Gifts From My Mother

My mother, Nancy Strong, 1956.

 May We Embrace the Gifts We Are Offered, 
Even the Hard Ones, and Remember To 
Support One Another Along the Way

Many of us hold deep gratitude and heartfelt appreciation for those we consider to be among the great teachers in our lives ― religious leaders, spiritual guides, beloved elders, loving parents, treasured family members, dear and soulful friends, creative artists and authors and poets, therapists and other healers. They have been our role models, inspirations, our hope and light when our worlds seemed so dark. Their wise and compassionate presence has touched our hearts, minds, spirits, and souls. In some way, they have illuminated a path of compassion and wisdom, courage and creativity, possibility and potential, healing and wholeness, awakening and love. They have helped us to see with new eyes and grow into our greater wholeness. Some may think of them as midwives to our souls as we walk our human paths.

Deep bow of gratitude for all of the wise, loving, and beloved teachers who have touched our lives and made a difference.  

❤❤❤

What we may not all recognize is that some of our greatest teachers shine light on which way not to go. These are the teachers whose presence challenges us to find any gift whatsoever in who they are because they wear the cloak of darkness, pain, fear and shame, rage and blame. These are the people in our lives who are unconscious, disconnected, dark, dangerous, and very, very scary. And especially if they come in the form of a parent and we are a small and vulnerable child.

Although it took me many years of healing my broken and traumatized heart before I could recognize any gifts from my mother, today I am aware of a larger picture and that it is indeed my mother who has been among my greatest teachers.

*****

It may sound strange that I was drawn to books like Mommie Dearest by Christina Crawford, Scott Peck's People of the Lie, Alice Miller's The Drama of the Gifted Child, Judith Duerk's Circle of Stones, The Wizard of Oz and Other Narcissists by Eleanor Payson, and Women Who Run With the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés. Yet these ― and other books and resources ― were a soothing balm to my hurting heart and an antidote to my illusion of terminal uniqueness. I was not alone! Other people had parents just as crazy as mine! Finally, finally, I felt like someone could understand and not just think that I was crazy...

The eight year marriage to Tom Alison was my mother's second and began two years after my father's sudden death at age 60, and six months after my twin brother's suicide in 1978. Toward the end of their marriage, Tom began to call me from phone booths to guarantee that his calls to me would not be discovered. That was the start of our little "club" of two people who knew what it was like to live with Nancy and who lived to tell about it. That had also been Tom's fear ― that people would think he was crazy if he tried to tell anyone what was really happening under the roof he shared with my mother. But he told me his stories, and I told him mine. And we took great comfort in each other. We knew the craziness and fear and chaos and pain in our bones. It wasn't in our imagination. We weren't crazy. We lived it. And we survived.

Sometimes it still took Tom years to disclose things to me. Like that he had been battered by my mother. Shame had kept him silent about being a victim of domestic violence. Of course, this was no surprise to me. Some time after the fact, Tom also recounted the nights that he lay awake in bed in his separate bedroom fearful that my mother would come stab him in the night. This was when the divorce was imminent and he hadn't yet moved out from the house they shared. He was already taking steps. He followed the advise of a counselor, who'd met my mother in one joint session, and who then suggested that Tom leave the marriage and also read everything he could about "pathological narcissism." Tom also went to the nearby police station and alerted them that he was in danger and to please respond quickly if he were to call. Tom reportedly then went home and told my mother that if she tried to harm him that the police would come and arrest her. He ultimately left without needing any assistance from the police.

Our conversations went on for many years.

*****

Growing up, there was a different story. We didn't talk. As a child, the Don't Talk, Don't Trust, Don't Feel, Don't Be rules were strictly enforced. My mother was in the center and all the attention was to go to her.

My twin brother, John, my dad and mother, and myself, 1968.

That was what John Derrickson told me in April 1985 when we first saw each other after I had completed the 28 day inpatient alcohol and drug treatment program at Laurelhurst Manor in Portland, Oregon. I still remember the sadness in John's eyes when he told me how all the attention in my childhood home was to go to my mother. He went on to wrap his arms around me and tell me that he never wanted me to have to go back there. John did not mean into treatment, he meant back to my mother. He was obviously deeply disturbed and shaken after meeting my mother, and he went on to tell me of the larger picture of why she came to Oregon for the "family week" during my last days in treatment. My mother came 2,500 miles to be sure that everyone in my treatment program, my husband and his mother (who helped cared for 2 year old Kevin and 5 year old Brian while I was gone), and John Derrickson ― who was my therapist on the outside ― all knew that it wasn't her who was bad, it was me.

