Posts Tagged ‘childhood’

Okay. So it’s true that I complain about things my parents failed to do as much (or more) than things they did do. Today in the “stuff they didn’t do, but should have, and it should have been obvious” category, I offer proof from an unlikely place: the Family Feud.

That’s right, the game show.

Not the original, 70s-tastic version hosted by Richard Dawson (unfortunately).

Today, on a 1990s-era rerun (thanks Game Show Network!), contestants were faced with the following survey question:

“Name a home repair that is necessary no matter how broke you are.”

Hmmm. I struggled thinking of possibilities…in my experience, we just never fixed anything. This has made me hypersensitive, so now even little things like light bulbs get insta-replaced in my own house.

Eventually, the contestants gave all four correct results:

1. Plumbing

2. Leaky Roof

3. Refrigerator/stove

4. Hot Water Heater

Interesting.

Breaking this down, my parents go 0/4.

0/5 if you count the refrigerator and stove as separate items.

1. Plumbing. The plumbing in my childhood house went out when I was in grade school. We had raw sewage running down the side of our house and driveway for over a decade, because instead of fixing the septic tank, my dad just disconnected it. My mom, brother, and I had to throw our used toilet paper in a trash can (because apparently it was more sanitary if we just flushed the poop). My dad couldn’t live with that, of course, and continued to flush everything to its final resting place directly out my brother’s bedroom window. No wonder he left home at 16.

Unfortunately, I can’t find the super-classy picture of when the chain in the tank broke, and there was a fire poker stuck in there for flushing.

Moving on…

2. Leaky Roof. Small potatoes. Try having the living room doors leak and soak the entire carpet every time it rained, making it necessary to wear shoes indoors just to get to the bathroom, unless you wanted to walk in mud. The roof in our entry room did actually partially collapse due to a leak when I was about 14. I have pictures, but I need to scan them. Proof from the eventual patch job that happened 10 years after the fact though:

It’s hard to get a clear sense of it here, but the floor was so wet for so long, the book case actually warped away from the wall. You can also see the mold line on the back wall marking how far upward the moisture wicked into the walls. Classy.

3. Refrigerator/stove. To be fair, the refrigerator actually did work until I was 16. 3 of the 4 burners on the stove did work, but the oven went out when I was about 8 and was never fixed. My brother and I determined to purchase my mom a new stove when I was 16 and had a job; in a freaky coincidence, the week we slated for a Home Depot trip, the refrigerator also crapped out entirely, so we ended up buying one of those as well in the same trip. It’s like even the appliances knew my dad was never going to fix them!

d-con in the kitchen? Sure. Why not? No fire hazard here, either. Safety first.

Which brings us finally to…

4. Hot Water Heater. I’ve complained a lot about the water situation at my house growing up. In case you missed those posts, our water came from a box spring, and emerged from our (very dirty) taps in roughly a 40:60 mud and silt to water ratio. I used to have to ring mud out of my hair after every shower. Gross. Showers in themselves sucked, because our hot water heater was dysfunctional, and had to be reset on an hourly basis. Taking a shower meant going into the front room, tripping the reset button, and waiting an hour for a whopping 5 minutes or so of water that was either lukewarm or scalding. Generally, I jumped in, got wet, turned off the water while I lathered, and then rinsed as fast as possible, because the longer I stayed in, the more mud I had to contend with. How we never had a fire in this house I will never, ever, understand.

The entry room where our water heater was located was always very inviting…for rats.

I like that this question included the line “no matter how broke you are.” Because even the survey of 100 random people understood that certain maintenance things aren’t negotiable. Failing to fix one of them is bad enough…failing to fix all of them is almost incomprehensible. How my parents could have ever thought it was okay to raise kids in that would be a lucrative and interesting study (take note, Family Feud question writers…)

What really hurts me is the reality that a new stove, refrigerator, and hot water heater cost significantly less than the price of one tractor. My dad had friends who could have fixed the roof for a minimal cost, and we had a neighbor who offered to fix the septic tank. My dad turned them down because of the cost. It was literally better to let us live in squalor than give up the chance to buy another D-4.

