This text brought me to tears. My mother, too, spent her entire life working exhausting shifts caring for oncological patients—giving all of her light and energy to saving others, leaving our home in a quiet, cold shadow. From the age of nine, I would take a public bus home alone, eat cold meals because I wasn't allowed to touch matches, and buy the evening bread, waiting for everyone to arrive. I used to sit on my parents' bed, eating not just food but also everything that came from that square glowing TV screen.
Today, she quietly reproaches me for not connecting with her. Your words beautifully and painfully validate the lonely geometry of being a child left in the margins of a mother’s heavy, noble work. Thank you for this, Judith. Thank you for sharing Sari.
So powerful! And I related enormously. I too was an only child raised by parents who were otherwise engaged (to be polite) & who were “affected” (to be polite) by the same “generational trauma” (to be polite). Thank you for putting this experience into words.
“I grew up in a house of silent strangers.” How relatable that is for so many of us. Lonely from birth. My own mother did not work but busied herself with cleaning obsessively. Physical needs were met, but not emotional. Other mothers would meet their kids to get off the bus in the rain, I had to walk halfway home in the rain by myself before my mother‘s car finally appeared, no doubt because she had to finish ironing first. When I think back to the happiest moments of my childhood, I am always alone in my room, dreaming up something creative and listening to music, by myself where I am always ok and not wrong or in the way.
I am curious ( for obvious reasons) there are some very relatable things you mentioned. So I am curious You didn't mention your father and I'm curious if he was aware and in fact must have been impacted. Also, by your mother's OCD it sounds like I'm just kind of curious if any other family members noticed what was going on and I guess times have changed and now that people are more alert to these kinds of things
What a capture, thank you! Your words kept me engaged and sad to the end.
It makes me wonder about that strong post-war generation of women proving their worth. My mother was a weather operator stationed in northern Canada. She became a stay-at-home-mom for three, very Victorian and distant, who made me hot lunches during my school years and jumped up to make me tea in my 60s. But I too wished for a more loving mom, one who would stroke my cheek at night and say “good night, darling”, like in the movies.
She didn’t work but she disappeared into reading five books a week, all non-fiction as a badge of honour. We donated a reading bench to her library for her 100th. She was domestically well suited as a parent but not emotionally. At 102 she’s still in charge of logistics, with maybe just slightly softened corners for her kids.
What’s most believable is “outside creative”. You were as a child and still are.
Have you read “The Drama of the Gifted Child”?
You were trapped. Just as I was. In my memoir “Men as Friends” I had to begin with a chapter about my father. Hardly a friend—unless you’re the friend of a tyrant.
And your mother. A gift to the world’s children. No gift to you.
This is the most continuous narrative you’ve posted. It’s a story told from end to beginning to now but without the truck. It’s deeply sad but make me happy—for you. In this moment.
Titles can be very misleading. I read a book by a famous scientist entitled “Avoid Boring People”. Reading it I realized that he used “boring” as an adjective rather than as a verb. He should have listened to greater self.
Well-written and deeply relatable. Especially this line: “My father spoke to me, though rarely, as if we had never met. An awkward impersonal courtesy.” And then I held his hand while he was dying.
I must tell you that I saw a bit of myself in what you wrote. I was a hospice nurse for years. And I think my daughter actually felt the way you felt. I saw the worst of the worst so her “bad days” didn’t seem so bad to me. I didn’t see her pain. She seldom talked about it. So your post hit me like a ton of bricks. I’m so grateful I read this today. She’s a young adult and struggling right now. So this was a God send to me. And I thank you so much. Your words helped me so much.
Painful and outstanding. We all have different lives but I related so deeply to the author's experience of the disconnected, unhappy family and having no place in it because of the unspoken, or the dead, or the long-ago choices. Very relatable to my own experience. Thank goodness we got opportunities to grow into our own people.
Deeply grateful for your words. Thank you.
This text brought me to tears. My mother, too, spent her entire life working exhausting shifts caring for oncological patients—giving all of her light and energy to saving others, leaving our home in a quiet, cold shadow. From the age of nine, I would take a public bus home alone, eat cold meals because I wasn't allowed to touch matches, and buy the evening bread, waiting for everyone to arrive. I used to sit on my parents' bed, eating not just food but also everything that came from that square glowing TV screen.
Today, she quietly reproaches me for not connecting with her. Your words beautifully and painfully validate the lonely geometry of being a child left in the margins of a mother’s heavy, noble work. Thank you for this, Judith. Thank you for sharing Sari.
Thank you. I am grateful for your words, and deeply grateful to Sari, too.
Goodness. I was drawn in from the first and couldn't stop reading.
She’s such a talented writer.
Deeply grateful to you. And honored by your words.
You're welcome!
Indeed!
Deeply grateful to you and for you. Thank you.
So sad. I hope you have a very different, and loving family of your own now.
So powerful! And I related enormously. I too was an only child raised by parents who were otherwise engaged (to be polite) & who were “affected” (to be polite) by the same “generational trauma” (to be polite). Thank you for putting this experience into words.
Thank you for sharing your life and your words. Deep bow.
Maybe you should write a less polite piece about this. I wrote a polite one, but maybe it needs something more.