John also disclosed to me what my mother told him in their one session when he wasn't buying her reality. As final proof that I was born a "bad seed," my mother told my therapist that I made her put a pillow over my face and nearly suffocate me to death when I was around 13 months old. She recounted how she had tried everything and, no matter what she did, I simply would not stop crying! So I made my mother nearly kill me. In our mother's eyes, I was that bad.

John Derrickson clarified and affirmed that my brother and I were lucky to have physically survived our childhoods. Our mother was that dangerous.

*****

My twin, John, and me, 1953.

My twin did not survive. The last time I saw my brother was on the psychiatric ward of Cottage Hospital in Grosse Pointe in May of 1977. It was my first visit back to Michigan since our sons' father and I moved to Oregon two years earlier. That was when John told me that he knew he needed to get away from our mother. And he knew he couldn't. I knew that my brother was telling me goodbye and that I would never see him again.

Eight months later John checked into a motel room with his vodka and Valium, paying for three nights. They found him when he didn't check out on that Monday morning, January 30th, 1978. John had died a few hours earlier. He'd left two suicide notes. And poetry. Among his poems was this one about his experience of not being loved by our mother...

If Only

I love to be loved.

I need to be loved.

And I am angry when I am not loved.

And when I am angry, I am not loved.

If only I weren't angry about not being loved,

maybe I could find the love

that I need.

 ― John Ward Strong, Jr.

John had given up on ever finding the love that he needs.

*****

When I first began the process of healing, I did not believe that I could ever, ever forgive my mother. I had buried so much. And now that it all came rushing to the surface, I was overwhelmed with rage and grief. And with fear and shame and guilt and not being worthy of breathing air. That was ground zero for me. The early days of sobriety and thawing out and making conscious what I had rejected and shoved away into the deepest recesses of my being stretched me beyond what I thought I could bear. It felt like I would drown in an ocean of grief. And unworthiness and fear and shame.

I was wrong. I did not drown. Instead, I discovered strengths that I did not know I possessed. And I began to wake up from the prison of my own distorted beliefs, the suffering of my long neglected wounds, and all that I had disowned within myself. I had had no idea that I had been so lost and so desperately alone and split off from any true sense of connection and belonging. And although I had long known up in my head that compassion was important, I was unaware of how I had been starving myself for compassion. Instead there was the raving critic who was beating up on myself or projecting all my self loathing, anger, fear, judgments, and shame outward, often unconsciously. 

It's a very painful way to live. And even when we are disassociated, like I was, and disconnected from the pain we carry in our hearts. That pain, however, does not go away. Inner pain that is neglected, denied, and unattended grows over time like a cancer within ourselves. And as we age the consequences increase. Our immune systems are compromised and we often become physically sick. We are also at risk of becoming increasingly fearful, isolated, angry, addicted, anxious, depressed, discontent with our lives, disconnected with others, and contracting rather than expanding within ourselves and our lives. And ― rather than claiming the riches of our wisdom, healing, wholeness, and heartfelt connections with others ― growing older becomes harder and more bleak and frightening.

Today I recognize that I was far from alone in all the pain I was carrying in my heart. All around us we see the symptoms of this great loneliness, disconnection, and separation in our culture and beyond. It shows up as depression and anxiety, blame and shame, rage and rugged individualism, a plethora of substance and non-substance addictions, violence and endless war, greed and poverty, global warming and species extinction, the politics of hatred and heartlessness, the propaganda of polarization, racism and oppression, melting glaciers and warming oceans, islands of plastics in our seas, "sports hunting" and factory farms, child abuse and neglect, genocide and slavery,... and on and on.

We have forgotten that we are all family. We have lost our way. 

*****

And there is another way.

It is my belief that we live in times which ask of each of us to do the very best we can to find this other way. This is such a remarkable time in our human history. And the children of today and those yet unborn will each be impacted by the choices we make or don't make individually and collectively. We are the ones we have been waiting for.