When should children be removed from a home?

Before this happens.

Home Sweet [Clean] Home

Posted: June 7, 2011 in childhood
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Finally. My boss is home from Europe, and I am home from my bosses. After almost a month straight of house sitting, it is nice to be home, chilling with the cat and my laptop. I picked up my boss and his partner from the airport a little after 10, and I’ve been reveling in being home ever since. Especially since my house is sparkly and clean. I came home this morning and cleaned. It’s one of those annoying/cathartic things that I don’t really enjoy, but simultaneously revel in. Since the house I grew up in never felt clean, I derive a pretty significant amount of satisfaction from feeling like my own house is a clean, safe, healthy place to be.

When I house sit for my boss, I tend to have weird dreams that revolve around my childhood and/or my house. I think it has something to do with the fact that when I’m house sitting, and walking through the neighborhood where my boss lives, looking at all the nice, big family houses, it always makes me think about how I grew up. It makes me think about families, and about what goes on inside the walls of a house. What makes a house into a home? I’m not entirely sure, but I know the answer is somewhere in the combination of love and support and discipline and encouragement that I didn’t get. I look at these big fancy houses/homes and somewhere in the back of my head I go back to being a little kid, wide-eyed, and wondering what it must be like to be a kid and get to go home every night to one of those nice, clean, painted and polished houses/homes. Part of me can’t really wrap my head around what that must be like.

Wondering about that sort of thing too much can be dangerous territory for me. It’s hard sometimes not to focus so hard on all the things I didn’t have that I lose sight for a while of the things that I did. More important, the things I didn’t have made me into the person I am today, and she’s finally someone I really genuinely like. But for the younger, childlike version of me that didn’t and to some extent still doesn’t understand all of the needlessly traumatic things I went through as a little kid, it’s hard not to be angry. While the childlike version of me is busy having a tantrum, it puts the 27 year old me in serious danger of becoming bitter.  Letting go of all that anger is hard, but deep down on a level I can’t always get to, it’s liberating. It’s what will allow me to live my life and love (almost) every minute of it, and not wind up broken and wasted.

For now, though, I just can’t wait to curl up in my nice warm bed, with my clean sheets, and my freshly vacuumed carpet, and my kitty…and no mice.

This is not the first of these posts, and will not be the last. As long as my parents are still alive, I’m always going to be playing parent in some form. I have Wednesdays off from work, so I made today my periodic “drive out to the parents’ house and pick up their garbage and take it to the landfill” day.  It went fine, but it’s always a reminder of just how screwed up my family is. At 26, it’s pretty devastating to have to feel like the parent in this relationship. What’s even more devastating is coming to the realization that most of what I was told as a child just simply wasn’t true.

Now, to be fair, I feel obligated to spell out some of the facts, the foremost being that my parents are, at the most basic level, truly nice people. My father, when it comes right down to it, is probably the most honest person I’ve ever met. I can in good conscious say that I don’t think he’s ever intentionally told a lie. My mom is very sweet and I can’t imagine her ever hurting anyone intentionally. Despite how it might look to someone who doesn’t understand the complexity of the situation, I love them because they are my parents, and to some extent I am able to wrap my head around the idea that they did the best they could.

That being said, how do you make sense of the world when what you’re being told doesn’t line up with reality? As a child, you learn to adapt, and it’s easy to start believing that the problem is you, rather than the situation. As a little kid, I wasn’t able to process the reasons why there were differences between what my parents told me was true and what I saw around me.

Some examples:

The statement: “Our family is the most important thing in my life.”

