The Unexpected Gift of My Freudian Slip
By Judith Rusky Rabinor Ph.D.
Elegantly dressed in a long black wool coat with a lush fur collar, Ella swept into my office that windy November morning, “I’ve come to a decision,” she said. “I’m leaving Al when Jeremy goes to college next September. I’m getting divorced.”
You can read the full article here.
Much gratitude to Lilith Magazine and especially to Ilana Kramer, who so astutely reviewed The Girl in the Red Boots: Making Peace with My Mother. Ilana’s review highlights one of the most important themes of the book: the devastating impact of misattunement. So often I hear people speak about relationship ruptures and failures which occur not due to monstrous behaviors, but to the subtle trauma of misattunement.
What is misattunement? Simply speaking, misattunement is being out of sync with another person’s needs, feelings and thoughts. Misattunement occurs between parents and children, partners, siblings and even between friends.
Attunement is considered a critical component of bonding, especially important to parent-child bonding during infancy and early childhood. Even as adults, our need for attunement is a crucial part of feeling connected to one another. Attunement is the subtle process of letting another person feel that you are aware their needs and feelings by responding in a timely, appropriate manner.
Many people confuse attunement with attachment. Both are important: attachment makes a child feel safe, while attunement makes a child feel valued. Attachment is more about holding, protection and taking care of another on a physical level. Attunement is mostly non‐verbal: that special look of love, tone of voice: how you speak (not just what you say). Genuine attunement is about being feeling seen and known by another.
You can read Ilana’s full review here.
“Writing helps me think,” is another favorite quote I find myself repeating, this one from Dani Shapiro. I have learned so much about what I cherish about being a psychotherapy in writing A Starving Madness: Tales of Hunger Hope and Healing in Psychotherapy Gurze Books, 2002 about the complexity of parenting after divorce, including my own, (in Befriending Your Ex After Divorce: Making Life Better for You, Your Kids and Yes Your Ex New Harbinger Press, 2012 and about the importance of acknowledging ambivalence and the complications of all relationships in my latest book, The Girl in the Red Boots: Making Peace with My Mother, She Writes Press 2021.
Recently I stumbled across the film Nocturnal Animals. A horrifying psychological drama about how the values we inherit shape our lives. When the film ended, I was left thinking about my own life. I kept replaying a short, provocative conversation between a perfectly made up and impeccably coiffed mother, played by Laura Linney and her idealistic daughter.
Over a martini lunch at an upscale restaurant, Linney warns Amy Adams, her newly engaged daughter not to marry the man she loves.
“He is just a writer, not very talented and will undoubtedly come to nothing much,” mother warns daughter. “In a few short years you will tire of him and break his heart.”
Amy Adams is enraged. “I’m not you, mom,” she tells her mother. “I am me and I want something different for my life—I don’t want the life you’ve created.”
“All women,” says Linney, turning to her daughter, “turn into their mothers.”
The daughter protests, insisting she shares none of her mother’s shallow, materialistic values.
Dryly, Linney warns her, “Just you wait.”
As the film unfolds the mother turns out to be correct: within a few short years, Amy Adams abandons her writer-husband in search of a more up-scale life and creates unimaginable chaos in both their lives,
As I thought about this compelling film, I was drawn back to examining my own relationship with my mother. As a young woman growing up, I expected my life to unfold totally different from hers, yet, now she is gone and I realize just how much of my mother’s essence I have absorbed.
What about you?
Do you ever notice — or fear you are turning into your mother even though you may have been determined to carve out your own identity?
If so, the key here is to recognize that our primary caregivers create a strong influence on us, and if your mom was your primary caregiver, there may be some parts of her you mimic, like it or not. But the good news is, with self-reflection you open the possibility of change.
Take a moment and think about the parts of your mother you emulate and would like to embrace. Now think about the parts or her you would like to avoid replicating. Remember to be compassionate to yourself—and your mother, who may have bequeathed you her strengths, her frailties and some of each.
Here are some statements that can help you in your self-assessment. I hope some of these lines bring a smile to your face:
Don’t panic if you realize you have picked up more than you realize from your mom. You may want to congratulate her for the strengths you inherited. And if you are panicked by some of what you have learned: the first step in changing anything is recognizing what is—and making a commitment to change. If this article prompted any important reflections for you— write me!
Last Friday I gave another presentation for The Renfrew Center Foundation on Zoom: Making Peace with You r Mother, Rewriting Your Story to 100 people on Zoom call. In talking about the mother-daughter relationship, I am amazed how many women still yearn to connect to their mothers. This does not surprise me. My latest book, The Girl with the Red Boots: Making Peace with My Mother (2021) was about my journey. Often, I am asked why I wrote this book.
