Hatefulness as a Gift of Love Part I

Lorna Smith Benjamin, a well-respected researcher on the relationship between interpersonal psychology and personality disorders, has a saying that “Every Psychopathology is a Gift of love.”  In other words, she believes people develop maladaptive traits because, as she explains on her website:

“… problem patterns…are the result of one or more of three copy processes started in relation to an important early caregiver…Those are (1) Be like him/her (identification); (2) act as if he/she is still around and in charge (recapitulation); ( 3) treat yourself as he/she did (introjection). Sometimes the copying is in negative image (e.g., be the opposite)…The purpose of the copying is to seek reconciliation, approval, love of the internalized representation of that original object (person). People unwittingly act accordingly to the "rules" laid down by these early relationships and even when they believe they hate the original copy person. Every psychopathology is a gift of love.”

If you're looking for a therapist, find one who knows this stuff

[Some trivia for you: Dr. Benjamin started out as a student of Timothy Leary, way back when he was a respected academic interpersonal psychologist and before he went off the deep end as a hippie guru telling everyone to “turn on, tune in, and drop out.” Don't hold it against her].

Ellllllesssssdeee

That people may mistreat themselves because of loyalty to their kin group and a sense of altruism in that context seems to me to be due to a biological imperative (see my post on kin selection), albeit one that we can consciously choose to ignore.

This idea is understandably difficult for most people to wrap their heads around.  Self destructiveness as a sort of altruism?  (I explained some patterns associated with this phenomenon in my posts of 2/6/11 and 2/11/11).  The idea that the biological forces of kin selection may lead individuals to act in hateful and/or frustrating ways to other people for altruistic purposes within the kin group (although certainly not altruistic to outsiders) is even harder to swallow.  But the idea that individuals are willing to sacrifice their own children as a gift of love to the family system is the most difficult of all.

I think that the attraction of the Biblical story of Abraham nearly obeying a command from God to kill his own beloved son, not to mention the story of God being willing to sacrifice his only Son for the good of humanity, stems from the pervasiveness of this phenomenon within our species.  Certainly, the common willingness of parents to send their children off to war illustrates how powerful this human tendency is.  

The military in this country honors the mothers of fallen soldiers as “Gold Star Mothers.”  The government gives them a folded flag and a dead son or daughter, and usually they somehow consider it quite an honor.

That parents somehow still love their children even if they are acting out a hateful, nasty, and/or abusive family role is something my patients often have a great deal of trouble accepting, and understandably so.  In order to explain their parents strange hatefulness, which I also refer to in my post of July 6, 2010 as distancing behavior, they have usually come to the conclusion that their parents are heartless, evil, insane, or stupid. 

If I were in their shoes, I am absolutely certain I would have come to the exact same conclusion. Still, as they tell their stories to me in psychotherapy, I always hear of those rare times when their parents were not hateful but actually loving.  Sometimes such parents even will unexpectedly express their love directly, although often in a way which undermines their own credibility.  However, because of the total context of the relationship, these positive acts and statements are discounted.  Again, discounting such contradictory double messages is perfectly understandable.

Why would you believe the professions of love of anyone who generally tends to treat you like sh*t?  That would really be insane. Why should you believe them when there is so much evidence to the contrary?

And who knows if they are not doing those positive things for you on purpose to set you up once again for disappointment?  Letting you start to hope that they could finally be the parents you always wished you had, only to dash those hopes to pieces.  Like waiting for your estranged father to come and pick you up as he promised, when he has broken such promises time and time again.

Still, what does one make of a mother who, for the first time, admitted to her adult daughter that she had severely verbally abused the daughter when she was very young, but then told her not to bring it up again because she would deny ever having admitted it?  

And therapists tell patients whose parents do this crap that they have “trust issues” as if somehow that indicates that there is something wrong with them.  If such patients did not have trouble trusting people, then there would be something wrong with them.

I have been corresponding with two women whose mothers are described as having many traits that are suggestive of the diagnosis of borderline personality disorder.  While they both really want to believe that beneath all the horrible distancing behavior their mothers really did and do care about them, they of course find that the idea induces a lot of cognitive dissonance.  Again, I do not blame them one bit for thinking that I am just a little bit crazy for thinking so.

In part II of this post, I will describe some of the “maternal” behavior that one of them described to me, as well as translating some of her mother’s behavior and verbalizations into what I think is really being expressed covertly.

Art and Love Therapy for Evil Little Boys

Since our return from NH two weeks ago, my three boys have been on the verge of fratricide. At summer camp, they were all in separate cabins and left to torment only those in their own age bracket. And their counselors, poor scarred 18-year-olds who still probably wake up at night in a cold sweat.

But now they have turned on each other like wolves, guided only by my new 14-year-old babysitter who was left with no recourse but to lock them in the basement and blast the "Frozen" soundtrack at them from the stereo. I fully sanctioned the activity. When they finally broke free my eldest son snatched an empty Vodka bottle from the recycling bin and chased young Mordred (as they call her) down the street brandishing it at her. I am sure the neighbors have an even finer view of us than they did before!

The evil reached its pinnacle yesterday afternoon, when 1) Eldest Son hauled Middle Son across the driveway, leaving him with horrible asphalt burns 2) Littlest Son scratched Middle Son so viciously that 3) Middle Son kicked Littlest Son clear across the room and cracked his head into the record cabinet housing the turntable.

The babysitter had long been let off duty, and I hastened downstairs to the screams. The accusations flew fast and fierce.

