Mother's Day for the Motherless
Mother's Day for the Motherless
Tips for Escaping Communication Breakdowns
A lesson on grief: Do not pretend you hold privileged access to someone’s emotional reactions because of a similar life event.
You both suffer from bipolar disorder.
You both survived a physical assault.
You both experienced the death of a parent.
The unique parameters of difficult events begs for intellectual humility. I lost my mom at the age of 12 and people regularly tell me how I’m messed up because of it. When I interviewed for graduate school in 1998, a Professor at the University of Virginia submitted a barrage of questions about my childhood.1 Following candid answers, he replied something to the effect of, “You must have suffered greatly…you are supposed to be in prison, a drug addict, congratulations for making it this far!” I remember the mental chatter that I failed to voice.
No, I didn’t suffer greatly. I found refuge in friends, sports, writing, and lovers. Do not define me by my loss. Do not impose your invented narrative on me. What the fuck makes you think prison was a possibility?
I know people often mean well by taking a guess at someone’s thoughts, feelings, and history. People have reasons for why they lead with presumed confidence in what adversity means to someone else. Know this: projecting your own thoughts on an event create unnecessary barriers to connection.
Instead of conveying an illusion of knowledge, offer presence.
I can’t imagine what you’re feeling.
I have no idea what you went through, but if you ever want to share something, anything, I’m here for you.
I don’t know what to say but know that I am here for you.
I’m not sure how to help but I’m not going anywhere.
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My twin brother and I were raised by a single mother. From my remembrance, I never felt deprived with only a mom. I never felt an insufficient number of hugs and kisses. I have memories of her reading to me, never missing a day. I have memories of her tucking me in, asking questions about my friends and plans for tomorrow. I remember her lying beside me when nightmares arose.2 But they are faint, slipping away.
After a long bout of cancer, my mother died on Thanksgiving in 1987. I had just turned 13 years old. I don't recall many details during this time period. I remember being brought to the hospital only to be told that my mother refused to see me. She didn't want my memories tainted by the sights and smells of deterioration. I tip-toed out of the waiting room to peer through the small window of her hospital door. I witnessed a frail body, gaunt face, and bald head that would never hug me again. One-sided conversations. Laughter never to be shared. Advice never sought. Wisdom never acquired. If I want to feel sadness, if I want to taste despair, there are masochistic mental calculations to be made of how much was lost.
Sometimes snapshots and mental videos of my childhood appear on random Tuesday afternoons. Recovered fragments from my childhood offer immeasurable value. Much of what I know about my childhood stems from second hand observations. Apparently, I was a "momma's boy" and could be found clinging to her like a skittish monkey or lying in her lap jotting words into notebooks. These tales intrigue me, representing unfulfilled desires for more. Supposedly my personality is quite similar to hers -- emotionally intense, extremely sociable, open to new experiences, and a lust for life. She raised twin babies on her own from the age of two onward. I’ve been told I have the same resilience and resolve. The older I get, the more perplexed I am about how she parented as I don't recall being deprived of anything. For me, these comparisons are aspirational and motivational.
For over 2/3 of my existence, on Mother’s Day, I remain motherless. I try hard to uncover a lost day from the first 13 years. I rarely succeed. I fare better scouring through photo albums, inventing stories of how that moment felt.
But I feel a sense of certainty that I was deeply loved. It will always be an emotionally potent day. Sadness does not detract from my well-being. Diving in and exploring the pain brings me closer to essential elements of who I am and the decisions of which paths to choose. I think of the path that would lead her to put an arm around me in pride and joy. And then I know. I wish the same level of poignancy for everyone else.
Relish your mom, father, or whoever served as the bedrock foundation in those formative years. Don’t let another day go by without detailing the validation, hope, and potential they instilled.
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Extra Curiosities
Watch the intellectual prowess of Dr. Jane McGonigal who spearheaded a conversation with me on creativity, courage, imagination, and what social activists today can learn from science. Click here to watch.
Dr. Todd B. Kashdan is the author of The Art of Insubordination: How to Dissent and Defy Effectively (Avery/Penguin) and a Professor of Psychology who leads The Well-Being Laboratory at George Mason University.
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I’m pretty sure this is an unacceptable question to ask an applicant. To say it changed my demeanor for the worst for the remainder of the interview day would be an understatement. Psychology professors should not be conducting a therapeutic analysis of applicants, as someone’s mental health is not your business if someone can get the job done. Hard to say whether this is better or worse than the Professor of another university who leaned forward, looked right through me, and asked what mental health diagnoses I received in the past. I remember thinking - what response will get me out of this mess? If I listed diagnoses, I open myself up to scrutiny. If I say nothing or that I would prefer not to answer the question, it might sound defensive. If I answer that I am functioning just fine, it might sound dismissive. In a high-stakes 30 minute interview, it is onerous to think through these options.
But perhaps neither of them is as treacherous as Professors who give armchair psychiatric diagnoses to students who do something wrong in graduate school. I have been at student evaluation meetings where faculty members claim a student faring poorly on assignments has Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Social Anxiety Disorder, and Borderline Personality Disorder. The faculty members were not their therapists and did not conduct formal diagnostic assessments. They felt sufficiently confident to go on their intuition and share these thoughts with the rest of the faculty - as if this is a harmless intellectual exercise. It is not harmless. Handing out diagnoses altered how those students were viewed throughout their career. Normal, fleeting behaviors are now viewed as potential markers of disorder. I never forgot this practice. I still keep in contact with the students given these questionable diagnoses. They also never forgot receiving these unwarranted diagnoses. Since we know that the presence of distress is a rather weak predictor of someone experiencing impairment at work (read this and this), giving armchair diagnoses to students and workers is a terrible practice.
Two nightmares plagued me. First, Lou Ferrigno as The Hulk. His eyes terrified me. Sometimes I think these nightmares are the reason I entered bodybuilding. If I could be him, we would be allies instead of adversaries. Second, large ants. On Saturday afternoons, I loved watching kung-fu and horror movies. There was something about the movie Them! that freaked me the hell out. I would sleep under the covers in the summertime and lose 6 pounds of sweat in the hopes that if a large ant approached my bedroom window, my twin brother Andy would be taken, not me. As an adult, I never re-watched these shows or movies because I enjoy keeping these imaginary childhood terrors intact, unscathed by an older lens. I think it’s because I have so few childhood memories that I protect them as if under helium and glass at The National Archives.