Would my life have been different if my mother had lived beyond my 14th year? She was my universe, and I revolved around her like a planet orbiting the sun. It was safe and predictable, and I knew where I belonged.
My mother died suddenly, after a five year illness that was kept secret from me. At the time, all I could feel was shock and disbelief. I no longer knew who I was, what was real or who I could trust. So I looked for people, performance and academic achievement, to reassure myself that I had a right to keep living while she could not.
My grief was so deeply embedded that I couldn’t shake it loose. So I shut it down and kept it inside. I developed a polished “false self” that brought me external success, but internal emptiness. Because she wasn’t there to cheer me on, I never felt good enough. As Maya Angelou said, “I was reduced to the unutterable ignorance of dark, cold caves.”
I made it through college and even started grad school, still trying to find my place in the world. When I got married at 23, I started to figure it out. My career took off and I had two beautiful kids. But I hadn’t dealt with my grief, so my default mode was to avoid getting too close. We inevitably divorced and I vowed to learn from my mistakes.
And then I met Rex. I was 39 and he was an artist–a deep creative soul who allowed me to be honest, to take down the façade and be authentic. And he thought I was wonderful. He thought I was the smartest person he ever knew, the most talented, and with him by my side I was also the most loved. Yes, he was troubled, and not an easy man to be with, but I loved him. I loved him so much that I almost lost myself in the process. He died 2 years ago, and I still can’t always find myself without him.
Rex, I visited you at the cemetery Tuesday morning. As I drove through the gates a familiar calmness swept over me, not unlike the feeling of coming home. The grounds are lush with green rolling hills and tall leafy trees. How can a place that is so beautiful hold so much grief? I drive to your spot and grab the burgundy towels that I brought from home. I spread them out like a blanket, softening the blow of the hard, rocky ground.
As I sit facing your gravestone, I notice that dirt has accumulated between the raised letters of your name. Why isn’t there more grass close to the stone to absorb the water from the sprinklers? You’re in the shade, so the surrounding dirt turns to mud and never has the sun to harden it. Damn, that makes me mad! I pour out some water from my bottle and start scrubbing with one of my towels to clean it up. Have I neglected you by not coming here more often? Do you miss me my love, or has your spirit long flown away to be with the angels?
I lay down on top of the earth that holds your remains, where someday I too will be buried. I feel your presence so deeply; you are embracing me from below. It reminds me of the many times we held onto each other in bed. “What happens when you die?” I’d often ask you. “Oh darlin’,” you’d reply. “We will fly through eternity, untethered by appetite or earthly restraints. We’ll be together in a place where there’s no judgement, no need to impress, just acceptance, freedom and love.”
You are in my heart as I yearn for that freedom to soar. I sit up and search for the stone I brought from home. “Here’s a special one from Hart mountain, your favorite place on earth. I’ve cut it open and polished it, so the colorful pattern can shine with your brilliance.” I place it on your now clean gravestone and dig up 2 more with my fingertips. The stones are a symbol of permanence; unlike flowers, they will never die. I’m counting on that, Rex. Please wait for me, so we can share your dream of the everlasting.
I hope my mother has found the soul of my dear husband. He’s not who she would have imagined for me, but he was good and he loved me beyond anything I ever thought possible. I want to be with him NOW. Some days that’s all I can think about, just being together in another dimension.
My dearest Rex, losing you has cracked me open in unexpected ways. I’ve faced the unimaginable and instead of destroying me, I am still in one piece. When great souls die there is grief and loss, but there is also hope. Besides getting stronger, I am helping others to cope with their grief. Try not to worry about me, Mother. I am being sheltered by Rex’s love. He’s helping me release the darkness and ease through the narrow opening towards wisdom and light.
Sydell Weiner, July 21, 2018
Inspired by Maya Angelou’s, “When Great Trees Fall.”
Losing a mother in childhood or adolescence leaves many unanswered questions. My mother’s story has been pieced together from faded memories, old photographs and isolated anecdotes. I hope it does justice to the woman I knew for only 14 years.
My mother was born on May 5th, 1917, in Rochester, New York. Her parents both emigrated from Eastern Europe lured by the promise of a better life. Her father, Abraham Kay (born Kosovsky), came from Minsk in 1911, and her mother, Edith Garelick, from Poland in 1913. They were married in New York City on December 22, 1913, when Abe was 19 and Edith was 17.
My mother Janet was their first child, followed three years later by Alice and by Beverly six years after that. They enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle in Rochester, New York, where Janet learned to appreciate both opera and horseback riding. She was a better than average student, but by the time she was fifteen the family moved 300 miles away to Brooklyn, New York.