The reality: This was “good enough” for our family – the truck my mom had to drive had holes in the cab so big, we had to put garbage bags over our laps when it rained to keep from getting soaked. There was no heater, and I had to sit up on the seat with a squeegee to keep the windshield clear enough for my mom to see out of while she was driving. No radio, no working gas gauge, no heater, and only one working door. I was always told that “there wasn’t any money” to buy my mom a decent car, and I endured most of the humiliation of being driven around in the truck by ducking under the dash so no one could see me when we pulled into parking lots. My dad responded to my complaints by insisting that anyone who judged me by the vehicle I rode in wasn’t worth being friends with. He failed to grasp how cruel other kids are, how unsafe the truck was, and how irresponsible it was that he was more than willing to spend thousands of dollars on a new (by “new” I mean shitty, old, rusty, someone else was going to sell it for scrap metal) tractor.

The truck my mom drove for most of my life.

 

The statement: “I’ve always taken care of you.”

The reality: It isn’t possible to nurture anything in a kitchen that looks like this. Aside from mice and termites. And even the mice got sick sometimes.

The kitchen where all our meals were prepared...

 

The statement: “We’ve always supported you.”

The reality: “Support” in this case meant “toleration” based on the stipulation that I stayed out of the way and didn’t cause what my parents might consider “trouble.” What I’m learning now is that I wasn’t really the “problem child” I’ve always been accused of being – more than anything, I was “normal” in the sense that I just wanted to feel like I was important to my parents and that what was going on in my life mattered. While the message I was told always included verbal statements of “you matter,” the reality included a solid dose of the real underlying message, which was “my tractors matter. If you have a problem, please deal with it so I don’t have to be involved. I already have too much going on in my life to deal with your issues as well.”

Sorting through the devastation that someone else created...

 

The reality is that my parents are still relying on me to be the responsible one in our relationship, much the same way they have since I was old enough to dress myself. They hoarded things and allowed the house to collapse around us, and now they’re leaving me to clean up the mess, and the devastation.

It’s true. Because of my childhood, simple things like light bulbs now hold an extraordinary amount of symbolic power over how safe and secure I feel.  It all stretches back to being a child and learning very early on that just because something that broke around the house was an easy fix didn’t mean it would be taken care of. Replacing light bulbs for instance.

The bathroom in our house in California only had one light fixture in it. It was in the middle of the room (which was small) and it was a glass globe that shielded a single bulb. If that single bulb burned out, there was no light in the bathroom. When it did burn out, it generally didn’t get changed for a while.

Because of where the bulb was placed, it couldn’t be changed without a step stool. My mom had neck and back problems that made it increasingly hard for her to handle reaching overhead to change the bulb, so for a long time, I suspect my brother was the one who took care of it. He left home when I was 11, and after that, there were lots of times that the light burned out and just never got changed. My dad just didn’t do it. It never occurred to me that that was odd, because that’s what I was used to.

When I got old enough to reach the bulb from the top of a step ladder, I started changing the light when it burned out. But there was a period in the middle there where no one changed the light. The idea of candles still brings my dad to tears because he’s afraid the house will burn down (a real possibility considering the hoarding, but I’m quite certain he’s never put two and two together). The only option left was a battery-powered lamp, which provided just enough light to figure out where things were.  Now that I think about it, it almost made the situation more pleasant…dim lighting made it harder to see the worst of the dirt…

There's only so much dim lighting can do...

Flash forward to the present, and sometimes the simplest of things jolts me back to that place where the people who were supposed to be taking care of me quite simply failed. The house that I currently share with my boyfriend has standard lighting fixtures in the bedrooms upstairs that cover two bulbs each. Since we have three bedrooms, a master and two smaller ones, my boyfriend and I each have an office. As a general rule, I stay out of his and let it be his man cave full of computer equipment I don’t understand and various other odds and ends that cover the floor. I stay out of the man cave because it looks like a tornado hit it, and it drives me nuts. It’s the messiest room in our house, and sometimes it gives me flashbacks to my childhood home. When it gets too bad, I complain, throw around official-sounding words like “peritaxis”* and eventually boyfriend gives in and cleans it. (His version of cleaning does not equal mine, but I try to compromise).

