Raising Children – Page 19 – Inside The Mind of a Psychiatrist

To hate your parents, really feel it, is against the judeao-christian ethic, society, and our own inbred belief system.

In my psychiatric practice, countless patients have spent many hours “discovering” how they really feel about their mother and father. Even the most obviously abusive, alcoholic, and violent parent often remains immune to justly deserved hateful feelings. The parent who puts up a good front to the world, but in the privacy of the home is critical, distant, unempathic and devaluing is often more complicated to unravel.

How can you hate the person who gave you life and who you were dependent on? It feels immoral. It’s also crazy-making to know on one level that you can’t stand to be in the presence of a parent and at the same time doubt your right to have those feelings. Without our parents we wouldn’t exist. Often a patient or friend says, “I don’t hate my father. I just can’t talk to him, don’t want to be around him, and wish he’d just disappear. If I never saw him again, it would be okay. But…I don’t hate him.”

Well, how about EXTREME DISLIKE, which to me sounds a lot like HATE. If our parents have earned it, we have the right to our feelings.

In Chasing Backwards, Joe Belmont, a 24 y/o medical student who just learned his mother was killed, struggles with these feelings as he’s being interviewed by Detective Barneggi.

I glance back out the window. The light patterns are hypnotic, cars barreling down Vine Street, streaks of yellow and red swirling about in the darkness. Where will I bury her? What the hell do I do for money? I close my eyes and involuntarily shiver. What kind of asshole thinks about money at a time like this? I grip the coffee mug and picture heaving it through the plate-glass window.

A major bonus about getting in touch with hateful feelings is the possibility that when the hate is dealt with, there is the possibility that love still exists.

Thanks!

Years ago, I invited a colleague to join my family for dinner. After dessert, our six-year-old daughter started acting like a six-year-old. She became loud, mushed the last of her ice cream, and then slipped under the table and started crawling around like a little puppy. At first we all laughed, then my wife and I told her to stop. When she wouldn’t, I kept my voice calm, and tried reasoning with her.

Like most attempts at reasoning with a six-year-old, this attempt was also fruitless. The more I tried to reason, the wilder she became. Embarrassed, I glanced at my friend, a child psychiatrist, who said, “Art, pretend I’m not here. Do what you’d normally do.”

With that, I reached under the table and lifted my wriggling, cute, athletic daughter up into my arms. “It’s bedtime,” I said. “In fact, way past your bedtime.” I carried her into the bedroom, helped her into her pajamas, and tucked her in. Minutes later, she ran back into the dining room and dived under the table. I snatched her before she got all the way underneath. “I am finished with this out-of-control behavior!” I yelled. “You behave yourself! Do you hear me!” I stormed back into the bedroom, put her in bed, and stalked back to the dining room.

I sat down at the table and tried to calm myself. Just as I took a sip of coffee, my little demon was back! Before I had a chance to say anything, she put her hand on her hip, posed like a movie star and said, “And you call yourself a psychiatrist.” Then she pivoted, perfectly in character, and ran back in the bedroom — not to emerge again.

It took a few seconds of shock before we all started laughing hysterically. The story has become part of our family lore. Why tell this story? What does it all mean?

Our children learn by what we do, not by what we say. Both my wife and I are pretty outspoken. My little pipsqueak never had a problem saying what was on her mind, and as a grown woman she still doesn’t.

It’s sometimes a fine line between setting limits and encouraging independence. Both are essential and a parent walks that line every day. That evening I wasn’t tolerant of my daughter and set reasonable limits. Interestingly, she found a way to also put me in my place and bring me down to size. In my mind it was a fair trade. Mutual respect was established.

Thanks