Abe had been a successful salesman, and in Brooklyn he ran his own business in the garment district. Janet was pretty, poised and popular, and easily made the adjustment to life in Brooklyn. She attracted the attention of many young men and made friends quickly. She was a natural born leader and took great satisfaction in running a girls’ club for teenagers who needed a big sister.
1937, she met Milton Horowitz. He may not have been as wealthy as some of her boyfriends, but he had a great sense of humor and was smart as a whip. She was the refined, beautiful girl from Rochester falling in love with the boy from the lower east side. But Milton had just finished law school, and he showered her with attention, kept her laughing and made her feel like the most beautiful girl in the world. It was clear they were a match and they got married on March 24th, 1939, in New York City when Janet was 22 and Milt was 25.
The wedding was an exquisite, formal affair with nine bridesmaids in matching silk gowns and nine groomsmen in tuxedos. Janet and Milton were both the oldest in their respective families, and her parents loved him immediately. Wages were low in 1939, but Milt got a raise to $6.00 a week as a law clerk when they got married and Janet worked as a bookkeeper. They honeymooned in Florida and returned to an apartment in the Bensonhurst neighborhood of Brooklyn.
They lived on the same block as her sister Alice and husband Jess, and they all became best friends. This made her first year as “Janet Horowitz” especially fun, and on May 6th, 1943, it got even better. One day after her 26th birthday, Nancy Roberta was born and the couple became a family. The war in Europe was escalating and Milt thought he’d be exempt from serving since he was a lawyer and had a new baby. Nevertheless, when Nancy was 6 months old Milt was drafted into the Army.
Janet followed her husband to North Carolina while he was in basic training. But when he was shipped overseas in 1944, she returned to New York and worked for the WAVES (Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Services). It was difficult raising her daughter alone, but when Milton returned in 1946 they went on a 2nd honeymoon to Miami Beach to celebrate.
Their 2nd daughter, Sydell Sally, was born on February 18, 1947, when Janet was 29 years old. Alice and Jess had 2 sons the same age as Janet’s daughters, so everyone shared responsibilities. It was a happy time for her, being close to family and staying home with her girls. Milt was doing well in his law practice in Manhattan, and they even snuck away on a vacation in 1951 to Toronto and Lake George, where Janet got to do some horseback riding. But when Milt bought her a mink coat she knew she had arrived. In the 1950’s it was a huge status symbol, and she was proud to be the wife of a successful lawyer.
Janet was ambitious, not only for herself but her daughters. Nancy was especially pretty, and Janet took her into Manhattan to get professional pictures so she could do some modeling. Nancy did well and when Sydell turned five, Janet got pictures for her too. But by 1952 the family was moving to the suburbs of Long Island, and going 30 miles into the city for photo shoots was just too much. The new house in Mineola was Janet’s dream, and when they moved in she couldn’t have been happier.
Although they didn’t see their families quite as often, they all still got together many times a year for the Jewish holidays. There were always at least 20 around the table, the food was plentiful and the atmosphere warm. Once Janet settled into suburban life, she and Milt got involved in the building of a new synagogue. My mother became President of the Sisterhood and began volunteering at many charitable organizations. She was a candy striper at Long Island Jewish Hospital and became President of the local chapter of The United Cerebral Palsy Association. She was great at organizing meetings and events, and loved entertaining friends at her home.
On a December morning in 1954, however, she got a phone call that rocked her world. Her father, Abraham Kay, had been found dead in his factory. They assumed it was a heart attack, but when they arrived the next morning he was hanging from a rope. It was clear that Abe had committed suicide. Was he embezzling money from the business? Was ending his life the only way he could see out? Or was there a long term issue with depression? This was traumatic for Janet, who adored her father. Nonetheless, she fought to maintain a façade and kept the shameful secret from everyone she knew.
There is a lot written about the relationship between mind and body when it comes to disease. Could the trauma of her father’s suicide have activated a dormant genetic anomaly? Regardless of the root cause, in February of 1956, when Janet was 38 years old, she was diagnosed with Breast Cancer. She was a no-nonsense woman, and matter of factly told her daughters that she was going into the hospital to have a breast removed. Nancy was 12 and Sydell was 8, but the word “cancer” was never used, and she reassured them that everything would be fine.
Janet recovered well and life continued as if nothing had gone wrong. To help other women who’d had the same surgery, she visited them in the hospital to encourage them to get well. There was no chemotherapy in those days, and radiation was only done sporadically. Janet continued her normal routine and several months later the whole family went on a vacation to Washington D.C. It was a great trip where everyone had fun, and no mention was made of her recent mastectomy.
