Not Loving Oneself...

likened as having the same effects as second hand smoke

Dr. Brene Brown in her book, The Gifts of Imperfection, took up the question of whether we could really love another if we do not first—adequately and sufficiently— love ourselves.

She received a response from a parent who talked about the unconditional and infinite love this father had for his daughter. Yet, he also admitted it was easier to love her because of a degree of narcissism, that he saw himself in her. He recognized his own inner child in his interactions with her, through his love for her.

But Brene pressed the issue further and raises the question—

Can we really love another if we don’t first love ourselves?

She then likened it to the effects of second hand smoke.

Yes, of course it is ultimately more dangerous to the smoker, themself, but—

These effects, a lack of self love, do have consequences and unhealthy effects on the child. It is the second hand smoke.

And I think about my mother.

A memory comes to mind:

She was staying with my uncle, about eight to ten months after my father had completed suicide. Heavily traumatized, in a dark sea of depression and grief and despair, as a widower, frozen and unable to make any decisions on her own:

She broke down into tears. Laying on the bed in the guest room, she looked up at me, her bright blue eyes filled with tears, and through sobs, she said to me:

“I’m just so sorry…..for…what I am.”

More than any other moment, that I can recall, my heart just shattered her.

It was alarming as I rarely saw my mother cry, even for all the reasons she had to, from what life handed her.

But in that moment—My beautiful, generous, mama just looked and sounded completely defeated from life. It had stamped her down and shat on her. I had never see her look so vulnerable, so fragile.

But I also think my mother did not think herself worthy of love.

But why would she? How would she have learned about self love? With a mother who abandoned her, a biological father who was not present in her life, a stepfather who abused her, then onto a husband who also financially, emotionally and verbally abused her for decades.

The great irony of this moment though, I saw her she both clouded by grief and trauma, yet she also seemed lucid, astute, deeply perceptive.

True, she was ruthless on herself, and yet, probably at this moment, she displayed clarity, recognizing that she was traumatized.

Maybe she saw outside herself, taking in her own mental illness, knowing she was not well, stuck in a period of “Freeze,” unable to execute any decisions, taking any autonomy over her new journey in life, as a widow.

My mother gifted me so much in life. I have written about it in other posts, at length, of how much I owe to her. My life now, what I have, where I am, as a professor, well-educated, and living a comfortably middle class life.

And yet, the joint joy and tragedy of her life seems to be that she poured out all of this amazingly selfless maternal love into me and my brother. I know and always knew that she loved us more than life itself and would have done anything for us.

Still.

I spent many years as a young girl, looking up to this woman, my mother, seeing her as what a woman was, what she should be.

I inhaled the second hand smoke.

So much of adulthood is unlearning that which we have inhaled from childhood.

My mother was a beautiful woman.

I only wish she knew that and could have believed in herself in the way she always did for me.