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BY ARLENE F. HARDER, MA, MFT
The hardest worker may not get a
promotion. The most dedicated runner may not win a race. The most
ardent suitor may not win the object of his affection. Doing our
best does not mean we will always get what we want.
Some disappointed parents have done all
they can to mend their family rift. They stopped trying to change
their son or daughter and have worked on those things that kept them
overly concerned about their child's current problems. They have
forgiven themselves and their child, have mourned the loss of the
dreams they had for their family, and have sincerely tried to let go
with love. Yet their child may still choose not to include them in
his life.
Sometimes it is parents and siblings who
decide to distance themselves from an adult child who is extremely
disruptive to family harmony.
Laura Morgan's sister had a twenty-year
history of schizophrenia, compounded by alcohol and drug abuse, a
situation Laura described in a commentary she wrote for The Los
Angeles Times. Despite years of therapy and the consistent emotional
and financial support of her family, her sister became increasingly
delusional and violent, striking their mother on several occasions
and stealing from the family to finance her drug habit. Unable to
take (or give) any more, their mother packed up and moved to the
Midwest two years ago. At the same time, Laura moved and got an
unlisted phone number. She and her brother told their sister not to
contact them. It was time for the family to cut their losses,
realizing, finally, that it was a question of survival Ñ hers or
theirs. The last that Laura heard about her sister, she was living
on Skid Row. That is clearly not the happy ending any family wants
for one of its members.
There is a limit to what parents can
handle. Just as children have rights, parents have a right to be
protected from the verbal and physical abuse of their children. Yet
the decision to cut off relations with our children is not done
without a great deal of anguish. Even then, knowing we are doing the
right thing in distancing ourselves from our child does not take
away the pain.
In some families parents do not have a
chance for reconciliation, even if they have moved through all the
stages on their path of healing. Their child may have left home
years ago and disappeared, offering them no opportunity to work
things through. Or their child may have died from an accident,
homicide, suicide, or sudden illness before they had time to heal a
torn relationship.
Not all situations that appear
non-reconcilable, of course, will remain that way. Ivy, a woman I
interviewed, told me that she and her husband, George, had spent
many sleepless nights worrying about their only child, Ben. They had
once given up hope that he would turn his life around. Their son was
a heavy drug abuser who had alienated himself from his parents
until, in his mid-forties, he had a child of his own. Apparently at
the prodding of his wife, he sent pictures of his baby, a grandchild
Ivy and George hadn't seen. The letter accompanying the picture of
smiling parents and offspring stated that he now realized what it
meant to have a child, adding something about how much his parents
had meant to him. The new relationship is still tenuous, although
there is hope it can be further repaired. Nevertheless, while Ivy
and George can now breathe a little easier, at one point they had to
accept, for their own peace of mind, that their child was alienated
from them and that, very possibly, they would never see him
again.
Unless your child has died or is
completely incapacitated, there is always the possibility of
reconciliation. But counting on that possibility can prevent you
from ever releasing your pain and really getting on with your
life.
Closure means "closing or being closed; a
finish; end; conclusion." In the case of broken relationships, it
is, as a friend of mine said, suturing a wound so that it can heal.
Closure does not mean you write off your child forever. Instead, it
is the willingness to gently close a door to the past, allowing the
possibility of opening new doors for reconciliation in the
future.
Stumbling Blocks to
Closure
Why do the doors that need to be closed
to broken relationships remain open, the wounds unsutured? There are
many reasons, of course, but two common ones are the context in
which we hold our pain and the way in which we expect ourselves to
be judged as parents.
Defining Ourselves by
Our Pain
We all know people who describe problems
in their life as though their problems, pains, and sorrows are the
only things worth knowing about them. My friend, Wini Pyle, however,
is very different. Happening to call while I was writing this
chapter, she told me that "different parts of my life are
functioning at different levels." Her body isn't doing as well as
she would like, her love life and spiritual life are great, her job
is still rewarding. And she also feels sad, sometimes, because her
only daughter has not been in contact with her for two years and
will not even give her a phone number where she can be
reached.
Wini told me that every day she releases
her child, opening the door to the possibility that her daughter may
choose to write her or otherwise reopen the relationship. In the
meantime, my friend provides a wonderful illustration of the way in
which we can view alienation from a child in a healthy
way.