But by 1957, there was a lump in the other breast. The doctor told Milt that it was probably the breast cancer coming back, but to remove her other breast would be too upsetting. Without including Janet, the doctor and Milt chose to treat it with radiation and avoid further surgery. I know it’s astounding by today’s standards, but in those days husbands made decisions for their wives. They often decided if the wife should even be told the truth about her diagnosis. Janet was not told.
By the end of 1958 the atmosphere around the home changed as the cancer silently progressed. Janet’s health and state of mind were both unpredictable. She was in and out of the hospital, one day quite ill, and the next getting dressed in nylons and heels to attend a Charity Luncheon. On her bad days she was short tempered and frequently irritated by her daughters, who were also kept from the truth. She yelled at them, and seemed to blow up over the smallest infractions. On her good days, however, she would play her opera records and bustle around the house. She continued to get her long beautiful nails manicured in her signature bright red, and she also remained ambitious for her girls.
In 1959, she took 12 year old Sydell into Manhattan to enroll her in the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. Nancy had been the model, but Sydell would be the actress. Going alone on the train into the city was fun for Sydell and kept her distracted from what was going on at home. Janet was weakening, but she still had her good days.
She was proud of her daughters, and enjoyed planning Sydell’s Bat Mitzvah in February of 1960. At 42, she remained a gracious hostess and looked beautiful at the party. In some of the pictures one of her eyes seems to be closing. The cancer had reached her brain by that time, and nobody said a word. Several months later when Janet became so sick she had to be rushed to the hospital, the cover up continued. It was hepatitis, she was told, and everyone went along.
By February of 1961, Janet had more bad days than good. But she and Milt celebrated the 5 year anniversary of her mastectomy, as evidence that she was cancer free and getting well. But by May, she had taken a turn for the worse. One afternoon, she got out of bed to go to the bathroom and was so weak that she fell right there on the floor. Sydell called in a neighbor to help her up and Milt subsequently hired a nurse’s aide to assist during the day. No conversation took place in the family. Milt went to work and the girls went to school, and it was never acknowledged that she was dying of cancer.
Inevitably, on May 26th, 1961, just weeks after turning 44, Janet Kay Horowitz passed away. She left two daughters, then 14 and 18, with no explanation or words of goodbye. Did she know she was dying? Did she know that the cancer had returned in 1957? Or was the need to be strong more important than the truth? Cancer was whispered about in those days, and breast cancer in particular was stigmatized as a curse. There were no marathons, pink ribbons or celebrities trumpeting their cause. There were only secrets and lies. And in that environment the life of my mother was cut short.
Just as illness was kept secret in the 1950’s, so was grief. After she died, my father couldn’t talk about her, so my sister and I followed suit. The memories faded and the subject became taboo. But her life mattered and she deserves to be remembered. Janet Kay Horowitz was a beauty in her youth, a leader in her community, ambitious for her children and a proud and loving wife. My mother was tall and slim and always confident in social situations. She loved her parents, her sisters and their children, and was equally warm to her husband’s extended family. She was strong and efficient, always looked her best and did what was expected. I remember her cooking dinner every night in high heels and dresses and she never complained about it.
My mother left behind a beautiful legacy. Her husband of 22 years found love again and continued to make people laugh. Nancy had 3 children, all of whom distinguished themselves in their careers, and 4 grandchildren that Janet would have loved.
I became a Drama Professor, thanks to my mother’s push, and then a Marriage and Family Therapist. My son is a rabbi, a hospital chaplain and a leader in his community. My daughter has the poise and confidence of her grandmother, with a successful career to boot. Between the two of them I have 6 amazing grandchildren. Janet Horowitz’s life was all too short, but as her youngest daughter, I will always honor her memory.
“Mommy, can you sew a button on my P.E. uniform?” “Ma, I sat on my homework and it’s wrinkled, can you iron it?” “Mom, I signed you up to bring cookies on Thursday, OK?” These are the sounds that filled my home for over twenty years. There were so many things to do while I was going in so many different directions. They were frantic days, but they were filled with love and a sense of purpose. I miss those years.
My son was an active child, always testing the limits. He crashed toy trucks into walls, colored outside the lines and was “all boy.” Sometimes, when my 8 month old puppy starts running around in circles, I call him my son’s name by mistake. He reminds me of that playful boy who was full of the dickens. Without thinking, I repeat the phrase I used too often with my son: “What is your problem?!!” But to no avail.
