A heartbroken friend of mine ironically finished a councilors meeting over her panic attacks the day this epiphany hit me.
The week before this one, I had spent reliving a stain in my existence from over a month ago: I told my mother I thought I was going crazy, and she snapped back at me.
“Don’t go turning into your friends, now! You’re not going crazy. I don’t understand why you’d start asking for attention like this! Why would you put on such an attitude!?” She spat while halfway out the door. “Stop crying! If you were going crazy, I’d put you in an asylum and not in a college classroom!”
And sure as hell, no one else in my house really seemed to support a damn thing I was saying, spare my father, a fellow introvert, who thought it best to just hint signs of support instead of opposing my mother.
“Your fears are stupid and ill-founded,” everyone essentially said.
“Sure,” I’d think to myself at random hours, “That could’ve gone better.” There was, really, no need to try and explain what was wrong the moment it was asked of me. I could’ve just lied about it again and tried to collect my thoughts before submitting my problems to the proper authority figures. But that wasn’t all that was fascinating me about a moment that died in the collective thoughts of all of those involved.
The problem lied in something else entirely. I realized my questions lied in my family’s reaction after the quiet epiphany swayed into my conscious mind:
I wanted to know why my mother--or parents in general--react in such a negative way to problems they wanted to hear about.
You’ll see it all the time! In the angry updates of teenage facebooks and the darkly humored or depressing text posts of strangers on tumblr: you’re asked, you answer, and you’re rejected.
Why don’t parents ever react better?
I asked my friend if I could tell her my epiphany, and she answered “Sure, shoot.”
I told her.
And she reacted with “That makes a lot of sense.”
I genuinely believe parenthood is the most difficult and terrifying thing to try and tackle, and that’s why so many people leave once it starts: Your children, if you have any, are full-fledged human beings with programmed personalities and thoughts and interactions with other strangers and friends.
They begin as these beautiful blank canvases you instantly love with all your heart, even when you don’t know them at all. Even when they’re brand new.
And you--the parent--you are so far from a blank canvas: You’ve been hurt and scared. You’ve been pushed around by people or by yourself. You’ve spent years of your life looking up onto the ceiling during odd hours wondering why bad events happen in your life, and happen around the world.
You see the state of the world and the state of your friends--you know your imperfections all too clearly.
You remember the events which shaped you.
And you want desperately for similar events to not hit your child.
I never understood why my dad stared at me in the eyes while saying in the sternest voice “See how much I’ve sheltered you? You couldn’t even see the car behind you.” Until the precise moment it hit: My daddy loves me.
All parents want to do is protect you from the sorrows and the pain they’ve felt--from the cruelty of people and the stinging defeat of failures. Despite their own crippling failures and shortcomings, out of whatever sticks and stones have been hurled at them, they make you a nest. A shelter to keep you warm, and a fire to keep you dry.
And yet despite everything they ever tried to do, you are a human being as well! You’re destined--bound to make mistakes. You’re bound to go against their word--there are too many stories for you not too.
There are opinions which oppose theirs you’re bound to hear and take to heart. There are the voices of influential people who dare fill your heart with hopes and dreams. There are passions and pains and people you’re going to rub shoulders with in your short time here.
Because all of our times are short, and they know so well it’s too short to have you in their nest forever. As much as it pains them, you gotta fly too.
And when they’re not quite ready to see you fall yet--when they’ve seen their nest has cracks in it--that
despite their best efforts they’ve failed, they don’t want to hear it.
Why would anyone accept their defeat?
They’ve worked their entire lives trying to get you to a place where you won’t be hurt, and you come up to them to tell them you think you could be depressed?!
What happened to all those years they asked you if you were happy and your answer was “Yes”?!
We spend our entire teenage years being taught that when one discusses thoughts politely with your parents, they would be sure to respond in a polite and calming manner, just as you began the conversation--it’s the golden rule at it’s best.
But this worldview is a foolish one. It’s assuming human beings will always act ideally.
After trying to discuss my friend’s panic attacks with my mother, all my mom had to say was that sometimes the person paying the bills doesn’t want to hear it. In fact, with all the stress that comes with making sure things are afloat, your problems are the last thing your parents want to hear.
It makes a lot of sense.
Mom and dad are no bigger, no better, and no wiser than us. In fact, the only reason they’re authority figures in the first place besides simple love and respect is because they’ve been smarter for longer.
We’re not supposed to hear mom and dad’s problems. It’s parenting 101. But if your parents are anything like my friends and my own, we grew up overhearing how paying for the bills would be a struggle that month.
And I guess they assumed we’d never care.
Hearing my parents talk like that is the reason it pains me to buy food that’s over six dollars in any given day. And if I do buy something expensive, I’m eating from the dollar menu for as long as possible to make up for something I decided was a sin.
Momma didn’t mean it.
I know she didn’t. She told me herself my job’s to get good grades and to work hard to better myself so I’ll never be worrying about whether the bills are being paid that month or not.
But those words won’t erase years of worry.
Years of worry I kept to myself because maybe if I shrunk enough I’d be less of a burden or a problem to them all.
Mom had a point: The last thing your parents want to hear are your problems.
You’d have to pay a person to care about your problems and only then do you get help.
Maybe this is why therapy exist.
