Childhood Disrupted CHAPTER ONE Every Adult Was Once a Child If you saw Laura walking down the New York City street where she lives today, you''d see a well-dressed forty-six-year-old woman with auburn hair and green eyes who exudes a sense of "I matter here." She looks entirely in charge of her life--as long as you don''t see the small ghosts trailing after her. When Laura was growing up, her mom was bipolar. Laura''s mom had her good moments: she helped Laura with school projects, braided her hair, and taught her the name of every bird at the bird feeder. But when Laura''s mom suffered from depressive bouts, she''d lock herself in her room for hours. At other times she was manic and hypercritical, which took its toll on everyone around her. Laura''s dad, a vascular surgeon, was kind to Laura, but rarely around. He was, she says, "home late, out the door early--and then just plain out the door.
" Laura recalls a family trip to the Grand Canyon when she was ten. In a photo taken that day, Laura and her parents sit on a bench, sporting tourist whites. The sky is blue and cloudless, and behind them the dark, ribboned shadows of the canyon stretch deep and wide. It is a perfect summer day. "That afternoon my mom was teaching me to identify the ponderosa pines," Laura recalls. "Anyone looking at us would have assumed we were a normal, loving family." Then, something seemed to shift, as it sometimes would. Laura''s parents began arguing about where to set up the tripod for their family photo.
By the time the three of them sat down, her parents weren''t speaking. As they put on fake smiles for the camera, Laura''s mom suddenly pinched her daughter''s midriff around the back rim of her shorts, and told her to stop "staring off into space." Then, a second pinch: "no wonder you''re turning into a butterball, you ate so much cheesecake last night you''re hanging over your shorts!" If you look hard at Laura''s face in the photograph, you can see that she''s not squinting at the Arizona sun, but holding back tears. When Laura was fifteen, her dad moved three states away with a new wife-to-be. He sent cards and money, but called less and less often. Her mother''s untreated bipolar disorder worsened. Laura''s days were punctuated with put-downs that caught her off guard as she walked across the living room. "My mom would spit out something like, ''You look like a semiwide from behind.
If you''re ever wondering why no boy asks you out, that''s why!''?" One of Laura''s mother''s recurring lines was, "You were such a pretty baby, I don''t know what happened." Sometimes Laura recalls, "My mom would go on a vitriolic diatribe about my dad until spittle foamed on her chin. I''d stand there, trying not to hear her as she went on and on, my whole body shaking inside." Laura never invited friends over, for fear they''d find out her secret: her mom "wasn''t like other moms." Some thirty years later, Laura says, "In many ways, no matter where I go or what I do, I''m still in my mother''s house." Today, "If a car swerves into my lane, a grocery store clerk is rude, my husband and I argue, or my boss calls me in to talk over a problem, I feel something flip over inside. It''s like there''s a match standing inside too near a flame, and with the smallest breeze, it ignites." Something, she says, "just doesn''t feel right.
Things feel bigger than they should be. Some days, I feel as if I''m living my life in an emotional boom box where the volume is turned up too high." To see Laura, you would never know that she is "always shaking a little, only invisibly, deep down in my cells." Laura''s sense that something is wrong inside is mirrored by her physical health. In her midthirties, she began suffering from migraines that landed her in bed for days at a time. At forty, Laura developed an autoimmune thyroid disease. At forty-four, during a routine exam, Laura''s doctor didn''t like the sound of her heart. An EKG revealed an arrhythmia.
An echocardiogram showed that Laura had a condition known as dilated cardiomyopathy. The left ventricle of her heart was weak; the muscle had trouble pumping blood into her heart. Next thing Laura knew, she was a heart disease patient, undergoing surgery. Today, Laura has a cardioverter defibrillator implanted in the left side of her chest to prevent heart failure. The two-inch scar from the implant is deceivingly small. John''s parents met in Asia when his father was deployed there as an army officer. After a whirlwind romance, his parents married and moved to the United States. For as long as John can remember, he says, "my parents'' marriage was deeply troubled, as was my relationship with my dad.
