When I was a kid, my father took us in the family station wagon for a ride along "Plum Street" in Detroit. This was in the immediate aftermath of the 1967 riots. I can remember my mother and father fighting in the front seat of that wagon. That was normal for them. My brother was 4 years old at the time and I was 10. I had no idea why we were taking a ride to see Plum Street. By then I was already about 50 lbs. overweight so who cared as long as I could get ice cream somewhere along the way...
I do remember the burned out buildings as we drove past them. Plum Street was situated somewhere off Michigan Avenue where the freeways converged---and was established to serve as the Detroit version of San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury District. Plum Street didn't last long, by the way. Rumor has it that Plum Street was conceived by WSU graduate John Sinclair in early 1967; head shops and other counter-culture-friendly businesses were opened. Then the Outlaw biker gang decided they hated hippies and wanted Plum Street for themselves. I've met some of the Outlaws over the course of my younger life; nobody messed with the Outlaws. Needless to say, Plum Street was gone nearly as quickly as it appeared on the Motor City landscape of yesteryear.
But I digress! As we drove along Plum Street itself, the road and sidewalks were filled with pedestrian *$)_#@ as my parents referred to them. I use the term *$)_@ because my parents would swear in Serbian-Croatian whenever they didn't want my brother or I to understand what they were saying. Once again, that was normal for them.
I sat in the way back of our station wagon facing the street behind me through our back window. The people I saw were flashing peace signs at me; I had no idea what that meant as a 10 year old, but I copied them and returned the favor. When my mother caught sight of what I was doing, she started up with the screaming and the swearing in Serbian-Croatian. I won't get into the rest of that story, but suffice it to say that my parents had "issues" not the least of which being why they drove their two little kids along Plum Street on that particular Sunday afternoon. My mother lost her sh** over me making peace signs at *$)_@. So dear parents, please remind me why we went there in the first place? Too bad they are both deceased now, because that is one question I never did get answered...
Which leads me to today's blog post topic; understanding how intense and chronic anxiety (and our need to get and be "safe"!) can take us to some very bizarre and dark places in our efforts to relieve ourselves of it!
On the day my father decided to take us on that ride over to Plum Street, I know it was NOT something he and my mother planned like a fun family trip to the zoo for my brother and mine's benefit. Or maybe it was a planned family trip to the zoo now that I think about it! To go look at the *$_@ instead of the animals! ;-) I can remember my mother saying several times as we were driving along Michigan Avenue towards downtown, "LOCK THE DOORS!" To say my mother was an intensely anxious person is the understatement of any universe. My father, on the other hand, was checked out 99.999% of the time both literally and figuratively. For him to even "drive" us as a foursome anywhere was extremely rare. Needless to say, until he was provoked to rage, he was off somewhere else physically---or within his own inner head space.
Chronic and intense anxiety can do that to people. My mother was always freaking out as in "out loud" freaking out about whether or not she felt "safe" enough. My father, on the other hand, kept his own mouth shut AND himself both comfortably numb and distant in his own efforts to feel "safe" enough on an ongoing basis. He used to drive to places by himself a lot. He used to hang out in the local donut shop for not just years, but decades. (Another story, another time!)
Yet when either of our parents were significantly provoked by their real or imagined stressors, they both could go instantly postal like SNAP! For my brother and I, we never could really predict how one or the other would roll on any given day. You see, their mutual and intense anxiety ran, ruled, and ruined their lives as a couple...as parents...and as human beings. I mean that's a terrible and sad thing to say, but it's true.
Taking my brother and I to Plum Street on a random Sunday afternoon wasn't about "us" as their children by any stretch of the imagination. Whether they were trying to distract themselves from their own private hell by suggesting "Let's take a look at those *$)_@ walking around on Plum Street!" or not...it's what we did anyway that day. And it wasn't pleasant. And it wasn't fun. And it sure didn't feel safe to me or for me, that's for sure! Yet my parents seemed to calm down enough once their fighting was over, and they took their rage out on me later on at home for flashing those peace signs as I did.
How ironic, eh?
I don't think either of my parents were aware enough to realize that their brand of sociopathic-based parenting practices was NOT the preferred way to teach my brother and I "anything" good---let alone good for us! All it taught me was that they could NOT be trusted....they were highly unpredictable...and their drama, crisis, and mayhem ALWAYS came first in our lives as a "family". I should add that they taught me how exploiting their own children to satisfy some selfish purpose was perfectly acceptable---because "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out too." (Her words, not mine by the way!)