“I grew up in a house of silent strangers.” How relatable that is for so many of us. Lonely from birth. My own mother did not work but busied herself with cleaning obsessively. Physical needs were met, but not emotional. Other mothers would meet their kids to get off the bus in the rain, I had to walk halfway home in the rain by myself before my mother‘s car finally appeared, no doubt because she had to finish ironing first. When I think back to the happiest moments of my childhood, I am always alone in my room, dreaming up something creative and listening to music, by myself where I am always ok and not wrong or in the way.
Deeply grateful for your words. Thank you.
I am curious ( for obvious reasons) there are some very relatable things you mentioned. So I am curious You didn't mention your father and I'm curious if he was aware and in fact must have been impacted. Also, by your mother's OCD it sounds like I'm just kind of curious if any other family members noticed what was going on and I guess times have changed and now that people are more alert to these kinds of things
He loved having somebody cook and clean for him nonstop. He didn’t have to lift a finger.
What a capture, thank you! Your words kept me engaged and sad to the end.
It makes me wonder about that strong post-war generation of women proving their worth. My mother was a weather operator stationed in northern Canada. She became a stay-at-home-mom for three, very Victorian and distant, who made me hot lunches during my school years and jumped up to make me tea in my 60s. But I too wished for a more loving mom, one who would stroke my cheek at night and say “good night, darling”, like in the movies.
She didn’t work but she disappeared into reading five books a week, all non-fiction as a badge of honour. We donated a reading bench to her library for her 100th. She was domestically well suited as a parent but not emotionally. At 102 she’s still in charge of logistics, with maybe just slightly softened corners for her kids.
Thank you for sharing your life and for sharing your words. Deep bow.
What’s most believable is “outside creative”. You were as a child and still are.
Have you read “The Drama of the Gifted Child”?
You were trapped. Just as I was. In my memoir “Men as Friends” I had to begin with a chapter about my father. Hardly a friend—unless you’re the friend of a tyrant.
And your mother. A gift to the world’s children. No gift to you.
This is the most continuous narrative you’ve posted. It’s a story told from end to beginning to now but without the truck. It’s deeply sad but make me happy—for you. In this moment.
Goodonya mate.
Always grateful for your words. FYI, it is more continuous because on my own stack, each piece is less than 2 minutes long.
Thank you. I so enjoy the synaptic leaps in your blog though I know they come from a springboard of pain. I get that too.
But sometimes I long for a solid story. Meat and potatoes rather than the quinoa veggie bowl. It’s nice to see that both are on the menu. Thanks.
I've read DRAMA OF THE GIFTED CHILD - a couple of years before Alice Miller died
[I first learnt of that book in the early 2000s and I truly thought it was about gifted kids - but then I realised the dynamic was the DRAMA].
Titles can be very misleading. I read a book by a famous scientist entitled “Avoid Boring People”. Reading it I realized that he used “boring” as an adjective rather than as a verb. He should have listened to greater self.
Listening to self is hard enough, Irwin.
Listening to GREATER self?
And I remember these insects which are called bores/borers.
One of them is getting into the trees of various Australian capital cities on the east coast and the one of the west coast.
As for the title of THIS essay:
I thought it was going to be all about Virginia Woolf's "biography" [or "barkography" as I call it] of a dog she loved [Roger Fry's dog] called FLUSH.
THEN I REALISE THAT FLUSH IS AN IMPERATIVE THAT OUR AUTHOR'S FATHER USED.
I’m so confused. 🙄
I’m so confused. 😳
Powerful writing. Thank you for sharing.
Deeply grateful for your words
Well-written and deeply relatable. Especially this line: “My father spoke to me, though rarely, as if we had never met. An awkward impersonal courtesy.” And then I held his hand while he was dying.
Thank you. I am honored by your note.
OMG! This is marvelous. I posted it on Facebook and am now going back to add "Must read!" Thanks, Sari and Judith!
Deeply thankful to you. And honored by your words.
Thank you for sharing it, Elaine!
Thank you for reposting my work. Deep bow.
This was so sad, Judith. Makes me want to hug the child that you were.
Ok this one hit hard. I had to read it twice. So good.
I am honored by your support. Thank you.
I must tell you that I saw a bit of myself in what you wrote. I was a hospice nurse for years. And I think my daughter actually felt the way you felt. I saw the worst of the worst so her “bad days” didn’t seem so bad to me. I didn’t see her pain. She seldom talked about it. So your post hit me like a ton of bricks. I’m so grateful I read this today. She’s a young adult and struggling right now. So this was a God send to me. And I thank you so much. Your words helped me so much.
Wow, such a powerful essay. Refreshingly honest....had me captivated from the get-go. Thank you.
Thank you for your readership and for your words.
I'm a new fan of yours now!
I'm deeply grateful for your words.
I subscribe to Weiss's substack. It is extraordinary. She is extraordinary. Subscribe to it! You will see life in a new way.
Thank you for your words and your support.
Painful and outstanding. We all have different lives but I related so deeply to the author's experience of the disconnected, unhappy family and having no place in it because of the unspoken, or the dead, or the long-ago choices. Very relatable to my own experience. Thank goodness we got opportunities to grow into our own people.
Deeply grateful for your words. And, of course, to Sari and for Sari, too.
A gifted writer makes you feel.