A report was recently published by British plastic surgeon Dr. Julian De Silva asserting that adult children in their thirties begin to transition into the inherent traits and behaviors of their parents. I want to believe this is nonsense. But, my mother lives with me and is a constant reminder that whenever it occurs (painfully and gradually for many) the moment arrives when you realize that you couldn’t stop mimicking your mother or father if you tried. The realization of this phenomenon can be pleasant if you like your parents. But, for those whose parents are abusive either physically or emotionally, or who are simply rigid unyielding and unkind, seeing them in yourself can truly hurt. It happens.
My mother is an alcoholic. I have seen her succumb to her addictive passions – removing her panties while dancing on a table, scolding my brother and I for “letting” the dog shit on the floor in our house and making us pick up the weeks-old dried feces while she watched. She brought me to her card-table gambling outings and left me with other children where I saw first-hand a young, teenage girl willingly masturbate to the point of climax while we watched and learned. One time, my father showed up unannounced, knocked my mother off a chair and made her leave. Thankfully, I either was not present or don’t remember this incident which she divulged to me after decades of her own sobriety.
It didn’t take too long before I vowed that I would never let alcoholism be one of the behaviors I shared with my mom.
When I tell people that my mother lives with me the response is predictable. Their eyes react first, followed by words full of sympathy.
“God bless you.”
“How’s that working?”
“Why?”
One person said, “If my mother lived with me, I’d end up killing myself or her.”
It feels good to buck the American tradition of giving your elderly family members over to strangers for care. Though as I struggle with my own health, complicated by Multiple Sclerosis, the idea still brews in my mind. It’s simply not easy to watch a semblance of your future self presently. When I was prescribed a monthly drug infusion protocol for MS, I didn’t want it. Twelve times a year is too often for me to be reminded of my impending demise. Observing other persons in various stages of the disease was a semblance of my future self I refused to bear. Some things are better left to imagination.