And we can no longer afford to sit on the sidelines, throwing up our hands and saying that everything is hopeless and too overwhelming, or saying that everything is someone else's fault and responsibility, or distracting ourselves into the darkness of denial regarding the enormity of change that is asked of us here, now, today. 

We are faced with so many glaring and heart-wrenching events and experiences which implore of us to find our own unique strengths and gifts and contributions to our individual and planetary healing and wellness and awakening. Yes, it is true that each day there is a new horror and heartbreak. And we can each work to claim what our part is in making the difference that is needed. No action, no personal healing, no reaching out in support of another being is too small. Each and everyone of us matters. We truly are all in this together.

And it is no accident that the United States is now in the grips of an American president who is as consumed with self-loathing as my mother was. Truly, the roots of narcissism, so common in today's world, is not self-love. It is self-loathing. And today we are no longer "just" seeing the impact of severe narcissism and pathology in our families, we are seeing it all across our nation and world. Self-loathing by those in positions of great power is causing horrific harm on a global scale and is putting all life on Earth at risk.

The challenge is to not add more loathing to the fire. Instead, I believe, we are asked to cultivate the wisdom, strengths, and gifts of the alchemist. 

To survive and to move beyond survival, this is certainly what I have needed to learn ― how to embrace the pain and trauma within my heart and my life, and all that I am witness to, and transform it into some form of blessing. Even in the darkest places, there are gifts to be found. Without this awareness, I don't know how any of us can bear the losses, betrayals, and trauma that we experience and are witness to as human beings. Without this insight that there are gems hidden in dark places, our suffering and that of others is just that ― suffering, and with no meaning or gifts to claim out of all that pain. And pain that is not claimed as a pathway into our greater wholeness ― and the stuff by which we cultivate wisdom, strength, courage, kindness, compassion, and love ― is pain that becomes tragically neglected rather than utilized as experiences which grow us into the fullness of our beautiful, Sacred selves.

*****

The story of my mama and me is relevant to these times and, I believe, holds implications and possibilities for us all.

I've stopped to weep.....

My poor mama. Once I thought I just hated her and could never, ever forgive her. Today my heart is filled with deep, deep compassion for us both.... It's taken me a lot of time and effort and healing to get here...

And here is where I am today, which is always expanding and evolving and growing and deepening. Growing older is a gift! And through many dark, dark hours of grief and rage and shame and trauma and fear, there has emerged this other side and this other way of experiencing myself and life that I could not have imagined when I first began this journey into my heart in 1983.

More weeping.....

Glimpses into some of the gifts that I have claimed from my mother:

― Consciousness of how my mother has demonstrated to me which way not to go.

― Bitterness has been transformed into cultivating the skills of understanding and forgiveness.  

― Being raised by a mother who did not demonstrate the capacity for compassion has been transformed into my fierce commitment to being a compassionate presence in the world.

― Being raised by a mother who was consumed with resentments has pushed me to dive deeply into making conscious a larger picture.
― Anger and rage is transformed into the capacity to use the fire in my belly for a higher good.
― Fear and terror has been transformed into courage and into trust and faith in the mysterious and Sacred forces which illuminate and embody my life today.
― Resistance is transformed into cultivating greater comfort with discomfort and awareness of strengths I did not know I have.

― The many faces of violence are transformed into continuing to recognize and lower my tolerance for violence and into a passion for cultivating peace. 
― Generational carried and neglected pain has been transformed into radically shifting the trajectory for myself, my children, and generations to come. 
― Hatred and self-loathing is transformed into tenderness and kindness. 
― Isolation and the sense of separateness and not belonging is transformed into the amazing experience of how we are all connected, all related, all family.

― Illusions, distortions, projections are transformed into a profound commitment to truth and the ongoing process of working to lift the veils of my ignorance and illusions.

― Neglected and unresolved grief is transformed into conscious awareness that whenever I allow my heart to break open, more space is cleared for love.

― Building walls around our hearts and minds is transformed into keen awareness of the vital value of vulnerability.

― The belief in the necessity of looking good and image management is transformed into an ongoing commitment to honesty and authenticity.