The answer:
After my mother passed away in 2011, my own descent into grief surprised me. I was awed to realize how much I loved my flawed, imperfect mother, deeply and dearly. In fielding questions from participants in my workshop last week, I was struck with how often my own journey was replicated my workshop attendees. What’s important to stress here, is that making peace is not the same as forgiving: making peace is to reach a level acceptance. As Paula Caplan reminds us in Don’t Blame Mother, “We are taught to believe that pent up anger is a danger; the real danger is pent up love.”
Connect with me on your favorite social media site:
Website: https://judithruskayrabinorphd.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DrJudyRabinor
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/drjudyrabinor/
Twitter: @DrJudyRabinor
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3oA7r3N
The Girl in the Red Boots: Making Peace with My Mother is not only about mothers, it’s about all of us, sons and daughters making peace with our parents– fathers as well as mothers. In speaking with readers I am continually reminded that the yearning to make peace with our parents is universal. I receive so many questions and sorrowful observations from people who feel stuck:
• My mother was ice-cold
• My mother preferred my brothers
• My mother was clearly abusive
• I love my mother but…
Often a few simple questions help people reflect on their parents:
• I wonder where your mother learned to be so cold?
• I wonder why your mother preferred boys?
• I wonder who taught your mother to be abusive?
Questions like these often ignite reflections on how our parents came to be the people they were and in doing so, allows us to gain new awarenesses.
Making peace with a parent is possible for all of us, even when a parent is unwilling to change or was unable to understand your hurt. Making peace is an internal process: it has nothing to do with anyone else changing. When we dig down deep, it is possible to understand how our parents became who they were.
What’s critical is developing self-compassion. It is not necessary to forgive a parent, but in understanding them, we often develop compassion for them– and ourselves as well. I personally learned so much while writing my book so I urge you to consider joining one my of my writing classes—for further information check events on this website or email me at jrrabinor@gmail.com
Once upon a time, there was a beautiful but dilapidated zoo in a large metropolitan city. It was in a state of despair, in dire need of renovation. The cages were rusted, the habitats for each species were too small. Animal advocates rallied for help.
Eventually, one of the wealthiest philanthropist families in the city decided to contribute the necessary funds needed for reconstruction. To complete the renovation, all the animals — tigers, lions, monkeys, and elephants — would have to be taken out of their habitats and housed in newly constructed, small cages.
Construction of the new zoo began and, slowly but surely, it was completed and a grand opening took place. The animals were introduced to their new habitats — way more spacious than their previous homes. Each cage was brought into its new space as the animals were carefully integrated into their new habitat. Slowly, each section of the zoo opened and everything began moving along.
But there was one exception — Charlie — a young tiger who was born in the cage. The four walls of steel were all he had ever known.
When the tiger cage was placed in its new habitat and the gates were sprung open, the three adult tigers leaped out — they energetically jumped over the bubbling streams and delighted to have rocks to climb on.
Charlie, though, cowered in fear of his new environment. Despite the others’ eagerness to explore their new small world, he remained in his cage, staring out past the gates. There he sat for days on end, unwilling to venture past the four walls of the cage.
The zookeepers — who were talented at dealing with animals — were mystified. How could they coax Charlie out into the new habitat?
They tried everything — first, they placed his food and water at a distance. Charlie ignored whatever was outside the immediate surroundings of his cage. Although he was eventually able to venture out to eat and drink, his discomfort with the new habitat was obvious — he would immediately retreat. It was clear that his home remained in the cage.
The zookeepers tried everything, but eventually, they made peace with Charlie — it was clear he was content to stay where he was. Finally, they gave up.
Of course, this story has an obvious lesson: We develop enduring patterns when we are young — and changing them sometimes feels impossible. Think about any habits you may have developed that no longer serve you.
(Article originally published in Perspectives: A Professional Journal of The Renfrew Center Foundation, 2019 Edition)
“What on earth went on in your group tonight?” my husband asks.
We are having dinner and he is referring to my binge-eating group that’s met for sixteen years on Tuesday nights at 5:30 pm. “It sounded like you were having a hilarious time,” he said. “What was so funny?”
My office is in our Manhattan apartment and, although two closed doors separate my therapy office from our living space, his curiosity was piqued by what he described as “raucous laughter.” He was correct. Notwithstanding the fact that the group had initially coalesced that evening around a dark and dreary theme, we had ended a somber group with everyone laughing. It was a humorous quip I made that flipped the mood.
