On Being the Reflection of my Parents
My Naturopath asked me today who in my family I related to the most. As my family (that I know well) is small, and my brother and I are like night and day I found my options whittled down to my parents very quickly, and it was an interesting question.
Those who know me and meet my mother, or vice versa know that in terms of my behaviour I am soooo my mother’s daughter. My voice sounds, and moves like hers. My hands wave like hers. I wander around what I mean to ask like she does. Many might be inclined to suggest that I am my mother’s daughter first.
And it does make sense that I act as much like her as I do. She was my model growing up, and I had(/ve) more respect for her accomplishments as a single mother than I can express. Plus I have her introversion, and so it makes sense that I would have developed her (elaborate) ways of coping with it.
Plus I know that she really works to understand her children, and I know that I can talk to her openly and honestly about my life choices and get nothing but support and positive advice (where needed) back. But there has always been an extent to which I feel fundamentally misunderstood with respect to my mother. Why, I can’t quite tell. She tries, and functionally speaking she usually succeeds. It’s just this sense I’ve always had (that has made our relationship difficult).
So my mind moves to Ireland and I think in many ways it’s my father’s mind that I have. I have his tendency to overanalyze. I have his sense of responsibility and agency in things well outside his control. I have his likelihood to dwell.
I have his obsession with the inner-workings of the minds of others. I have his need to express, and be understood in a backward way. I have his sarcasm. And it’s weird because when it comes to the big things I do not feel understood by my father. I am afraid to tell him about my life choices. I am conflicted between a desire for him not to feel disappointed and a sense that it’s less his business than he thinks it is. I often find myself (unintenionally) caging what I tell him about my accomplishments or fears (in ways I never would with my mother).
And yet I have this strange sense of being understood by him. On a fundamental level, when we are sitting across the table from one another I feel like “we get it”. There’s something essential about who each of us is that the other simply understands. And think that’s why the answer is that it’s my father I relate to most.
2 comments September 14th, 2007