| Whose Fault Is It Really? by Constance R. Hale
The prevailing penchant for blaming others for our mistakes in judgment has gone too far. Parents particularly are under constant fire for erring, either deliberately or accidentally, and thereby forcing us to become the poor excuses for adults that many of us find ourselves to be. They did us dirt by either being overly demanding or too lenient and, in so doing, have caused us to do whatever it is that we are ashamed for having done. It is not our fault! It is never our fault! That whole attitude puts me in mind of the young man who murdered his parents and then begged the court for leniency because he was an orphan. Of course there are many cases where the blame can be properly placed on the mothers and fathers but the proportion is very small compared to the abundant rash of the public baring of disgusting family relationships. Memories are selective and not necessarily correct even though honestly believed. Dwelling on imagined, or even true, abuses takes up so much time for the adult child that between psychoanalysis, having the story ghostwritten and bruiting it about the whole world via the talk show circuit, there is little time left to spend attempting to progress in a positive direction. The grudges are held for many years and they imbue the lives of all involved with a dark wash of frustration and bitterness. For several years I felt picked on by my mother. I later learned that this feeling is quite prevalent during the teenage years of most children. After becoming a grownup and spending some time and effort in an attempt to discover why I had felt that way, I found that a funny thing happened on my way to adulthood. Upon careful examination I had found that, although some of my memories were correct, there were many pertinent facts that I had conveniently overlooked because they would not have lent credence to my "Poor Me Syndrome." This kind of P.M.S. is comfortably suffered by many adults who have become as enamored with it as a baby with a pacifier. There were many times when I felt "shot down" by my mother's words but, upon thinking it over, I realized that I had expected more from my mother than she was capable of giving. Why should she tell me that I was the prettiest little girl in the world when she and I both knew that I wasn't? Neither was I the smartest nor the sweetest- tempered child in the world. There was no reason for her to give me a falsely superior attitude when, although I was a normal child, I was not superior. The fact that she did not encourage or seem to appreciate my poetic endeavors should not have been surprising, because we were on totally different wavelengths. She was a pragmatist who was an excellent technical writer. I was a dreamer driven by flights of fancy and the sounds of words. How could we be expected to see eye-to-eye when we were two very unlike people attacking problems from different directions? We could love each other but it was impossible to understand each other when we were not constitutionally equipped to do so. No, my parents were not perfect. Neither was their child. Through them I was supplied with many wonderful gifts. I appreciate them and will not let misguided hurt feelings take the color from my life. Neither will I lay the blame for my mistakes at their feet. They made their errors and I made my own. Perhaps mine could have been called a dysfunctional family but I prefer to simply call it a family. One person's dysfunction could easily be another's incentive to excel. The very word "family" connotes a living condition which has two or more, sometimes disparate people, who are banded together for the good of all. I know of no "perfect" family. The old wheeze "What goes around comes around" was recently brought home to me when I recalled the fine advice I gave to one of my children. After some minor infraction for which she had attempted to place the blame elsewhere, I had her face the full length mirror in my bedroom. Standing behind her with my hands on her shoulders I pronounced that the person in the mirror was the person she was to blame whenever she did anything wrong. I had intended the words to be memorable but years later I recalled that her eyes had met mine in that mirror and the person she was looking at was her mother. Oh, mea Culpa!
Table of Contents | 1993 Issues | Subscribe Credit card Orders call: 800-321-9054 or fax: (619)676-0433 Truth Seeker is published by Truth Seeker Co., Inc. (ISSN 0041-3712) © 1996 |