The Critical Parent, And How To Shut Them Up: Podcast- Waking From The Fire, Ep 9
Dear Friend,
Ever doubt yourself? Ever not feel smart enough, or pretty enough, or just plain good enough? Want to know why? Listen as Peter shares how a critical inner parent can hijack our confidence, drain our motivation, make us question everything we say and do, and how to finally quiet that voice, now, on Waking From The Fire.
#podcast #criticalparent #childhoodtrauma #happiness #healing #confidence #selfdoubt #lowselfworth #motivation #speaker #author #healthcoach #lifecoach #therapy #12stepprograms #forgiving #selflove #selfcompassion #anxiety #stress
Watch/Listen to the podcast, then read below, and leave me a message or comment. I love hearing from you.
Here are some steps and resources that may help you.
Find a good therapist (They’re not all created equal. If there’s been family trauma/dysfunction in your life, ask if they have expertise in that area. Frank was my 5th, and best therapist)
Look for a 12-step program if that makes sense for you. I joined Adult Children of Alcoholics & Dysfunctional Families. It saved my life.
Ask like minded family & friends for help. Not the friends & family that will judge, but the ones who understand what it is to struggle
Never give up. I was ready to. Thank God I didn’t. My relationships, especially with my children, have never been stronger.
If it’s right for you, I’d like to work with you- Life & Health Coaching
Thanks for reading/listening/watching. If what you heard/read resonated with you, send me an email or leave a comment. I love hearing from you.
Peter
Memoir Excerpt
Waking From the Fire
Names, Flames, & A Desire For Fame
An Inspirational Memoir
Excerpt from Chapter 7 Hiding Places
…My mother pays for our groceries with food stamps at the Grand Union on Saturdays, so I imagine my father’s new van is a big deal. It’s sky blue, shiny, and in my memory, still naked. Soon he’ll hire an artist wearing a sailors cap, situate him on a stool in the neighbors backyard, and using his mahl stick to steady his hand, slowly paint my father’s name, phone number, and services as a house painter, paper hanger, and so on, on every side. As kids, we’re mesmerized with the artist’s long, precise strokes. With just enough paint on his fat brush, he forms a substantial letter and ends with a flare by the flick of his wrist. He works late into the hot day. When we kids get bored, we tackle each other on the grass amidst the lightning bugs, then come back for more hypnotication. I admire the work for years, even though the sight of the van makes me feel that feeling inside.
When my father rounds the corner and beeps repeatedly, the three of us, my brother, sister, and me, run up to his van now parked at the curb and stand at attention, oldest to youngest. My father leans over to the passenger side, cranks the window down, and says, “Get your mother and get in. We’re going for a ride.” When she comes out of the house, I pull at her skirt and whisper in Greek, “Prepo na pou sto merous,” [I have to go to the bathroom].” Because of this writing, for the first time I realize I won’t speak directly to my father. Thinking about it, I imagine it irritates him, my “shyness.” He’s big, and loud, and strong, and powerful. I’m not.
My petite mother is still taller than us back then. By junior high all three of her children will tower over her four foot, nine inch, frame. My brother and I each max out at six-feet, four-inches, and my sister is not far below at five-feet, eleven-inches. Ever since, people comment, “That’s your mother? Your father must be tall,” causing me to look down awkwardly.
Standing next to my mother, my hand in hers, head in her skirt, she tells him I have to go to the bathroom. He yells in Greek, “O’hee!“ [No!] “Get in the van. He’ll go when we get back!”
I quietly plead with her. She begs him, “Please, let him go Lefteris,” “To pedi prepi na pie” [The child has to go.]
He warns, “Gammo to Panagia sou, [Fuck your Virgin Mary] (my name). Get in.”
My mother looks down at me, “You’d better get in,” her face saying, I’m sorry I can’t help you, while he becomes more agitated, yelling, “Ela,” [Come on!]
I climb into the back and sit on the new, bare metal floor behind the passenger seat, near the sliding door. I recall thinking I should sit next to the door in case I have to get out quickly. As he drives around town, his voice is more excited than usual. I think he’s talking about his new van, but I can’t hear all his words because there’s a pounding in my ears and chest. I’ve had this feeling before.
Because my father curses his God, I pray to my mother’s, please. no, but can't hold it any longer. I feel my eyes fill, then, the warm liquid running down my leg, into my sock, sneaker, and eventually pooling in the sliding door step of my father’s brand new van. I feel relief, then cold, then something else. Tears fall down my cheeks. I know what awaits me, but I won’t make a sound.
Sitting there, wet, cold, I can see him sitting in the driver’s seat, his distance from me his long arm’s reach away. His thick silver 70’s sunglasses hug his handsome profile. Wide sideburns run down his face toward thick shoulders leading to tanned forearms and strong hands. His long powerful legs disappear under the dashboard that when standing raise him to the height of a giant to a kid.
I hear his commanding voice, but not what it’s saying. I know from past experiences when he finds out what I’ve done to his new van, he’ll transform. My mother’s sitting next to me, my baby sister in her lap. Seeing my eyes full she mouths, “Shhh,” looks, sees my pants, then the puddle. She has the same look on her face I must have on mine. With nowhere to go, I sit in my urine as he drives by familiar landmarks I wish I could escape to. As we get closer to, then turn down our block, the pounding in my ears and chest gets louder, making it hard to hear or see.
When we get home, my father will teach me the lesson he said I deserved, while reminding me of everything that’s wrong with me. Standing under him on the sidewalk, he grits his teeth, raises his hand up and back, and swears, “Gammo ti Panagia sou,” [Fuck your Virgin Mary]. I close my eyes, raise my shoulders, and drop my head between them to brace for the impact. When it lands, there’s a burning sting, causing my vision to go white for a few seconds, and a high pitched ringing in my ear on the side where his hand landed, more like fragile glass breaking than a bell being rung. My head is at the height of his belt, so it won’t take more than one of these to cause my knees to buckle, sending me to the ground. Kneeling there, I cover myself with my arms, and wait.
When it’s over, I’ll hate myself for disappointing my father. I’ll agree with what he said, that I’m “stupid,” because I peed all over his brand new van. Years later, Frank, my therapist, will explain, “Because there’s no one there to tell you otherwise, and because you want to be a good son, you’ll agree with your father’s lessons. That’ll happen throughout your childhood until he dies, and then, unfortunately, follow you into adulthood.”
Thanks for reading. If what you heard/read resonated with you, send me an email or leave a comment. I love hearing from you.
All My Best,
Peter