Difficult Relationships
The personality has always been there. There was such a notable and noticeable difference between the personality of the first and the third as opposed to the second-born in this family. From the very moment she was born our daughter confounded us with her state of being, so radically unlike that of her two brothers.
They were easy to care for, placid, rewardingly manageable as children, while she was always temperamental, demanding, dissatisfied, disgruntled and unhappy. I can vividly recall how, as a young mother I trusted to the future, that she would "outgrow" her continual chafing at just about everything in her life, but above all, at the fact that she was our beloved daughter, and we were her too-solicitous parents.
At each milestone in her development it became clear that not much was about to change. Her personality had been set in stone, a forever thing. There seemed nothing we could do to settle her into an atmosphere of happiness, it just was not about to happen with this child. She was not born to be light-minded and optimistic; there was something permanently lowering on her horizon that was dark and brooding and unreachable.
There was no time at which we didn't stop trying to satisfy whatever it was in her that remained perpetually dissatisfied and unhappy. If we could do something that gave her a brief moment of satisfaction, of happiness, of fulfilment in some way, it remained just that: brief. And then that cloud of miserable brooding would settle back in, and there seemed nothing we could do to alleviate it.
Some people, it would appear, are born with those very particular characteristics, an unhappy inheritance from genes unknown to us, some time back in our families' history. In fact, I wouldn't have to look too dreadfully hard to recognize many of my own mother's personality traits in our daughter.
These traits did not gradually surface, as our child patterned herself after her grandmother. They were there, deep in her essence. She was always of a morose, lugubrious temperament, quickly learning how to manipulate us.
There was always within her a deep unbending condemnation of any expectations we might remotely voice related to personal responsibility on her part for her moods, her value judgements and lifestyle choices, as she matured. She would be held to no one's standard but her own.
Her will indomitable; she would do what she would, and there could be no discussions. Her outright refusal to communicate, to engage in a reasonable discussion, to clear the air through a mutually beneficial debate with all of us stating our positions and apprehensions would not occur. If we expressed doubts or cautions with respect to her behaviour, her anger climbed to impossible dimensions.
We would be exposed to the darkness descending, then shrieks of outrage, condemning us for our sins in trying to control her. We would stand by in helpless disbelief, aghast at yet again unwittingly unleashing her implacable fury on us. From childhood rages to a grown woman's frantic ranting at parents who somehow stunted a daughter's growth opportunities.
Unspeakably vile language would be hurled at us; learned not at home, but in her teen years adopted as a measure of revolt against our measured language and attempts at reasonable discourse. Epithets which, had they been hatefully directed against us through any other source would be unforgivable, would fade with time, although fresh, we reeled from the assault.
She is inordinately gifted. Capable, efficient, intelligent, and beautiful. Anything I was able to master, any lifestyle skills whatever, she could effortlessly outdistance. She became a master gardener, a seamstress, an amateur psychologist, a lover and protector of animals - rescuing far too many and burdening herself with the expense in time and funds, of their care.
She is an experienced professional in her field, earning a very good salary. She has become an inordinately good mother, particularly in view of the fact that her daughter exhibits many of the traits she herself does. And, ironically, she has for years complained to us about her daughter's character so like her own in so may ways, and how difficult it is to raise such a child.
She is now approaching 50 years of age. An accomplished multi-tasker, indefatigable, ambitious to own life on her own terms. Between us, not much has changed. She prefers not to see us when things go well with her. When circumstances become difficult, she contacts us. When she requires practical help, we're called. So many things have gone wrong for her, and we're then in the thick of helping her turn her life back on track.
We live in a constant state of mute truce; careful not to draw her anger, careful not to appear to be blaming her for the results of lifestyle choices which she has been cautioned against, but proceeded with regardless. We cower, drained of resolve and unable to muster the fortitude to stand our grand, but meekly accept what she delivers.
Otherwise, all bets are off and she slams accusations at us one after another, unremittingly. She seems, somehow resolved at these thankfully rare but powerfully upsetting times to diminish us, as revenge for some real or perceived past slight or assault on her autonomous sensibilities.
I harbour now the firm conviction that gloomy people inhabit a perpetually gloomy world. No outside source can deliver them from this malaise. People who peer through the prism of darkness seem incapable of envisioning the light of full happiness and contentment in life. Satisfaction eludes them; if it breaks into their consciousness, it is appreciated for a short period of time, then dissipates.
These people cast a dark pall of misery over everyone they come in contact with. Their world is two-dimensional, sepia-coloured, devoid of the conviction of hope. Inviting disaster of any and all proportions to enter and inhabit their lives, their personas, their souls. Their insidious dark moods despoil joy and pleasure.
The contagion of their discontent threatens others' state of well-being. Their truly psychic disorder blanches out the colour of happiness, leaving the grey dross of misery. The bleak winter of their discontent colours all seasons, bereft of rhyme or reason. They seem incapable of recognizing the saving grace of moderation.
Those who attempt, through love and compassion, to placate their inalienable right to smothering misery find themselves helpless under an onslaught of anger, blame, hate, revenge. Which wears itself out in a final helpless paroxysm of self-pity and grief.
