Someone recently introduced me to a woman who, upon learning where I’m from, exclaimed, “I love your country! May I give you a hug?” I hesitated for a fraction of a second before accepting.
In retrospect, I realized that my hesitation had nothing to do with the unusual nature of the request.
This woman doesn’t know me, and she wants to hug me? She isn’t physically repulsed by me?
After this revelation, I began to take note of those feelings.
At work, a colleague supports my ankle to symbolically stabilize me on a ladder, and I can’t help saying, “Thanks a lot. I’m okay now, you can let go.” I feared that this contact— touching my ankle—would repel her.
Another time, a new friend, older than me, suggests that I try on one of her wool-lined gloves. I waver before slipping it on.
On the subway ride home that winter evening, I ponder my instinctive reluctance and root out its essence. She hasn’t spotted my flaws yet, but my hand in her glove will betray me.
I’m overcome with intense emotion: she wasn’t disgusted by me. My eyes fill with tears of relief and gratitude.
It also occurs with my husband. When he sleeps later than me, he sometimes rolls over to my side of the bed and uses my pillow. That always sends a ripple of joy through my soul. Something in the very heart of me is reassured.
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| a ripple of joy through my soul |
And yet... it’s as if a vile spring were welling up inside me, oozing tangible evil and spitefulness.
My mind was tainted by the very person who brought me into this world. From earliest childhood, I was berated for any number of faults. When I tried to improve, she accused me of the opposite failing. I know now that this tactic has a name: the double bind. If I laughed, I was vulgar and attention-seeking.
If I acted with restraint, she said that people complained about how boring I was.
According to her, even my intentions were bad. For instance, if I greeted an elderly lady in the neighborhood, my mother would guilt me afterward: I had taken an aggressive tone, or I had been
trying to soft-soap her. I thought that she read my conscience better than me, since she could sense noxious motives in my good behavior that were not apparent to me.
I was forced to write letters detailing what I had done wrong. They had to be convincing; I needed to persuade her of my flaws, of my malicious objectives, even if it meant inventing further examples to show her that I had understood, and that she was right. I also had to thank her for being so devoted to
me that she was willing to confront me for my own sake. And if the letter didn’t suit her, I had to rewrite it. By then I would be crying, and she’d say, “Good. The wickedness is coming out.”
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