Certainly it is healthy to acknowledge
our loss and pain from time to time. Yet we must also remind
ourselves that that relationship is only part of who we are. There
are other aspects to us as well. We do not need to display our pain
like a giant sign across our chest, as Hester Prynne is compelled to
do in The Scarlet Letter.
Defining Our Worth by
How Our Children Turn Out
Some parents are unable to close the door
on irreconcilable differences with their adult children because of
the standards by which they believe others will judge them. These
standards include the expectation that they, alone, are held
accountable for their family's rift, as though they should have been
able to control both sides of that relationship. They expect they
will be found worthless if their child is not reconciled with them,
or if he doesn't turn out the way they, and possibly others, might
wish.
Many parents won't let go of their child
— and won't allow their wounds to heal — because they believe their
best wasn't good enough and because they hope, in some vague way,
that by holding on they can somehow make up for past limitations.
When I talk with these parents, I tell them about the reports that
have been gathered of people who have had "near-death experiences."
I share with them my fascination in one particular aspect of "NDEs"
as they are called. This is the account given by those individuals
who have met a "being of light" or "wise being" as they waver
between life and death.
If this "being" talks to the person only
two questions are asked. One is, "Did you love?" The other, "Did you
learn?" Notice that the questions are not: "Were you a good parent?"
"How many possessions did you accumulate?" or "What side of the
abortion issue were you on?"
NDEs are mysterious phenomena. There are
those who accept them as evidence of life on the other side of death
and those who say they're nothing more than hallucinations induced
by trauma. Whatever the truth, it is most interesting that, at what
could be the end of their lives, so many people with widely varying
life experiences focus on the issues of loving and
learning.
What higher goals could anyone have
than to live as though the two most important things in life are to
love and to learn?
If parents would accept that philosophy,
we could more easily address the issue of failed relationships. Then
we would know that we have done our best if we have loved our child.
We have done our best if we have learned from our experience as a
parent. We cannot do better than our best. Nor are we expected
to.
An Exercise for Healing
Broken Relationships
Three years ago I attended a conference
at which I participated in a lovely guided imagery exercise that was
designed to help participants view broken relationships in a new
way. Some of the workshop participants used it to work on letting go
of a loved one who had died. Others, such as myself, used it to
better accept a relationship in which there did not seem to be a
possibility of directly resolving differences between us and another
person. At that time I didn't know where David was, so this exercise
seemed especially appropriate.
Since then I have adapted the exercise in
several ways and have used it for a variety of clients. This guided
imagery exercise can provide you with insights you had not
previously known about another person or about yourself. It can help
you discover aspects of the relationship you can change without
requiring the other person to change. And it can allow you to become
more accepting of the other person in ways that, until now, you have
not been able to see. You may want to use this exercise for people
other than your adult child, such as an ex-spouse and
ex-friends.
If you have not done imagery before, be
assured that this process does not "force" you to go someplace in
your mind you do not want to go or do something you do not want to
do. Everything that happens to you will be what you decide and what
is best for you to gain from this experience. Imagery exercises are
valuable because they make use of the healing metaphors and imagery
of the right brain, by-passing the more structured analysis of the
left brain that sometimes insists there is only one way to view a
situation.
To use the following as a guided imagery
exercise, read it slowly into a tape recorder, pausing at the places
indicated, or have a friend read it to you. Or you may just want to
read it several times (to under- stand what you are to do) and then
complete the exercise without a tape recording.
After you are through, you may want to take a few
moments and write about what happened during the exercise. Some
people find it helpful to do the exercise more than once.
Let yourself become as comfortable as
possible. Allow yourself to be gently supported by the chair or sofa
on which you are sitting and move, if you must, to find the most
relaxing position. As you let your body find its comfort, allow your
eyes to gently close. . .
Now begin to relax by taking a few slow,
deep, abdominal breaths, filling your lungs to capacity and
releasing the air as completely as possible . . . Each time you
breathe out, say to yourself, "I am relaxing. . ." After two or
three of these deep breaths, let your body breathe according to its
own natural rhythm, slowly and easily ...
Each time you inhale and exhale normally,
allow yourself to become twice as relaxed as you were a moment
before . . . Twice as comfortable . . . Twice as peaceful . . . With
each breath every cell of your body becomes at ease . . . You find
yourself in a state of pleasant, relaxed consciousness . .