Shortly after my father died at the age of 94, my 51 year old brother attempted suicide and nearly didn't make it. He lasted for another six years before the fentanyl he ingested completed the job for him.
In this moment, I can remember when, as a teenager, my mother about pummeled me with a broom when I came home from a formal dance at school less than 20 minutes late. Then I remember another time walking into the house through our back door...and the whole utility room smelled like weed. I didn't smoke weed; my parents didn't smoke weed. Yet my 7th grader brother obviously must have been. (?!??!) On that occasion, when I asked my mother why the utility room smelled like weed, she told me to shut up and my brother needed it to relax. Fat lot of good that did him given how the rest of his life went and what took him out ultimately...
And we wonder why "the family" keeps devolving with each passing generation?? I sure don't!
I don't know if my parents would "own" the intense level of anxiety they each lived with while here on earth. I would like to think they would, but their realities while they were here would suggest otherwise. I already know they owned their sociopathic behaviors since I can recall how it went when I periodically confronted them. Neither one of them was every sorry for anything; they immediately jumped to blame-and-shame or defend-and-attack as their respective go-to strategies. I am reminded of Proverbs 16:22 in this moment. They were too wrapped up in their foolishness to think about the truth in any way, shape, or form. I do remember the time when I asked my mother what was supposed to happen to my highly codependent (on them!) brother once she and my father passed away. Her answer still blows me away to this very day: "What the A%*# do I care? I'll be dead!" Yep, that's what she said. Spoken like a true sociopath in denial.
Untreated chronic anxiety is a tool that is used to confuse, control, and cause us all to make decisions that lead to the pit. And I don't mean a pit as in fruit; I mean a pit as in hell. My parents happened to choose sociopathic behavior as their "medication of choice" in reducing their own anxiety at I and my brother's expense. Other people choose drugs or alcohol, sex or gambling, stealing or shopping. The vices may vary depending on the person, but the purpose for pursuing those vices do not.
Funny how trying to be and remain "safe" when intensely anxious as a state of being---can take a person to all sorts of bizarre and dark places. Everyone from my family of origin is dead now. I'm the last one standing. I wish they each would have woken up to themselves to have experienced a higher quality of life while they were here, but they didn't. They allowed their intense and anxiety-driven thoughts and feelings run, rule, and end their lives one by one.
Until next post....
I do remember the burned out buildings as we drove past them. Plum Street was situated somewhere off Michigan Avenue where the freeways converged---and was established to serve as the Detroit version of San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury District. Plum Street didn't last long, by the way. Rumor has it that Plum Street was conceived by WSU graduate John Sinclair in early 1967; head shops and other counter-culture-friendly businesses were opened. Then the Outlaw biker gang decided they hated hippies and wanted Plum Street for themselves. I've met some of the Outlaws over the course of my younger life; nobody messed with the Outlaws. Needless to say, Plum Street was gone nearly as quickly as it appeared on the Motor City landscape of yesteryear.
But I digress! As we drove along Plum Street itself, the road and sidewalks were filled with pedestrian *$)_#@ as my parents referred to them. I use the term *$)_@ because my parents would swear in Serbian-Croatian whenever they didn't want my brother or I to understand what they were saying. Once again, that was normal for them.
I sat in the way back of our station wagon facing the street behind me through our back window. The people I saw were flashing peace signs at me; I had no idea what that meant as a 10 year old, but I copied them and returned the favor. When my mother caught sight of what I was doing, she started up with the screaming and the swearing in Serbian-Croatian. I won't get into the rest of that story, but suffice it to say that my parents had "issues" not the least of which being why they drove their two little kids along Plum Street on that particular Sunday afternoon. My mother lost her sh** over me making peace signs at *$)_@. So dear parents, please remind me why we went there in the first place? Too bad they are both deceased now, because that is one question I never did get answered...
Which leads me to today's blog post topic; understanding how intense and chronic anxiety (and our need to get and be "safe"!) can take us to some very bizarre and dark places in our efforts to relieve ourselves of it!
