Unbreaking The Patterns
The complicated dynamic of when your parent has to take care of you again.
I have always been the kind of person who simply doesn’t ask for help.
Being labelled as a “gifted child” from a young age I have learned that people tend to hold you to a specific standard, a series of expectations impossible to fulfil.
Raising your hand in class to ask a simple question is shocking to your peers because they expect you to immediately understand everything.
Telling people they can’t copy your homework because you don’t know the answer gets you killer looks because other kids are sure you’re simply being greedy and don’t want to help them out.
As you grow older, it doesn’t get much easier.
Hobbies need to be mastered immediately. Admitting you know nothing about foreign politics is embarrassing. Not having read any Bukowski when you’re a literature major is frowned upon.
You slowly realize it’s best to keep to yourself. Suffer in silence, if you must.
Growing up in a household where any sort of pain is never discussed and any grievances are conveyed through cold stares telling you to shut up does not make it easier to stand up for yourself and let people know you need help.
Over the years I’ve learned how to properly bottle up any physical or emotional pain. Laughing it off and making a joke about it usually does the trick.
From chronic illness to a sprained ankle, even the worst cramps and headaches require an “I’m fine, this is nothing” smile.
I have spent the majority of last year breaking my unhealthy patterns. I wish it didn’t have to take me so long to realise I cannot do it all on my own. Surrounded by truly supporting people, I finally let myself be somewhat vulnerable. I began standing up for myself and headed on my healing journey, even managing to navigate some difficult family dynamics.
The progress I have made is undeniable. Admitting that I don’t know something when talking to people I admire is no longer accompanied by a cold sweat and shaky hands. Establishing boundaries and expressing both physical and emotional hurt no longer take me hours of choosing the right words.
I like this new version of myself. I feel like I am finding myself again, blossoming into someone I always knew I could be but never dared to become. Someone curious, open and honest.
It took months of hard work and a lot of patience from those around me to get to this point.
Which is why it is so difficult to admit that I am once again falling into my old patterns.
A little over a month ago, I decided to move back in with my parents to help my family after my dad’s shoulder surgery.
Never have I felt more trapped, more forced to see it through, even though I came back out of my own volition, my own desire to be there for my family in their time of need.
Who knew that in less than a month I would be falling back into old patterns of keeping quiet and bottling up my pain?
At first, I managed to get by, day by day, without compromising my newfound self. I got up, snuck into the basement to do some yoga, had a quick coffee with my parents and then ran off to work.
Everything seemed to be going okay until one Friday evening when I could barely keep calm enough to pick up my phone and call my mother.
“Come pick me up. We’re going to the doctor.”
My clumsy self decided to nearly cut her right thumb off, courtesy of a stupid sliding door and a tray full of glass, and render herself completely useless. Another burden for the family to carry.
For next last two weeks, my mom could barely eat her lunch because she had to cut up my dad’s food, and then mine, before she could focus on her own plate.
In having to ask her to help me with the most basic of tasks like getting dressed and washing my hair, I have been reduced to a child.
Certain patterns re-emerge when your parent has to take care of you as if you are a toddler once again.
You have no choice but to depend on them, especially when you least want to, and they slowly begin regaining the control they had over you before puberty kicked in.
The worst part is the conscious awareness of the fact that you are still your own, independent person. I have spent years away from home, adopting new coping mechanisms and the ability to stand on my own two feet.
However, when my eyes meet my mother’s cold stare as I do something in a way that’s different from how she’d do it, I can feel myself slowly retracting back into myself like a turtle.
We didn’t exchange a single word for two days because I “talked back” when I tried explaining that I’m choosing to dispose of bruised apples on the floor one by one instead of carrying around a trash bag because it was still too painful to use my right hand in any capacity.
But I had been in pain for over a week at that point and on that unfortunate day, she decided she was done coddling me. She decided that a week must be plenty of time for my pain to have gone away.
Flashbacks of my childhood kept creeping up to the surface.
I realized that with each minuscule task that my mother helped me perform, I gave up a piece of my independence and she regained a piece of control over my daily life.
It sent us both back to a place where we were waging silent wars against one another.
We had unbroken all the unhealthy patterns we managed to break over the years.
A truce was reached only when my dad got sick and tired of both of us and forced us to sit down across each other to talk it out.
He had never before taken on the role of the mediator; usually, he was the one who backed away from any and all confrontation. He sat there, unsure what to say or what to do as the two women in his life were having a proper clenched-jaw staring contest.
I backed down first. With a long and controlled exhale — I had to be careful not to sigh because I knew that would only escalate the situation — I began explaining my side of the story.
I told her I feel competent enough to rank my own pain and the tasks I feel I am capable of completing on my own. I thanked her for helping me out over the last two weeks and explained how difficult it has been for me to accept her help in the first place.
She refused to back down. She deep-dived into the speech I had spent all my life memorizing; the one about tone, attitude and the alleged looks on my face.
“Okay.”
With that one little word, I ended the conversation as I did countless times before. With that little word came a realization that a parent will never stop being a parent and a child will never stop being a child in their eyes.
Regardless of your age, success or the years you’ve spent away from home, your parents will always hold on to the things that make them feel as if you are still their child.
Having the chance to lecture you is probably the most universal one of all.