So imagine my reaction a few days ago when I ventured into boyfriend’s man cave to collect some stray dishes, flipped the light switch…and nothing happened. Nothing. The bulbs were burned out, and instead of replacing them, boyfriend elected to use his desk lamp and ignore the overhead lights. I marched into the master bedroom, where boyfriend was sniffling with a cold and watching TV, and gave him a short, concise lecture on how his failure to replace the light bulbs made me feel like I was back in California.

This is one of those situations where tiny things turn into happy reminders that I’m in a much different place now. The next day, the lights had mysteriously been replaced everything was back in working order. Now if I can just get him to clean up the floor…

*Peritaxis, as my therapist uses it, refers to situations where the present is experienced as more than just what it is. In my case, for example, it means experiencing the past, and the neglect I suffered, in situations in the present where something is occurring which mimics certain aspects of something I’ve gone through before.

It’s probably time to start talking about the biggest OCD component in all of this. One of my biggest struggles in getting healthy has been learning to cope with my OCD, and learning how to manage my compulsions. Over the years, there were many compulsions that impacted my ability to function on a daily basis. The earliest that I can remember is checking numbers – mostly on the clock beside my bed. I had trouble sleeping because I’d keep opening my eyes to look at what time it was. At one point, I decided that the number 7 was awesome, and repeatedly checked the clock to watch the numbers change. Somewhere along the way I started writing the numbers down on pieces of paper because I was afraid I’d forget them. The end result was one very tired kid and lots of pieces of paper filled with a progression of noted times that meant very little.

Somewhere along the way that compulsion wore off, and others replaced it. By the time I was a teenager, I no longer placed all my faith in the number 7. I’d moved on and branched out by then, to certain even numbers…multiples of 2 and 4 were preferable, though numbers that repeated (22, 44, etc.), were not desirable.  I was most partial to 4, 12, 14 and 24. By the time I got to college, I’d started setting alarm clocks to those numbers – getting up at 7:00 was unthinkable when it was just as easy to set the alarm to 7:04, or 7:34. I couldn’t turn the car off if the clock numbers ended in 3. I’m not really sure if I thought something bad was going to happen, it just didn’t feel right to do things differently. That’s the scary part of OCD – learning to behave differently.

By far the most debilitating of my OCD compulsions has been picking at my skin. I don’t remember exactly when it started. I know that by the time I was in middle school I was chewing on the skin around my fingers until they bled, and when I reached my pre-teenage years and started to develop acne, I began picking at my face instantly. My parents were never good at following through to make sure I’d brushed my teeth, washed my face, or anything of that sort. Even if I had wanted to wash my face, our water was so full of silt, I’m not sure how much good it did. To illustrate, it got so bad by the time I was in eighth grade that I had to start rinsing my hair with bottled water when I got out of the shower to get the muddy sludge out of it. I felt dirty, and out of control. To compensate, I picked my skin.

The bathroom sink...

...and the bathtub.

I remember the exact moment that I transitioned from picking my face to picking other parts of my body – most notably my upper arms and chest. I was sitting at the dining room table working on something, and absently running the fingers of one hand over my left shoulder when I felt a little bump. I raced to the bathroom mirror to check out the situation and discovered a white-head, which I immediately annihilated by popping it. A new compulsion was born. Within a few days, my arms were a bloody, bruised, scabbed over mess.

I knew something wasn’t right, and most of my major milestones in life were marked by my desire to stop picking at my skin. I’d do it when I turned 15. No fifteen year old picked at their skin. Maybe at 16…certainly no sixteen year old did it. 18. No young adult going off to college would pick their skin this way. 21 – old enough to drink, old enough not to pick.

Now here I am, 26, and still learning how to manage my OCD…including not picking at my skin.

