Dance puppet, Dance!

It always amazes me how easily I am reduced to that sad little girl who can never get it right.

I am an approval junkie. And though I work at growing up and caring less about what others think, it still crushes me when I am rejected. Especially by my family of origin; who, by the way seem to relish in hurting me. Apparently, their world doesn't spin the right way unless I'm firmly in my place. That place being, spoiled crybaby who overreacts to everything, aka: family scapegoat.

The latest version of our little dance is actually unfolding as I type. Here's the story: A couple of years ago, hubby and I packed up the kids and moved to Dublin in a bid to expose ourselves to a bit of the world beyond our front door. Since we arrived, we've been inviting my parents who are retired (and while not exactly wealthy are a far cry from eating dogfood) to visit. They threatened to come for Christmas one year, then they were going to come when the weather was better and the charters were flying, yada yada, you get the picture.

As I may have mentioned, I broke my ankle quite badly last October which required "internal fixation" (read "enough hardware to hang a door"). I was laid up for quite a while and Christmas was fast approaching. My mom asked what she could do for me; I asked her to come over for a couple weeks and help us out. Hubby was working full time and overwhelmed with the housework and caring for me and the kids, not to mention that we hadn't bought a single gift yet. She was noncommital, which I expected, thinking she'd need to discuss it with my dad, find a reasonable airfare, things like that.

A couple of days later, she called and said she'd decided that her coming here for a couple of weeks wasn't going to help anybody and if I got a maid she'd pay for it. I was stunned. And hurt. But, I sucked it up and mumbled something about looking into whether work would pay for home help.

I then promptly chastised myself for being so damn needy and got on with it. Which, as it turned out, not only meant buying our presents for each other, the kids and our families, but also having to shop on behalf of all of the grandparents. No big deal most years, but an enormous task while perched on crutches or being pushed around in a wheelchair among the hoards of shoppers. I did manage to cook Christmas dinner and it was lovely, if I do say so myself.

Fast forward a few weeks. I'm on the phone with my parents, telling them how excited I am that my friend is coming over to visit for a few days (this visit took place in Portugal, see previous post). They pointed out that this would be the second visit with this friend in as many years. Which underscored for me the fact that they still haven't made it. So, against my better judgement (and with the self-preservation part of me screaming "Don't do it!") I asked them, "will you ever come to visit?"

"Uhh, no." Was the answer.

"Why not?" I managed to squeak through the bubble of disappointment welling up in my throat.

"We're not good travellers", came the pat answer. This one is really hard for me to swallow as we had lived on two continents and been driven across Canada twice by the time I was 13. But, then again, my mother has always been anxious and maybe her age and not being forced to travel had combined to create a sort of phobia. "You're coming home in August anyway," she reminded me.

I got off the phone. Hubby looked at me with a combination of annoyance and gentle pity. "Why do you do that to yourself?" he asked.

"I dunno," I said, "I just needed to hear them say it out loud. Now I can drop it."

And drop it, I did. I didn't call, I didn't email, I didn't do anything. Not out of spite, rather, I wanted to give myself a bit of breathing room so that I wouldn't go under. "Grow up", I told myself over and over again. "You are an adult" - it became my mantra. And eventually, I was able to regain my perspective; they weren't intentionally hurtful, I need to accept them as they are, blah blah blah.

I returned from Portugal on Saturday afternoon. Sunday evening around 9, the phone rang. "Oh, hi Nanny!" I heard the boychild say. "Here we go," I thought as he handed me the receiver. Nanny is notoriously cheap and doesn't call unless it's big.

"So, yer alive?" was the greeting. I didn't bite... smooth, pleasant, chatty. I was doing really well. And then she struck, "Your brother and his girlfriend were here for the weekend," she announced.

"Oh, yeah?" I asked.

"Yeah, and guess what?" she asked, the excitement creeping into her voice.

"Oh gawd", I thought, "she's pregnant again - where will they put a fifth?". "Uh...what?" I managed to ask.

"Well, y'know how he's always going on these trips, eh?" I can actually hear her smiling at this stage.

"Yeah," I answered wondering where the hell this was going.

"He's booking us on one!" She announced gleefully.

"Pardon?"

"He said they're just gonna go and book it. When you went to Mexico, did you go to Cancun?" she asked.

"Uh, no...I went to Acapulco," I said, "but I'm sure Cancun is lovely".

"Yeah? Cause I think that's where we're going!"

At this point dad chimes in with, "I think he actually won the trip, but he's not saying, so we'll have to wait and see".

I see. I see perfectly. I feel the pain start to well up inside me and I fight furiously to maintain control. I breath in through my nose and out through my mouth. I swallow once, twice, three times. I'm not gonna dance, I'm not gonna dance.

And then she says, "we thought we'd better call and tell you in case you might get upset, yer not upset are ya?"

"I'm hurt", I manage to say.

"Ah now come on", and then they both start talking over one another.

I lose the thread of their words as I say, "of course I'm hurt! I asked you to come here and help me when my leg was broken in three places and you wouldn't help me because you were too afraid to fly! So now you call me up to tell me you're going to Mexico?? Why? So you could rub my nose it it??" Oops...look at me, I'm dancing!

"I won't go!" She shouts.

"Go!" says I. "No, really, I think you should."

"I'm not going to talk to you anymore if you are going to be like this," she threatens.

"Right. Bye." I say and hang up the phone. I'm still reeling as the kids crowd around me and ask what's the matter. I try to explain that mummy's had a disagreement with Nanny and let's just get on with our bedtime routine. I apologize that they witnessed me lose control and reassure them that everything is okay in their world. And then I slap my veneer of control back on and begin to read aloud.

The kids settle. Hubby comes home and hears the story. He's angry and asks why they would do such a thing. I don't have an answer. I want him to ring them up and ask them. I want him to rage and beat his chest and give them a big buncha whatfor! I want to be stood up for.

It doesn't happen; he says when asked that he's actually afraid of what their answer might be. And then he is snoring. Sleep is always absent when I am down. Apparently, my psyche likes to wallow for as long as possible. I creep back downstairs and fire up the computer, hoping to catch a friend online. I miss. I feel so alone. So raw. So hurt. I allow myself to cry. When my tears are exhausted, I go back upstairs and the sound of hubby's snoring lulls me to sleep.

In the morning there is an email. It says, "We're sorry we upset you. We won't go."

I respond, saying that I think they should go and enjoy themselves. Not going now not only doesn't make me feel any better, it actually makes me the bad guy, aka: scapegoat. I can hear it now, "We wanted to go to Mexico, but our daughter had a tantrum", and that's just so unfair. (Why I think that fairness comes into this in any way is beyond me too, by the way.)

They respond by telling me they probably wouldn't have gone anyway.

I respond by not responding. Instead, I write it all here. It's been cathartic. I know I need more than catharsis to change the dance, but it's a start.