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Guilt, Anger, or Regret

The Healing Dog

By Tricia TennesenPublished 2 years ago 6 min read
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My Girl Abbey

Imagine if each of us had been blessed with loving parents. The possibilities would be endless. As adults, we would not be dragging a boulder around everywhere, and we would all be better prepared to rebound from our peculiarities and the world's perceptions.

This dream is hardly a reality as many of us were raised by parents whose deficits were passed on in one form or another. Having been raised by a narcissistic mother, I accepted my three choices; guilt, anger, or regret. Guilt when I did not call her, anger when I did, and regret over what could have been.

Despite covid, I recently traveled. Not to visit my kind, patient mother, certainly not because I missed her, but out of an eternal sense of obligation. Hoping to help the woman my brother and I call Mom, turning her mattress, cleaning her floors, and running errands.

Upon my arrival, there would be no hug, no thrill at seeing her daughter, not even a smile. I tried for a hug, reaching across her walker as she turned and scurried to her chair. This was expected, yet her response always takes the sunshine out of my day.

Loss of Hope

I would not describe my childhood as trauma but as a gradual wearing down of hope. My disappointment never wanes. I know I should get over it move on, and there have been plenty of times when I thought I had. Being raised by a narcissistic parent creates a brokenness that is difficult, if not ostensively impossible, to repair.

I recognize her ongoing abuse is minor compared to the horrors others have faced. She kept a clean house, provided excellent food, worked off and on, yet remained self-absorbed, absent, lashing out unexpectedly. It was on this last visit with a twisted face like Betty Davis in, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane, she told me that it had been my fault that she and our father had divorced. Who says this to their child?

Hoping To Do Better

I've read everything possible about the narcissistic personality and took parenting classes to prevent myself from repeating this narrative. I found that ego is the devil here. I continue to work at downsizing mine, yet by doing so, have I opened myself to additional suffering?

My brother dared to fight against her, thus receiving most of the beatings while I remained terrified, blending into the walls hoping to avoid her rage. She signed me up for Girl Scouts. A dispute with the leader followed, and I was out. She rallied around my brother's baseball potential helping as scorekeeper. Eventually, her anger with others ended his sport. She broke ties with aunts, cousins, friends, and three husbands. Her rage was never mine alone, but the embarrassment was.

When I was thirteen, I was invited to play softball with a group of neighborhood children. I failed to hear her call to dinner, which brought her out, stick in hand. Her steely eyes and fierce look of madness chased me home. I hid behind our father at the dinner table, embarrassed beyond imagination while pleading not to be hit.

When I was fourteen, she divorced our father and placed my brother in a home for troubled boys, while the court permitted me to choose which parent to live with. I worked at restoring my self-worth with the help of a father who lovingly carried me through my teen years. He died far too young, and through God's grace, my brother and I were lucky in love finding lifelong partners who understood our pain.

My childhood memories do not include joy as much as embarrassment. On the day I selected my wedding gown, we entered a parking garage where my mother recognized the attendant. With a venomous facial expression, she called him an asshole. I turned towards the back, where those kind bridesmaids sat, and mouthed, "Sorry."

Recently the handyman in her building was called to see what was leaking in her apartment. As he stood on a stool to remove a ceiling panel, she said, "Don't bother, you'll never fit. You're a fat Mexican." She raved about how he had lied to the building manager, explaining that she would never say that. I knew better. On my next visit, I apologized to the man. He died shortly after, and my heart ached for his family remembering him as one of the kindest men I had ever met. I have cleaned up a lot of her nastiness. Perhaps I am tired.

I have tried walking away, keeping my distance, and attempting to be the good daughter. Each option requires I rip off my protective shroud and allow her fury to take hold like a tick sucking the joy out of an otherwise wonderful life.

There is no cure for her behavior, but many believe there is a cure for the grief children of narcissistic parents carry. One never purges memories of abuse as one never forgets a loved one's death. You realize this was not your fault. You learn to get on with life, but the wounds of selfishness and blame never heal.

My Accidental Theripist

My dog, Abbey, taught me to forget the what-ifs and focus on the now. She, too, was abused. We defiantly stole her from a house where she had been chained without water or food. We drove past day after day, watching her slowly die from neglect. When I could no longer accept her living conditions, the Mr. brought bolt cutters, and I lured her to our car with chicken. At half her healthy weight and dehydrated, she went directly to the vet, dragging that chain.

I wonder if she recalls her neglect. I observe Abbey, who was abused in all manners yet finds joy everywhere. She forgot her former life and is busy making new memories. She doesn't look at what could have been seeing only what is. The daily supply of food and water, the compliments from neighbors who tell her how lucky she is to be the most walked dog ever, the "Good Girl" words from her family.

As we walk in our rural mountain neighborhood, I have moments of incredible harmony. I pull up a rock, sit next to the sky-blue lake, and watch Abbey jump and pounce with great joy, hoping to catch a vole. I watch her shadow romp beside her with an excited tail, ears straight up as she stalks her game. I feel solidly at peace and so very blessed when we are together.

Beyond any therapist or book, Abbey has provided my greatest antitoxin. She taught me that being outdoors heals our broken parts. Bathing in nature with a dog by your side washes away the ugliness that we humans insist on dumping on this world. Her therapy is the best: quiet, nurturing, positive, and that boulder that I once carried has been reduced to a rock.

Recently as I observed her prancing, I recognized my need for an analogy, a tool, as we humans love tools. A way to think of my mother's behavior as unattached, separate from my being. A straightforward approach that Abbey had shown when she dove into the present without regret. I remembered a pair of shoes that would serve as the essential tool. A while back, I purchased a pair of beige heels for a wedding, spending two or three times what I would typically spend hoping to make it through the day without the pain accompanying the wearing of heels. Sometimes, out of obligation, I pull them from the top shelf and slip them on, knowing they will hurt. This is where I've placed my mother, on the shelf, out of sight, out of mind. Perhaps one day, a sense of obligation will require that I pull her cruelty down.

As we prepare for our walk, Abbey jumps with excitement reminding me of all that life offers. She shows me that we need not wholly forget our abuse. Just let it go like a bad cold. Dogs show us that enjoying life is about this day, this moment, and nothing more.

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About the Creator

Tricia Tennesen

After a lifetime of silence,I write. Cancer survivior, married forever, three daughters, years of pushing sugary drinks on unsusspecting humans. Now I read, write, fly fish, tie flys, listen, observe and walk.

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