― The old family rules of Don’t Talk, Don’t Trust, Don’t Feel, Don’t Be are transformed into the conscious choice to break those rules in an ongoing way.

― Unconscious patterns of harming are transformed into mindfulness of my triggers and healing interventions and practices.

― Walls of resistance have become curiosity, seeking, and a commitment to shedding layer after layer of the obstacles I've built around my heart and soul.

― Injured instincts have become healthy instincts and a growing capacity for discernment.

― Having to have it all figured out and under control is transformed into a deep respect and honoring of the value of beginner’s mind.

― Clinging to fear of change is transformed into conscious awareness of impermanence and the value of letting go and staying open.

― The endless finding of fault and focus on what is wrong is transformed into awareness of beauty and my daily practice of gratitude.

― Doubts in the truth of the beauty of who we all are at our core is transformed into clarity of the Divine which is woven through all of life.

― Rigid beliefs have evolved into awareness that there is Mystery that is beyond my knowing and that miracles truly do happen.

So whenever anyone questions why Molly is so kind, this is an essential part of the larger picture. I have been in a long and incredibly transformative process of claiming the gifts of my mother.

*****

Tragically, my brother was not able to heal his trauma and claim any of these gifts for himself. And I am humbly and compassionately aware that some of us can do this work of healing our hearts and embodying the gifts of the alchemist, and some of us can't.
 

I certainly believed that my mother was the last person in the world capable of change. I believed that we would live out our lives cutoff from any possibility of a shared love. While I had done years of work healing and opening my heart, my mother's heart appeared like it would always be walled up and that she would die never knowing love. Even my love, the love of her only surviving child.
 

And each therapist and person who knew about my mother and her severe mental illness confirmed that narcissists are untreatable. And my mom was not just diagnosed with the whole cluster B of personality disorders (Narcissistic, Histrionic, Borderline, and Antisocial), she also suffered from depression and anxiety, she was alcoholic, and she's also been diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder. When my mother's fourth and last husband, Don, gave her an ultimatum nearly five years into their marriage ― (1) go with him to visit Molly and family in the Pacific Northwest, (2) get rid of "Larry" (not his real name), a former step-son from her third marriage who'd been pursuing her for years for her money, and (3) go with Don and get help, as in counseling ― it's no wonder that my mother agreed to everything except getting the counseling.

It was the crisis precipitated by the end of that fourth marriage five years ago that forced my mother into getting the help that she'd needed but avoided her entire adult life.

Time passed. We prevailed in the nearly year-long legal battle with those who sought to keep my mother in Michigan, and moved her here to the Pacific Northwest to live by her family. The alcohol became replaced with the antipsychotic drug Risperidone and other medications. The feeding of her narcissistic supplies by those who had long pursued my mother for her wealth became transformed into feeding the real need ― for understanding of her mental illness and healing, for awareness and compassion, and for family, love, and belonging. The terror of risking the vulnerability to love and be loved cost my mother over 80 years of her life. And now here she was, at age 87, beginning a process of facing what she had resisted for so long ― allowing the old way of being in the world to die away so a whole new life could be born.

*****

It is my belief that we are all offered these opportunities to embrace the possibilities and potentials and miracles that may be lying dormant or underdeveloped or unrecognized within ourselves, the losses and suffering we experience, and those experiences which most challenge us. If my poor mama can begin to wake up in her 80's from a lifetime of trauma and the tragedy of not knowing love, then miracles are possible for any of us. And miracles are possible for this beautiful troubled world we share. 

We don't have to wait until a personal or global crisis pushes us deeper into our own awakening and capacity for consciousness, kindness, compassion, wisdom, and love. We can become fierce about feeding our hearts, minds, bodies, spirits, and souls now. We can grow in our commitment to deepening our capacity to identify and meet the true need. And to supporting all of our brothers and sisters in this process. 

Sometimes the most powerful way we do this is by increasingly being the peace our world and all of our hearts yearn for.

It is my experience and belief that the true need is for us to claim the gifts that are found in our human experiences of joy, love, beauty, and belonging ― and the gifts buried in our darkest hours. This is where we will find the love that does not die. And that is something we can all spread in the world.

For, truly, what the world needs now, is love, sweet love...

With tenderness and heartfelt blessings...

Molly 

My mama and me today.
❤