With all the love of a friend
Nikola Strange.
The week before this one, I had spent reliving a stain in my existence from over a month ago: I told my mother I thought I was going crazy, and she snapped back at me.
“Don’t go turning into your friends, now! You’re not going crazy. I don’t understand why you’d start asking for attention like this! Why would you put on such an attitude!?” She spat while halfway out the door. “Stop crying! If you were going crazy, I’d put you in an asylum and not in a college classroom!”
And sure as hell, no one else in my house really seemed to support a damn thing I was saying, spare my father, a fellow introvert, who thought it best to just hint signs of support instead of opposing my mother.
“Your fears are stupid and ill-founded,” everyone essentially said.
“Sure,” I’d think to myself at random hours, “That could’ve gone better.” There was, really, no need to try and explain what was wrong the moment it was asked of me. I could’ve just lied about it again and tried to collect my thoughts before submitting my problems to the proper authority figures. But that wasn’t all that was fascinating me about a moment that died in the collective thoughts of all of those involved.
The problem lied in something else entirely. I realized my questions lied in my family’s reaction after the quiet epiphany swayed into my conscious mind:
I wanted to know why my mother--or parents in general--react in such a negative way to problems they wanted to hear about.
You’ll see it all the time! In the angry updates of teenage facebooks and the darkly humored or depressing text posts of strangers on tumblr: you’re asked, you answer, and you’re rejected.
Why don’t parents ever react better?
I asked my friend if I could tell her my epiphany, and she answered “Sure, shoot.”
I told her.
And she reacted with “That makes a lot of sense.”
I genuinely believe parenthood is the most difficult and terrifying thing to try and tackle, and that’s why so many people leave once it starts: Your children, if you have any, are full-fledged human beings with programmed personalities and thoughts and interactions with other strangers and friends.
They begin as these beautiful blank canvases you instantly love with all your heart, even when you don’t know them at all. Even when they’re brand new.
And you--the parent--you are so far from a blank canvas: You’ve been hurt and scared. You’ve been pushed around by people or by yourself. You’ve spent years of your life looking up onto the ceiling during odd hours wondering why bad events happen in your life, and happen around the world.
You see the state of the world and the state of your friends--you know your imperfections all too clearly.
You remember the events which shaped you.
And you want desperately for similar events to not hit your child.
I never understood why my dad stared at me in the eyes while saying in the sternest voice “See how much I’ve sheltered you? You couldn’t even see the car behind you.” Until the precise moment it hit: My daddy loves me.
All parents want to do is protect you from the sorrows and the pain they’ve felt--from the cruelty of people and the stinging defeat of failures. Despite their own crippling failures and shortcomings, out of whatever sticks and stones have been hurled at them, they make you a nest. A shelter to keep you warm, and a fire to keep you dry.
And yet despite everything they ever tried to do, you are a human being as well! You’re destined--bound to make mistakes. You’re bound to go against their word--there are too many stories for you not too.
There are opinions which oppose theirs you’re bound to hear and take to heart. There are the voices of influential people who dare fill your heart with hopes and dreams. There are passions and pains and people you’re going to rub shoulders with in your short time here.
Because all of our times are short, and they know so well it’s too short to have you in their nest forever. As much as it pains them, you gotta fly too.
And when they’re not quite ready to see you fall yet--when they’ve seen their nest has cracks in it--that
despite their best efforts they’ve failed, they don’t want to hear it.
Why would anyone accept their defeat?
They’ve worked their entire lives trying to get you to a place where you won’t be hurt, and you come up to them to tell them you think you could be depressed?!
What happened to all those years they asked you if you were happy and your answer was “Yes”?!
We spend our entire teenage years being taught that when one discusses thoughts politely with your parents, they would be sure to respond in a polite and calming manner, just as you began the conversation--it’s the golden rule at it’s best.
But this worldview is a foolish one. It’s assuming human beings will always act ideally.
After trying to discuss my friend’s panic attacks with my mother, all my mom had to say was that sometimes the person paying the bills doesn’t want to hear it. In fact, with all the stress that comes with making sure things are afloat, your problems are the last thing your parents want to hear.
It makes a lot of sense.
Mom and dad are no bigger, no better, and no wiser than us. In fact, the only reason they’re authority figures in the first place besides simple love and respect is because they’ve been smarter for longer.
We’re not supposed to hear mom and dad’s problems. It’s parenting 101. But if your parents are anything like my friends and my own, we grew up overhearing how paying for the bills would be a struggle that month.
And I guess they assumed we’d never care.
Hearing my parents talk like that is the reason it pains me to buy food that’s over six dollars in any given day. And if I do buy something expensive, I’m eating from the dollar menu for as long as possible to make up for something I decided was a sin.
Momma didn’t mean it.
I know she didn’t. She told me herself my job’s to get good grades and to work hard to better myself so I’ll never be worrying about whether the bills are being paid that month or not.
But those words won’t erase years of worry.
Years of worry I kept to myself because maybe if I shrunk enough I’d be less of a burden or a problem to them all.
Mom had a point: The last thing your parents want to hear are your problems.
You’d have to pay a person to care about your problems and only then do you get help.
Maybe this is why therapy exist.
With all the love of a friend
Nikola Strange.
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