disapproval of the 40 preceding years.

They say those who do not learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them.  While my issue with my father is not my mistake, per se, I have repeated this "not enough-ness" throughout my whole life.  It has plagued me through relationships, jobs and friendships.  When I receive acceptance, love and approval from strangers, I cannot process it.  My mind will not receive it, so my not enough-ness continues.  

So, on this Father's Day, when I see my son with his father and experience the pure and unadulterated love between the two, I feel happy that he has that.  No matter what life may bring him, that is something that no one can ever take away.  To that, I raise my glass and say "Happy Father's Day."

Facing Down the Beast

Last summer, with pretty much no forewarning and absolutely no preparation, one of my sisters picked up her two children and moved half-way across the country. She and her husband scraped together their combined savings and put it as a down payment on a house. They had nothing left over for moving expenses, so they left everything behind. They simply got in their car, stuffed as many clothes as would fit in the trunk and started driving. Upon arrival, they had no money for furniture, so they’re sleeping, eating and living on the floor of their brand new home.

I’ve written before about how my siblings and I were raised. My parents did – and still do – worship money. These are people who will forgo basic necessities in order to save money. Because my parents were so devout to the Almighty Dollar, it stands to reason that my siblings and I turned out to be money pagans. We do not worship at the altar of timely bill payment. We do not light candles to the Credit Score god. Budget? We spit on you. It is something that we all have in common and which causes my parents an endless amount of stress.

So when my sister moved to another state with no money, no savings, no job prospects and no interest in getting a job, my poor parents almost had synchronized heart attacks. My mother lost sleep; my father went ballistic; one of my other sisters denounced her as “irresponsible”; and I was just in shock.

Let me say that my sister is no lay-about. She has been working non-stop since she was 16 years old. She has a bachelor’s degree and 2 masters in Education from NYU; she has just completed another degree in Theology. For 20 of the 21 years of her marriage, she was the primary breadwinner. Her husband would work for 4 to 6 months and “take a break” – all while she slaved to keep the kids’ tuition paid, the rent out of arrears and food on the table. When she couldn’t do it alone, the rest us of pitched in to help (be it by taking the kids for the weekend or buying them school clothes). For her to simply say “I refuse to do this anymore; let the chips fall where they may,” was huge.

While this may seem like the perfect recipe for disaster, I am beginning to see the method in her madness. By being Superwoman, she infantilized her husband and spoiled her kids. None of them had any consideration for her or any appreciation for what she provided. Because the chips are certainly falling – everywhere, I might add – her husband has had to break his “4 months of work and 8 months of vacation” habit. Her eldest child has had to get a job. Her youngest must make do without the $150 sneakers he had grown accustomed to. In the meantime, my sister attends to the home and rejects job offers; all while continuing to sleep on the floor (“it’s good for the back,” she quips) and eat on the floor (“every day is a picnic,” she chirped the last time I spoke with her).

The experience is certainly teaching her family a valuable lesson, but the biggest lesson may be for my sister, herself, whether she realizes it or not. You see, in my parents’ eyes, this is the absolute worst thing that could happen to a person – to be broke and have no immediate monetary prospects. Yet my sister is facing the financial beast head on and not backing down. She is unabashed in her self-imposed poverty and has weathered the economic storm without seeking shelter under anyone else’s pecuniary umbrella. Most importantly, my sister has shown us that even stripped of all material things, she is still, well, her. She didn’t die when her last paycheck was used up. She didn’t turn into dust when the last dollar in her savings account was depleted. And by experiencing true scarcity, my sister will never again succumb to the scarcity mentality my family falls prey to. She has – albeit in the most excruciating way possible – shed the family karma that continues to plague the rest of us. It is exhibiting true courage in the face of a beast.

My sister is now 8 months into her sojourn into the belly of the money beast. I don’t know when she will return; but it will be cause for celebration when she does.

The Power of Forgiveness

Until last year, my middle sister and I did not get along. We spent our childhood fighting – literally – like cats and dogs. Once we outgrew fistfights, we engaged in something more sinister: seething sibling rivalry and one-up-ness. Our dislike for each other permeated all family gatherings and get-togethers. I hated her so much that I could barely stand to look at her. Over the years, I thought about making peace with her, but would never follow through, thinking that perhaps that ship had sailed.

Just before Christmas last year, however, I got this feeling in my soul that it was time to bury the hatchet once and for all (and, hopefully, not in each other’s backs). And the more I tried to shake it off, the more the feeling persisted. I went to the bookstore and a book on forgiveness practically jumped in my hand. “I got it,” I whispered to God. “I will do this.”

I read the book and did the forgiveness exercises. I imagined myself speaking with my sister and magnanimously telling her that I forgave her for all her transgressions.

I would pick up the phone to call her and put it back down. Eventually, I settled on writing her a letter. In the letter, I spoke about all the things that bothered me about her: her nosiness, her loudness, her attitude. But then other things poured out: how I admired her work ethic, her take-no-crap stance in life, and how everyone respected her. Memories of our childhood in Honduras came flooding back. I remembered that we were inseparable. Then other thoughts started to creep in: how she was my grandmother’s favorite (no small feat, considering that my grandmother was caring for about 20 grandchildren at the time). And how, when we came to the States and my father was drinking himself into oblivion half the time, she was the only one who could make him smile. I recalled how my mother always said that she, my sister, was most like her: witty, sharp, a real firecracker.

And suddenly a realization dawned on me. My job was not to forgive my sister for everything she had done to me. She had done nothing but be herself. My job was to forgive myself! I had been petty and jealous. All these years, I had envied her for having the things that I felt I lacked: love from our grandmother when our parents weren’t around; a way around my father’s emotional unavailability; and approval from our mother.

I took the letter and put it in a drawer. Then I called my sister for the first time in my adult life. Things between us didn’t thaw immediately, but with practice we have learned to be sisters again. My sister now calls me just to chat. Sometimes, we spend two hours on the phone. We go out to eat and hang out with our kids at the park. She has learned to call on me for emotional support when she needs it. I call her to find out how to add features to my cell phone. You know what? It’s nice to have my sister back.