"He hurted me worser than I did him so he should be punished badder!"

"I did NUFFINK."

"I did nothing; however, I am sure I shall be blamed as I always am, because this is the course of things."

That last speaker, age 10, then flung the TV remote at my head and, as it bounced off my skull, I shouted "GO UPSTAIRS!"

"You always punish ME and not THEM!" he shouted. "Just because I hit you in the head with something you punish ME! Is this fair? Oh, you are such a good mother!"

He was right. They all went into a big fat time-out while I fumed about what I would do to PUNISH them. For wasn't punishment the only acceptable solution? I fretted that I was a bad mom. I didn't know the least thing to do right now. What would serve justice for their naughtiness?

Then it came to me. I would kill the little buggers with kindness. I gathered them in the living room and proposed several options to make reparations. They were:

1. You will each write a heartfelt letter to both brothers expressing that you love them and WHY. The letters must be of a reasonable length and written to the best of your abilities.

This got feedback:

"I dunno how to spell!"
"This is the worstest!"
"Oh shoot me now."

2. You will perform a skit representing the theme of "Brotherly Love." The skit must be of reasonable quality. It may not include battle scenes or death.

This also got feedback:

"But skits without conflict suck."
"Can we have just one battle scene? It could, like, lead up to a scene in which we all hug?"
"Will you be filming it? Cause if so, NO."

3. You will parade down our street singing a song that I will quickly compose called, "I Love My Brothers and My Brothers Love Me."

Feedback:

"I will nevah evah do that."
"Option Three sucks."
"Shoot me now."

Middle Son was openly weeping at this point, and Eldest Son was thrashing about in chair rubbing at his eyes. Littlest Son was staring glumly into space.

So, all options voted down, I told them that they had to collaborate to devise Option Four themselves. And they had to do it without arguing and come to a polite and genial agreement amongst the three of them as to what Option Four would be. This was, of course, the secret behind Option Four. The devising of the option was the activity in itself. Whatever they cooked up would simply be bonus material.

I left the room and returned in about five minutes. During that time, they had all mutually consented to make gifts for each other. The gifts would be made out of clay. They were very keen to get started. There was no talk of screen time. They were, in fact, excited about their plan.

I got out a bucket of air-dry clay and put on some music and they made these. They aren't done yet; they still need to be painted and presented. But they check them throughout the day to see if they are completely dry yet, and Middle Son keeps asking when he can give his presents to his brothers.

A magnificent dragon.

Handmade necklaces.

Strange stubby things?

After the experiment was over we met in a circle for a group hug, during which the boys, unprompted, said things like:

"I love you, my brother."
"My brothers is the best!"
"Hugs and love! Hugs and love!"

We concluded it all with a "Go Team!" cheer, after which I solemnly reminded them that any of the previous options could easily be invoked at any time.

The next day we heard a long, piercing scream from the bathroom. Middle Son had sprayed perfume directly into Littlest Son's eyes. He claimed he had been spraying it to "cleanse the room of bad smells" and that he had sprayed it far from Littlest Son's face. In fact, the victim had had his back turned to him!

Littlest Son cried out that his brother had "broken the bond of brotherly love."

A forensic reenactment of the crime revealed that the lie was preposterous, and the offender was sent to bed. The next day, I decided to bring down Option One (letter writing) as the penalty.

The gist of the letter read, in sum:

"I did absolutely nothing wrong and have no guilt whatsoever because I am innocent and did nothing wrong and am innocent. Will you forgive me? Love, your brother."

I shall start work on my original Brotherly Love song shortly, which will be filled with uniquely embarrassing references such as:

Brothers never argue, brothers always share.

Brothers even give up their last pair of underwear.
My brothers are my blood, to them I'm always true.
If they ever called upon me, I'd even wipe their poo.

Public performances forthcoming.

All the Beautiful Ways to Say I Love You

Dearest one: This anthropomorphic, whorish piece of candy, seated on a bed of what appear to be torn-out organs (possibly spleens?) is wearing go-go boots, which I have mentioned are of particular interest to me in the bedroom. And she is beckoning me (me!) to come to her, and receive possible delightful pleasures at her hands (which shall not be soiled with chocolate, no, never). Note the look in her eye. I beg you to consider the many entreaties I have made to you—some mentioning marriage—and think about sharing a life with me. And my bed. Oh, my bed!

To my fat, porcine devil-baby. Words fail me. They fail me because you are beating me about the head and private parts with that trident you always carry in your trotter. Hand! I said hand!

Dear Valentine: My eye has falled off!

Dear Heart: You should not have left me at this untimely juncture. Do you not see how I will now kill you?

To My Valentine: The last 50 years with you has crushed my manhood like an old peanut shell.

Valentine: Your continued molestation has caused my nethers to shrink inward unto myself.

Sweetie: I bought you this "singing animated friend" because you have no "real friends" and therefore an "animated friend" is about the best you gonna get. At least it sings a damned song! Let it be a companion to you when you feeling all dark and dank and scratching your nads and eating Cap'n Crunch and shit (like you tend to do).

Baby: When I saw this robe I thought of you, staggering through the fog with a bellyful of gin and shattered fingers, and that old shotgun slung over your shoulder. Our lovemaking that night was sumptuous, as the bombs fell and you whispered: "Jimmy! If I only had a robe with a smattering of blue flowers, and a red pillow that bespoke 'love' on which to lay my head." So I bought it for you, dear heart. Sweet thing, why do you stare at me with such strange eyes?