The therapeutic use of humor is not a new idea. Sigmund Freud saw humor as a means of expressing unconscious desires and fears. Viktor Frankel, a holocaust survivor, suggested that humor has the capacity to lift the human experience above suffering. An old supervisor of mine recommended I help clients see their life through the eyes of a cartoon character to bring levity to life’s hardships.
So join me in my office as we examine the healing power of humor.
Back in 2002 when our binge-eating group began, we focused, for the most part, on over-eating. What were the emotional issues that triggered binge eating? As members became less symptomatic and developed deeper levels of self-awareness, trust and intimacy, triggers and self-regulation strategies held less of a center stage.
This group session had begun with Marie, age 75, talking about her husband Jack’s deteriorating health. Jack, diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease had suffered a terrible fall. A broken shoulder and long rehab followed his hospitalization. Marie was already worn out. Now, he faced Alzheimer’s. “How are you managing as a caregiver?” I asked Marie, shifting the focus from Jack back to her. She shook her long blond hair. “Often I’m kind and gentle but sometimes, when I’ve had it, I become a bitch—or even worse— a witch.”
Group members offered words of empathy: care-taking family members was a familiar theme. Three of the six people present that Tuesday evening had lost parents during the sixteen years we had met and one had a chronically ill spouse. I had shared some of my own trials as a caregiver to my mother, who had struggled with Parkinson’s disease for a decade before her death, six years prior to the present meeting.
Next, Eloise, a tall brunette also in her mid-seventies, gave an update on her cancer treatment. She was drained and exhausted from the chemo. Thankfully she wasn’t binging. Cancer was another topic familiar to the group. Sam, a 67- year-old beloved group member had died a decade earlier from metastasized lung cancer.
76-year-old Ben spoke next about the retirement package he’d been offered by his accounting firm. “The package isn’t bad but retirement? I don’t have a lot of hobbies, except over-eating,” he said. The group laughed. “Really, work has consumed me for decades. I’m going to have to revamp my life,” he said grimly.
“Being useless has never been my M.O.” He sighed. “Now what?”
Minutes before the group was to end, Marie spoke up again. “I don’t know what I’d do without you guys. You are all dear to me, and our group is so special.” Her remark triggered others to articulate the support they got from one another.
“Sixteen years… a lot of history,” I commented after listening to the others. The group had journeyed from being composed of mostly 50-year-olds to, now, a group mainly of 70-somethings. Four of the six members present had been in the group since our first meeting sixteen years earlier. “We are moving through life together,” I added.
“I’m 85! —The oldest one here,” said Bonnie. “I think I’m doing pretty well except— I am continually losing names. I run into people I’ve known for years and I remember them, but can’t always remember their names! My memory is fading and it’s scary!” Everyone began speaking at once, sharing memory loss moments- cell phones, eyeglasses, keys, birthdays of loved ones, library books. The group was abuzz.
“This happens to me, too! And I’m only 76!”
“Me too and I’m not even 70”!
“Age is just a number. 85 are the new 65.” More laughter.
Beth, the youngest person in the group spoke up. “Seriously, I hope my mind is like yours when I’m 85,” she told Bonnie. “How many 85-year-olds can drive 300 miles” Ben said, jumping in and referencing Bonnie’s lengthy weekend drives to her daughter’s Vermont home. More supportive endorsements of how well Bonnie was aging followed:
“And you still do you own taxes!”
“You are my role model!”
Bonnie persisted. “You are all so kind, but truly, I hate losing names. It’s embarrassing!” she paused. “And I’m terrified: what’s happening to my mind?”
Then the group was silent.
I paused. Took a deep breath. Then, I gave myself permission to follow my spontaneous urge.
With a straight face, I turned to Bonnie. Then I gazed at the group members, slowly. I made eye contact with everyone. “I’m going to make a promise,” I said seriously. “It’s a commitment. If we are all still here and still meeting ten years from now, I’ll supply the name tags so none of us will be embarrassed when we can’t remember each other’s names.”
Peals of laughter broke out. Of course, I laughed too. When the laughter died down, I said: “What’s in a name, anyway? Maybe it won’t even matter if we remember each other’s names—as long as we can remember each other’s stories. After all, it’s our stories that bind us together.”
Writing this article has offered me the opportunity to reflect on the role of humor in our group. Most of us are aware that laughter releases endorphins, the feel good hormone which reduces tension and stress. Joking with patients and allowing them to feel a kinship can offer a remedy to long-standing frustration, pain and isolation, the issues most people with eating disorders struggle with. Our work is serious, but when we, as therapists, are able to laugh at ourselves and accept the absurdities and unknowable aspect of life, we offer our clients a unique gift.