They were easy to care for, placid, rewardingly manageable as children, while she was always temperamental, demanding, dissatisfied, disgruntled and unhappy. I can vividly recall how, as a young mother I trusted to the future, that she would "outgrow" her continual chafing at just about everything in her life, but above all, at the fact that she was our beloved daughter, and we were her too-solicitous parents.
At each milestone in her development it became clear that not much was about to change. Her personality had been set in stone, a forever thing. There seemed nothing we could do to settle her into an atmosphere of happiness, it just was not about to happen with this child. She was not born to be light-minded and optimistic; there was something permanently lowering on her horizon that was dark and brooding and unreachable.
There was no time at which we didn't stop trying to satisfy whatever it was in her that remained perpetually dissatisfied and unhappy. If we could do something that gave her a brief moment of satisfaction, of happiness, of fulfilment in some way, it remained just that: brief. And then that cloud of miserable brooding would settle back in, and there seemed nothing we could do to alleviate it.
Some people, it would appear, are born with those very particular characteristics, an unhappy inheritance from genes unknown to us, some time back in our families' history. In fact, I wouldn't have to look too dreadfully hard to recognize many of my own mother's personality traits in our daughter.
These traits did not gradually surface, as our child patterned herself after her grandmother. They were there, deep in her essence. She was always of a morose, lugubrious temperament, quickly learning how to manipulate us.
There was always within her a deep unbending condemnation of any expectations we might remotely voice related to personal responsibility on her part for her moods, her value judgements and lifestyle choices, as she matured. She would be held to no one's standard but her own.
Her will indomitable; she would do what she would, and there could be no discussions. Her outright refusal to communicate, to engage in a reasonable discussion, to clear the air through a mutually beneficial debate with all of us stating our positions and apprehensions would not occur. If we expressed doubts or cautions with respect to her behaviour, her anger climbed to impossible dimensions.
We would be exposed to the darkness descending, then shrieks of outrage, condemning us for our sins in trying to control her. We would stand by in helpless disbelief, aghast at yet again unwittingly unleashing her implacable fury on us. From childhood rages to a grown woman's frantic ranting at parents who somehow stunted a daughter's growth opportunities.
Unspeakably vile language would be hurled at us; learned not at home, but in her teen years adopted as a measure of revolt against our measured language and attempts at reasonable discourse. Epithets which, had they been hatefully directed against us through any other source would be unforgivable, would fade with time, although fresh, we reeled from the assault.
She is inordinately gifted. Capable, efficient, intelligent, and beautiful. Anything I was able to master, any lifestyle skills whatever, she could effortlessly outdistance. She became a master gardener, a seamstress, an amateur psychologist, a lover and protector of animals - rescuing far too many and burdening herself with the expense in time and funds, of their care.
She is an experienced professional in her field, earning a very good salary. She has become an inordinately good mother, particularly in view of the fact that her daughter exhibits many of the traits she herself does. And, ironically, she has for years complained to us about her daughter's character so like her own in so may ways, and how difficult it is to raise such a child.
She is now approaching 50 years of age. An accomplished multi-tasker, indefatigable, ambitious to own life on her own terms. Between us, not much has changed. She prefers not to see us when things go well with her. When circumstances become difficult, she contacts us. When she requires practical help, we're called. So many things have gone wrong for her, and we're then in the thick of helping her turn her life back on track.
We live in a constant state of mute truce; careful not to draw her anger, careful not to appear to be blaming her for the results of lifestyle choices which she has been cautioned against, but proceeded with regardless. We cower, drained of resolve and unable to muster the fortitude to stand our grand, but meekly accept what she delivers.
Otherwise, all bets are off and she slams accusations at us one after another, unremittingly. She seems, somehow resolved at these thankfully rare but powerfully upsetting times to diminish us, as revenge for some real or perceived past slight or assault on her autonomous sensibilities.
I harbour now the firm conviction that gloomy people inhabit a perpetually gloomy world. No outside source can deliver them from this malaise. People who peer through the prism of darkness seem incapable of envisioning the light of full happiness and contentment in life. Satisfaction eludes them; if it breaks into their consciousness, it is appreciated for a short period of time, then dissipates.
These people cast a dark pall of misery over everyone they come in contact with. Their world is two-dimensional, sepia-coloured, devoid of the conviction of hope. Inviting disaster of any and all proportions to enter and inhabit their lives, their personas, their souls. Their insidious dark moods despoil joy and pleasure.
The contagion of their discontent threatens others' state of well-being. Their truly psychic disorder blanches out the colour of happiness, leaving the grey dross of misery. The bleak winter of their discontent colours all seasons, bereft of rhyme or reason. They seem incapable of recognizing the saving grace of moderation.
Those who attempt, through love and compassion, to placate their inalienable right to smothering misery find themselves helpless under an onslaught of anger, blame, hate, revenge. Which wears itself out in a final helpless paroxysm of self-pity and grief.
Labels: Family, Personally Dedicated
posted by Pieface @ 5:15 PM
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