The speaker in last night's AA meeting highlighted the fact that while he grew up in an alcoholic home, there was never any discussion or mention of his father's alcoholism. There was emphasis, instead, on the appearance of normality in the family. I could relate to this so much and there is a strong connection, I believe, to my present behavior in terms of control, strongly disliking any kind of disorder, disarray, or downright messiness. An honest conversation last evening separate from this meeting uncovered more layers of this for me -- of all things, it was about my intolerance for allowing my hair to be in the " in between" stage and how this is most definitely a visible and tangible aspect of my relationship with all things messy.
The origins of my aversion to messiness are rooted in my alcoholic home of childhood. My home was captained by my ex-marine father, who required it to be run in an orderly way, including dinner on the table no later than 4:30pm every weeknight. And, while my father got drunk every single day, it was usually a quiet oblivion (at least when I was younger, then the raging increased when I got older). And, he made sure to shower right after work, greasing his hair back perfectly, before the beer drinking commenced. I was curious as a child about what was in the brown bottles and the amber substance that I would see being methodically poured into glass after glass by him on the recliner chair and there was never any discussion about it. What I did understand as even a small child was that my father never parted from those bottles or his chair and you didn't engage with him or get in between he and the TV. And that his words came out slurry later in the night and his breath smelled funny. And sometimes I'd find him snoring loudly slumped over in his chair when I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom.
My mother, on the other hand, scurried about the house nervously keeping everything clean, in order & organized and by the time I was tall enough to reach the counter, I was enlisted to be part of this cleaning frenzy -- doing dishes, using the vacuum, folding laundry. I was not allowed to go out to play with the other kids until I finished chores, which infuriated me and I didn't understand why other kids got out of doing these things.
Our family presented a neatly groomed package when we were out in the world, which was not very often and it was generally in church on Sunday mornings. My sister and I had nicely ironed dresses, bows in our hair as we sat like good little girls bookended by our parents in the pew. My father wore the same suit every week and never uttered a word to anyone. My mother flit about being the social butterfly, checking in to see how everyone was doing and who needed a visit at a nursing home or cards to be sent or what she could bake for a church rummage sale. It was this kind of presence that deflected the church community and public at large away from knowing the dirt that was tidily swept under the rug of our dysfunctional home.
I have one disturbing memory as I write this which is that when I was of the age to begin getting pimples, my father would have me lie down on the sofa under a bright light so he could use this small silver device that had a round hole in it that you put over a blackhead or pimple about to burst to actually "unearth" it from the skin. I was about 11 years old when he began this practice on Friday nights and I would squirm and hold back tears and I didn't understand why I couldn't just have these blemishes on my face. And there was no arguing with him about this, though I found that if I closed my eyes tightly and thought about things that made me smile I could get through this "grooming" process. This went on for about 3-4 years and then his drinking worsened and I am guessing he probably could no longer manipulate the little silver thing in his tremoring hands.
And my mother's pet peeve about tidiness was that our shirts had to be tucked in neatly and that we had to wear a belt. And she ironed EVERYTHING. Even my father's handkerchiefs. She would lose herself in afternoon soap operas while ironing piles of freshly washed clothes. I can remember sitting under the ironing board when I was really little just to be able to be close to her.
So I go off to college and the rebellion begins. I wear untucked shirts and unironed pants. And let the zits have their place on my face. I soothe myself in alcohol and as my drinking advances quickly, my hygiene and appearance and neatness deteriorate. I sometimes don't shower. My dorm room and subsequent apartment bedrooms are littered with piles of clothes. I smell the crotches of jeans to see which is the least unpleasant so I can wear them out and not have to do my wash. Dirty dishes overtake the sink. Ashtrays are overflowing with butts. The refrigerator has unwrapped items that smell and are growing mold. When I get my 1st car after college, it becomes a mobile garbage can, filled with fast food and candy wrappers and empty beer cans and spilled drinks and it downright stinks. I am living my mother's worst nightmare. And I don't care.
And then I stop drinking. And without the alcohol to numb the unpleasant feelings and anxiety, I revert to the conditioning of my childhood and I turn into an obsessive-compulsive control freak. I clean my apartment constantly. The items in my kitchen cabinets need to be lined up just so. I scrub my tub until my hands are raw. I cannot tolerate a single crumb or a hair out of place. There are no piles of anything to be found.
Co-habitating with my former partner put my cleanly habits into overdrive. The more I freaked out about mail piles and cabinet disarray and toothpaste in the bathroom sink, the more rebellious she became. And when her substance abuse began to take off, I found myself every weekend furiously mopping hardwood floors, vacuuming and straightening and scrubbing. My cabinets and office and closets were meticulously kept. A clean house for entertaining friends would disguise the filth that was neatly tucked away. And when her addiction was full blown, the guests stopped being invited. And I had every excuse in the world to decline invitations. No one would know about the mess in my home. I was turning into my mother and didn't even know it.
In kabbalistic healing, this territory is found on the Tree of Life in the branches of Chesed and Gevurah. Chesed is masculine and has qualities of loving-kindness, flow, endlessness, altruism. Gevurah is feminine and is about strength, boundary, structure, restraint and discipline. When Chesed is unhealed, it has the appearance, of all things, being "messy". When Gevurah is unhealed, in "lay terms" that this would have the appearance of being tightly wound, a control freak. And one of these can be "presenting" yet be disguising the other. I am very aware of the fact that the origins of my family's presentation in terms of appearance and then my own replication of this would be bound in a nice, neat Gevuric package that contained a pile of messy, unhealed Chesed.
It takes a lot of energy to live like this. I'm just becoming aware of how inauthentic it feels. And I want to understand more of how it shows up in me. One small experiment I am conducting in my life right now is about my hair. And my need to have it be "just so". And my obsession with getting it cut every 3-4 weeks. I believe it is an outgrowth, no pun intended, of a much larger piece of my history that I want to re-write. So I canceled my scheduled haircut today. And I'm going to feel what it's like to have it appear in ways that I am not normally comfortable with. And to let it grow. And unfold. And to be messy.
To be continued ...
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