.
And now imagine that you are standing on a
grassy low hill near the sea. You can smell the clean sea air and
hear the sounds of birds as they circle overhead and onto the beach
below. You notice a path that follows a stream flowing gently into
the sea. You take the path and walk slowly to the shore, and then
along the shoreline until you come to a dock where a fairly large
boat is tied. The weather is perfect and you imagine it would be a
good day for taking a boat ride across that sea, or to various
places along the sea's edge. Allow yourself to experience being here
in a place of calm, serene beauty with a sense of potential healing
all around you . . .
As you look back toward the hill on which you
were first standing, you notice that there is another path,
different from the one you took, that also leads to the shore and
then to the dock. You notice on the path a person who, at one time,
had been in a relationship with you but with whom you now have a
conflict that keeps you physically or emotionally apart. You can see
him or her clearly, and even though you may have had difficulty
being together in the past, now you realize that no harm will come
to either of you in this place.
You watch as the person walks along the path
and slowly comes toward you. You greet each other and walk together
toward the boat. During this time you discuss how one of you will go
on the boat and one of you will wait on the shore. There are a
number of reasons why either one of you should go or stay, but you
realize that the journey is more necessary for the one than for the
other. Perhaps you talk about where it is that either one of you
needs to go. You discuss the fact that sometimes people who set out
on a voyage and plan to return may discover during their trip that
other places hold a strong attraction for them. And so it may be
possible that the person taking the trip will not return for some
reason.
Once you have decided who will take the
journey and who will wait on shore, you pay closer attention to the
details of the boat. What does the boat look like? Notice what
provisions are already on the boat and which ones still need to be
brought on board. How do you fee I about the boat and what it has to
offer the one who will be traveling? . . .
Now the one who is to take the journey gets
on the boat. The one remaining behind unties the rope that holds the
boat to the dock and watches as the boat moves slowly away into the
distance and out of sight. The person on shore will experience this
time in a way that is just right for that person. The journey may
last only a short time, or many months or years may be needed before
the journey is over. Since this is an experience in the nonlinear
part of the mind, time is not of consequence; the journey can last
as long as either of you needs for it to last.
Let the journey begin . . .
Now it is almost time for the boat to return
to shore. Does the boat return? If it does not, allow the person on
shore to accept the choice of the one who does not return. Have the
person who has been waiting sit for a while and consider what it
means to allow another person to choose his or her own
destiny.
If the boat does return, have the person on
shore greet the one who has gone on the journey. Find a comfortable
place to sit and talk with the other person heart-to-heart about
what happened to each of you while you were apart. You may
experience this conversation as a real dialogue in which first one
of you and then the other speaks. Or you may just get a sense of
what happens as you and the other person discuss what you
experienced while you were apart . .
What do you learn that you had not realized
before? What happens as you open yourself to listen to what is in
the heart of the other? . . .
As you prepare to part, remember that you can
return to this place and talk again any time you need to. And now
say goodbye and walk back to the hill on separate paths . .
.
Become aware of the room again and take a
deep breath. As you exhale, accept the healing and insights from
this experience as being just right for you at this time. And when
you feel ready, open your eyes.
Creating a Story of Healing
The stories we tell about our lives are not fixed
and immutable, any more than our lives are fixed and immutable. The
thousands of circumstances we have experienced over the years
provide a wealth of possible meanings and interpretations. No one of
them defines the underlying meaning and substance of events in our
lives. But we keep repeating that story over and over again until we
are convinced it is the only interpretation anyone could possibly
arrive at, if they knew what we know.
If our story is a happy one, we don't have any
incentive to change it. This is not the case with the story of
disappointed parents who are unable to reconcile with their
children. Yet just as we can discover new options by looking through
different windows, we can discover that there is more than one story
that can reflect what happened between us and our child.
If you are willing to entertain the possibility
that your experiences need not be viewed as darkly as you have
previously viewed them, you might try a story writing exercise I
created. As difficult as it may seem to you now, this exercise can
transform your story of conflict and pain into one of acceptance and
peace.
This exercise will take a fair amount of time to
complete; at least weeks, and probably months. It will be time and
energy well spent. And while you can begin at any time, it is best
if you wait until after you have worked through most of the tasks in
the five stages of healing. Then, after those things have not been
able to bring your child back to you, telling your story in a
different way can describe the broken relationship in more healing
terms.