My humorous quip had its positives: it was certainly a bonding moment. As a group leader, I generally disclose my feelings about what happens in the group, yet, I rarely disclose my personal experiences outside the group. This quip was an unusual “me, too” moment. It leveled the playing field. “Life is tough, aging is hard and unpredictable, and we are all in this together” was my message.
Second, I communicated that it’s ok to verbalize our unknown fears, i.e., what will I be like when I’m a decade older? I normalized the fear of aging.
Third, I communicated that, although aging will inevitably take its toll, we can survive, and thrive. My message was “We will adapt. I will be here for you. At least I will try. I am an anchor.”
In writing this article, I was pushed to question my own motivation. Why did I spontaneously come up with a funny line at the moment I did? What would have happened had I stayed with Bonnie’s concern about memory loss? Did she or others feel dismissed? Upstaged? Did I abandon Bonnie’s concern because the topic personally scares me? Perhaps I had an unconscious need to step away from the dread of deterioration, frailty and uselessness—the topics raised.
As my own questions multiplied I noticed a pit in my stomach, for aging is a topic rarely off my radar. My inbox too often carries the subject line “sad news” and, frequently, I find myself mourning a deceased friend or colleague, perhaps even younger than I am. Conversations with friends are increasingly filled with medical concerns. One good friend typically ends phone conversations with the line, “Don’t buy green bananas.” Another has incorporated a telling phrase as part of her email signature, “The road ahead is shorter than the road behind.” On a more personal note, my husband has been coping with a painful backache and we have been educated by innumerable medical experts to face the truth: back pain, like an assortment of other medical maladies, is increasingly prevalent and predictable as we age. Acceptance is key.
I wondered: did I make a humorous remark as a way of avoiding my own feelings of grief, anxiety and frustration around aging? Was my quip a mistake?
Fortunately in life and in therapy, mistakes are always opportunities for exploration and repair.
The following group session offered me an easy segue for investigation. Marie had arrived wearing a heart monitor. A “scary incident” had sent her to her cardiologist. Once again, we were plunged into the world of aging anxieties.
I had an opening and I took it.
I asked if there was more that needed to be said about Bonnie’s concern with memory loss. When no one spoke up, I made a confession: I might have unconsciously sidestepped this daunting topic. While no one admitted to feeling slighted or put off, I was glad to have planted a seed: therapists, as well as patients, often have a hard time sitting with what is truly painful and frightening.
Until recently, I hadn’t spent much time thinking about the value of humor in healing. Writing this article pushed me to think about my work through a new lens. One principle that has guided my work forever is a quote from Psalms, “Joy shared, twice the gain, sorrow shared, half the pain”. Humor is a pathway into pain. It allows us to share it all. A joke well told can lighten the load, facilitate bonding and humanize us as therapists. It can communicate, as Sullivan taught, “We are all simply human.”
(Article originally published in Perspectives: A Professional Journal of The Renfrew Center Foundation, 2019 Edition)
I applaud Bryan Borzykowski’s recent (12/6/12) New York Times article, “When Couples Divorce But Still Run a Business Together.” The lessons learned by his co-partners made me reflect on one of the most important investments divorced people face: the business of co-parenting their children after divorce.
Borzykowski interviewed divorced couples who own and successfully run a law practice, an accounting firm, and a $45 million snack company. For many of these couples, learning how to co-partner in a business venture has yielded enormous financial rewards. The ex-spouses agreed that running a business together requires a commitment to compassion, mutual respect, getting professional help when emotional conflicts become too sticky to handle, and creating and sticking to agreements and ground rules
While running a professional business together after divorce isn’t easy, it’s probably no more difficult than running the business of family. Those newly divorced who back away from co-parenting, fearful that cooperative co-parenting with an ex may be too emotionally fraught might find it easier to think of themselves as business partners. Managing schedules, finances and keeping one’s eye on the big picture are features that are at the heart of both endeavors. Co-parenting after divorce shares many of the same challenges as running a small business; what’s more, the emotionally lucrative rewards surpass the financial rewards of a Fortune 500 company.
Like parents with children, the divorced business partners had all begun their professional businesses together while married and managed to continue their commitments after the divorce. They advised sitting down together to tell their employees about an impending divorce and to reassure that jobs will remain secure.
Children, too, need to know about a divorce ahead of time and to be reassured that they remain secure in their parents’ love.
Funny, that is precisely what I advise my divorcing or divorced clients to do if they wish to co-parent successfully.
The divorced co-owners in Borzykowski’s article say it takes two years before the new relationship becomes easier. That’s also my experience in counseling families in the art of co-parenting. And when you think about it, two years isn’t such a long time for a high quality investment.