On the day my father decided to take us on that ride over to Plum Street, I know it was NOT something he and my mother planned like a fun family trip to the zoo for my brother and mine's benefit. Or maybe it was a planned family trip to the zoo now that I think about it! To go look at the *$_@ instead of the animals! ;-) I can remember my mother saying several times as we were driving along Michigan Avenue towards downtown, "LOCK THE DOORS!" To say my mother was an intensely anxious person is the understatement of any universe. My father, on the other hand, was checked out 99.999% of the time both literally and figuratively. For him to even "drive" us as a foursome anywhere was extremely rare. Needless to say, until he was provoked to rage, he was off somewhere else physically---or within his own inner head space.
Chronic and intense anxiety can do that to people. My mother was always freaking out as in "out loud" freaking out about whether or not she felt "safe" enough. My father, on the other hand, kept his own mouth shut AND himself both comfortably numb and distant in his own efforts to feel "safe" enough on an ongoing basis. He used to drive to places by himself a lot. He used to hang out in the local donut shop for not just years, but decades. (Another story, another time!)
Yet when either of our parents were significantly provoked by their real or imagined stressors, they both could go instantly postal like SNAP! For my brother and I, we never could really predict how one or the other would roll on any given day. You see, their mutual and intense anxiety ran, ruled, and ruined their lives as a couple...as parents...and as human beings. I mean that's a terrible and sad thing to say, but it's true.
Taking my brother and I to Plum Street on a random Sunday afternoon wasn't about "us" as their children by any stretch of the imagination. Whether they were trying to distract themselves from their own private hell by suggesting "Let's take a look at those *$)_@ walking around on Plum Street!" or not...it's what we did anyway that day. And it wasn't pleasant. And it wasn't fun. And it sure didn't feel safe to me or for me, that's for sure! Yet my parents seemed to calm down enough once their fighting was over, and they took their rage out on me later on at home for flashing those peace signs as I did.
How ironic, eh?
I don't think either of my parents were aware enough to realize that their brand of sociopathic-based parenting practices was NOT the preferred way to teach my brother and I "anything" good---let alone good for us! All it taught me was that they could NOT be trusted....they were highly unpredictable...and their drama, crisis, and mayhem ALWAYS came first in our lives as a "family". I should add that they taught me how exploiting their own children to satisfy some selfish purpose was perfectly acceptable---because "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out too." (Her words, not mine by the way!)
Shortly after my father died at the age of 94, my 51 year old brother attempted suicide and nearly didn't make it. He lasted for another six years before the fentanyl he ingested completed the job for him.
In this moment, I can remember when, as a teenager, my mother about pummeled me with a broom when I came home from a formal dance at school less than 20 minutes late. Then I remember another time walking into the house through our back door...and the whole utility room smelled like weed. I didn't smoke weed; my parents didn't smoke weed. Yet my 7th grader brother obviously must have been. (?!??!) On that occasion, when I asked my mother why the utility room smelled like weed, she told me to shut up and my brother needed it to relax. Fat lot of good that did him given how the rest of his life went and what took him out ultimately...
And we wonder why "the family" keeps devolving with each passing generation?? I sure don't!
I don't know if my parents would "own" the intense level of anxiety they each lived with while here on earth. I would like to think they would, but their realities while they were here would suggest otherwise. I already know they owned their sociopathic behaviors since I can recall how it went when I periodically confronted them. Neither one of them was every sorry for anything; they immediately jumped to blame-and-shame or defend-and-attack as their respective go-to strategies. I am reminded of Proverbs 16:22 in this moment. They were too wrapped up in their foolishness to think about the truth in any way, shape, or form. I do remember the time when I asked my mother what was supposed to happen to my highly codependent (on them!) brother once she and my father passed away. Her answer still blows me away to this very day: "What the A%*# do I care? I'll be dead!" Yep, that's what she said. Spoken like a true sociopath in denial.
Untreated chronic anxiety is a tool that is used to confuse, control, and cause us all to make decisions that lead to the pit. And I don't mean a pit as in fruit; I mean a pit as in hell. My parents happened to choose sociopathic behavior as their "medication of choice" in reducing their own anxiety at I and my brother's expense. Other people choose drugs or alcohol, sex or gambling, stealing or shopping. The vices may vary depending on the person, but the purpose for pursuing those vices do not.
Funny how trying to be and remain "safe" when intensely anxious as a state of being---can take a person to all sorts of bizarre and dark places. Everyone from my family of origin is dead now. I'm the last one standing. I wish they each would have woken up to themselves to have experienced a higher quality of life while they were here, but they didn't. They allowed their intense and anxiety-driven thoughts and feelings run, rule, and end their lives one by one.
Until next post....