To begin, find a quiet place, perhaps your
private retreat, and sit down to consider what stories you tell
yourself, and others, about your family's situation. What is the
role you have assigned yourself and what is the role you have
assigned your child? What emphasis do you give to each part? When
you know how you want this tale to be told, begin with "Once upon a
time . . . " (or something else if you wish) and write the first
draft of the story of your relationship with your child. Be as
creative as you can, perhaps telling your story as though it were
about someone else. Write it down as thoroughly as possible and then
put it aside.
The next time you feel like working on the story,
read what you have written so far and notice what it feels like to
have your story on paper. Since stories with many-faceted, complex
emotions often change from one telling to the next, notice whether
you still feel the way you felt when you first wrote it or whether
some feelings have shifted. If something you had written now seems
unimportant, or if you are ambivalent about some things you had
previously held as absolutes, think about how you might change those
things in writing the next draft. Leave this draft for your next
visit.
When you return, read the story again and think
about how you may want to rewrite it. This time make the rewrite
shorter, if possible, leaving in only what you know are the
important parts and discarding what is not essential.
Repeat this process as many times as you need,
making the story more and more brief. You may even try seeing
whether you can tell your story in one sentence! Long or short,
realize that your story expresses, in a style that is uniquely
yours, essential truths of what has happened. Your story is an
important version of the unresolvable rift between you and your
child, but remember, too, that it is not the absolute, definitive,
final word.
When you have finished, notice what changes have
happened to your story since you first began telling it. Notice that
each retelling contains elements of the truth, with the whole
picture evolving as you interpret events in a different way.
Writing a Letter of Closure
Two and a half years ago I met a woman whose son
had recently died of cancer. As we talked, she told me that her son,
who was the same age as mine, had abused drugs and alcohol before
his diagnosis and continued to blame other people whenever he got
into trouble. Knowing that her son was dying, she was able to share
with him the things she wanted to say. When he died, she felt their
relationship was complete.
Our conversation made me realize that if David
died, which was surely possible because he was living on the streets
at the time, I would not only feel a deep loss, I would also know I
had not shared with him all I wanted to share. I decided to write a
letter to him, with a personal copy to each of our children. Since I
sometimes over-explain myself, the letter was very long (I would
write a shorter one if I were doing it today). However, the purpose
was to express what I wanted to say. I did. If it took a long time
to read, so be it. If my children did not understand what I was
trying to say, so be it. I had done my best and felt a real sense of
closure in my relationship with David at that time.
Some time later I was talking with him on the
phone about another matter and asked him what the letter had meant
to him. His only comment was, "It's apparently something you needed
to say, and you have a right to your opinion." That's not exactly
the reaction I had hoped for, but at least I assumed he had read it.
It would have been great if he had said, "Gee, Mom, now that I see
how much you love me and how my situation has affected the whole
family, I'm going to enter a treatment program and get a job." But
that's just wishful thinking. I had no right to expect or demand him
to respond in any particular way; nor was that my intent.
Since I wrote that letter, I have helped other
parents write to their children. Before writing those letters,
however, it has always been essential that the parent be willing to
explore honestly why she wants to write. Only then can she be
assured that the letter will not become a rehash of old fights, a
defensive and angry diatribe, or a subtle manipulation to get the
child to change. The primary purpose of these letters, after all, is
to bring closure to a broken relationship, to acknowledge that, as
things now stand, there does not seem to be a possibility for
reconciliation, even though that is what the parent would
prefer.
© Copyright 1994, Arlene F. Harder, MA, MFT, Reprinted with
permission
Arlene Harder's website, http://www.Support4Change.com
is a very informative as well as interesting source for
understanding family estrangement. Through both her
professional and personal experiences, she has gathered information
and written about this subject, along with other subjects
related to ways of enriching one's life. The above
printed chapter was taken from her book, "Letting Go Of Our Adult
Children: When What We Do Is Never Enough." She has posted the
book, in it's entirety on her website. She only has a few
left, in paperback form, which you may purchase for $20,
including shipping and handling. Send a check made out to Arlene
Harder and send it to her at: Support4Change, 2522 Boulder Road,
Altadena, CA 91001.
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