I consider myself to have been raised by my mom and her mom. I longed to feel a deeper connection with my dad, but it just wasn''t there. He couldn''t extend himself in that way." John occasionally runs his hands through his short blond hair, as he carefully chooses his words. "My dad would get so worked up and pissed off about trivial things. He''d throw out opinions that we all knew were factually incorrect, and just keep arguing." If John''s dad said the capital of New York was New York City, it didn''t matter if John showed him it was Albany. "He''d ask me to help in the garage and I''d be doing everything right, and then a half hour into it I''d put the screwdriver down in the wrong spot and he''d start yelling and not let up.
There was never any praise. Even when he was the one who''d made a mistake, it somehow became my fault. He could not be wrong about anything." As John got older, it seemed wrong to him that "my dad was constantly pointing out all the mistakes that my brother and I made, without acknowledging any of his own." His dad chronically criticized his mother, who was, John says, "kinder and more confident." When John was twelve, he interjected himself into the fights between his parents. One Christmas Eve, when he was fifteen, John awoke to the sound of "a scream and a commotion. I realized it was my mother screaming.
I jumped out of bed and ran into my parents'' room, shouting, ''What the hell is going on here?'' My mother sputtered, ''He''s choking me!'' My father had his hands around my mother''s neck. I yelled at him: ''You stay right here! Don''t you dare move! Mom is coming with me!'' I took my mother downstairs. She was sobbing. I was trying to understand what was happening, trying to be the adult between them." Later that Christmas morning, John''s father came down the steps to the living room where John and his mom were sleeping. "No one explained," he says. "My little brother came downstairs and we had Christmas morning as if nothing had happened." Not long after, John''s grandmother, "who''d been an enormous source of love for my mom and me," died suddenly.
John says, "It was a terrible shock and loss for both of us. My father couldn''t support my mom or me in our grieving. He told my mom, ''You just need to get over it!'' He was the quintessential narcissist. If it wasn''t about him, it wasn''t important, it wasn''t happening." Today, John is a boyish forty. He has warm hazel eyes and a wide, affable grin that would be hard not to warm up to. But beneath his easy, open demeanor, John struggles with an array of chronic illnesses. By the time John was thirty-three, his blood pressure was shockingly high for a young man.
He began to experience bouts of stabbing stomach pain and diarrhea and often had blood in his stool. These episodes grew more frequent. He had a headache every day of his life. By thirty-four, he''d developed chronic fatigue, and was so wiped out that sometimes he struggled to make it through an entire day at work. For years, John had loved to go hiking to relieve stress, but by the time he was thirty-five, he couldn''t muster the physical stamina. "One day it hit me, ''I''m still a young man and I''ll never go hiking again.''?" John''s relationships, like his physical body, were never quite healthy. John remembers falling deeply in love in his early thirties.
After dating his girlfriend for a year, she invited him to meet her family. During his stay with them, John says, "I became acutely aware of how different I was from kids who grew up without the kind of shame and blame I endured." One night, his girlfriend, her sisters, and their boyfriends all decided to go out dancing. "Everyone was sitting around the dinner table planning this great night out and I remember looking around at her family and the only thing going through my mind were these words: ''I do not belong here.'' Everyone seemed so normal and happy. I was horrified suddenly at the idea of trying to play along and pretend that I knew how to be part of a happy family." So John faked "being really tired. My girlfriend was sweet and stayed with me and we didn''t go.
She kept asking what was wrong and at some point I just started crying and I couldn''t stop. She wanted to help, but instead of telling her how insecure I was, or asking for her reassurance, I told her I was crying because I wasn''t in love with her." John''s girlfriend was, he says, "completely devastated." She drove John to a hotel that night. "She and her family were shocked. No one could understand what had happened." Even though John had been deeply in love, his fear won out. "I couldn''t let her find out how crippled I was by the shame and grief I carried inside.
" Bleeding from his inflamed intestines, exhausted by chronic fatigue, debilitated and distracted.