My OCD therapist started with the numbers. The first time I had to set my alarm clock to 7:13 I wanted to have a panic attack, but it got better. The numbers have gotten better. Learning to manage the skin picking has been a much bigger struggle, and I’m still working through it.  There’s a strange sense of calm in picking at my skin – the compulsion is like an old friend, and it’s been with me for a long time. Cutting it out of my life has been difficult.

I’m 26 years old, and I still have a hard time wearing tank tops, short-sleeved shirts, and anything that reveals too much of my chest. I’ve picked my skin so much that it’s probably done permanent damage. As my picking has lessened, with therapy and lots of hard work, my skin has healed enough to appear healthy on the outside. Learning to understand my compulsive need to pick and retrain my brain to react differently to the desire to pick, however, is a process that I’m still learning. Knowing that I’m not alone, and not the only one in the world who picks at my skin, is a powerful thing, however, and that’s a big part of my motivation to share my story. I didn’t learn the word “dermatillomania” until a few months ago, but knowing there is a medical term for what I do is an enormously powerful thing. I think if I had known at a younger age that there were other people out there like me, it would have made a huge difference. OCD is a very secretive disorder – I don’t want anyone to be able to see that I pick my skin, so I’ve grown adept at hiding it. Revealing it to the world is scary, but a very healing step. Pictures coming……

It has been a crazy couple of weeks. Grad school does not believe in time off, so as usual, I’m trying to find a balance between getting projects checked off my to-do list and finding time for me. Lately it seems that most of my “me time” is consumed by worrying about what I’m going to do when I finish grad school and worrying about what I’m going to do when I have to deal with my parents next…

The holidays are always hard. Since I’ve been dating my current boyfriend, I’ve spent Christmases and most other holidays with his family. I appreciate the time I have with them, and I’m grateful that I have them in my life. At the same time, it always brings to the forefront how dysfunctional my own family is.

I realize that no childhood is ever perfect. What my parents, and lots of other people surrounding this whole dysfunctional family fail to realize, is that I’m not upset that my childhood wasn’t perfect. I’m furious that my parents didn’t live up to the responsibilities inherent with having children – protecting me, and providing a safe, healthy, nurturing environment. After years of therapy, I’ve arrived at a place where I’m not even so much angry anymore that it happened…I’m angry that they still don’t think they need to take any responsibility for it.

One of the terms that stands out to me as  I learn more about hoarding and parenting and the strange combination that results from mixing the two is “active neglect.” As I understand it, this basically implies that parents are present and meeting the basic needs of the child – food, warmth, shelter – etc. at the most fundamental level, but failing to remedy problematic situations that arise from hoarding, like cleaning the house.

I spent most of my life believing that I couldn’t have been neglected…how could I have been “neglected” when both my parents were at home with me every night? It has been a process of learning that neglect is more complicated than that. My parents were physically present, but emotionally unavailable; they provided me with shelter, but it was a shelter that was unfit for human habitation, hazardous, and unsanitary. On some level, they knew there was a problem; how many times was I told that it was my responsibility to “clean up this house a little bit,” in my dad’s favorite way of putting it? All the hours my mother and I spent commiserating about how filthy the house was were times when my parents should have taken responsibility for fixing the situation. Active neglect.

When I see it on the TV, it brings up a lot of the anger I’m working through. The last episode of “Hoarders” on A&E featured a woman who threatened to leave her family and move out of their hoarded house if it wasn’t cleaned. Then the cleaning crew came in, and it was the mother who refused to let any items go. She wanted the house clean, but wouldn’t take any responsibility for letting go of the things that made it filthy in the first place. I wanted to climb through the TV and smack her for not being able to take responsibility for what she was doing to her family in much the same way that I feel an overwhelming urge to smack my dad for exactly the same reason.

Back to the same conundrum…how do you explain to someone that they’ve hurt you when they aren’t capable of understanding why? How can I explain to my parents that even though they were physically present, they neglected me? I’m continuing to ponder this as I try to work through the experience of going back to my childhood house in California, and the process of grieving for my grandmother. Sometimes, yelling at the TV in lieu of my own parents really does help.