My boy had a deep, sensitive side as well. I sang to him at night and read Dr. Seuss until I knew those books by heart. When he couldn’t sleep and wanted to be near me, he’d sneak into my room and crawl under the bed. Dr. Spock had told us that co-sleeping was bad, and my son knew he’d be sent back to his room if he was caught. I wish I had followed my instincts and let him curl up in my arms and stay there all night.
My daughter’s self confidence. Although she got glasses at 15 months old and had bushy, Jewish hair, she thought she was the cutest thing in town. She was a leader, with a trail of blonde haired, blue eyed girls following her every move.
When she decided to run for 6th grade president, we practiced her speech night after night. She walked confidently onto the stage, looking like a 10 year old Ruth Bader Ginsberg. I mouthed every word with her as she gave her speech, and when she won I said, “Today 6th grade, tomorrow the world!” We laughed for days over that line.
When she was in 7th grade we moved to Palos Verdes, and she was teased for the first time in her life. Some girls made fun of her glasses and she came home that day in tears. I immediately made an appointment for her to get contact lenses. I urged her to leave the “mean girls” and find a nicer group of kids. She was smart enough to find her way through a difficult transition.
How I loved being at the center of my children’s lives, being the one they came to for comfort and approval. I remember watching my son play little league and praying for a “ball” so he’d at least get on base. And what fun we had with my daughter’s costume fittings for ballet recitals, and bringing her roses backstage. It was such joy watching my children’s faces light up when I came home early from work. I was loved, I was needed, I was their mommy.
My son is 40 and my daughter is 38. They have successful careers and children of their own. They have spouses who come first, as well they should. I know they love me, but the dynamics have changed. Instead of playing a leading role, I am now one of the supporting players.
I’ve retired from my career as a college professor and age is catching up with me. There are days when the loneliness overwhelms me. I’m up at 6am and sit on the couch until 10, waiting for a reason to get dressed and get out. There is nobody there to ask how I slept, or keep me company while I make coffee and watch the news. Day after day the monotony continues, as I search for a new direction.
When I try to be grateful for all the good in my life, and it actually makes me feel better. There are so many ways to reach out to others in similar situations. I am discovering a new freedom and enjoy getting involved in more social activities. Writing is a new form of creative expression for me, and it’s helping me find a new purpose.
Yes, I miss those years, but how fortunate I am to have had them. How fortunate to see my children thrive as adults and to know that I had a big part in it. The future is not just theirs, it’s mine too if I just reach out and grab it.
It’s time to move forward…past time. I’m a little scared, but I’m also excited. I will welcome the next chapter in my life with the courage and hope. Watch out, I’m back in the world of the living!
I’m trying to move forward after losing my husband, by moving near my son and daughter-in-law. They welcomed a 5th child into their family a week ago and she’s a beauty. Yesterday they all came over, along with my daughter and her family. The kids had a ball playing together in the pool, and we ordered in lunch. I’m so glad that I can see them more often than when I lived an hour and a half away.
But my house in Palos Verdes is on the market and still hasn’t sold. Last week it fell out of Escrow for the 2nd time. It is my nest egg, my safe zone, the keeper of memories that I shared with my husband Rex. And now strangers are traipsing through and picking it apart. I’m counting on the equity to pay the expenses of the overpriced house I’m renting in Beverly Hills. So now I’m scared. Will I have enough until my house sells? Will I be enough to handle this? Am I strong enough to make it on my own?
The house I’m renting is sweet, but it’s unfamiliar. I don’t know how to turn on the confection oven. The glass doors in the shower have sediment on them that won’t come off. I’m sure they’re more than 20 years old, and if I owned this house I’d have them replaced. I turned on the heater in the pool Saturday, and now I can’t figure out how to turn them off.
The landlord ordered a new dishwasher, and when it came 2 weeks ago it was the wrong size. I’ve been waiting almost 2 weeks for the replacement, but all I have is a big empty hole in my kitchen where the dishwasher belongs. It’s the hole in my heart that burst open when Rex died, and now it feels just a little more broken. I’m used to doing everything by myself, but now I have to wait for the homeowner (in DC) to talk to his mother (3 blocks away) and the right hand doesn’t seem to know what the left hand is doing.
My handyman from P.V. came here 2 days after I moved in. The HVAC system wasn’t turning on. It’s taken 2 weeks and now I’m promised a new motor this afternoon. But it’s cold at night, and I’m powerless to take care of it on my own. It costs over a thousand dollars to fix, and that’s not my responsibility. I feel helpless, like my 14 year old self, still in a daze at my mother’s funeral. I try to be brave, but sometimes it’s just too much to bear.
Oh, and did I tell you my iphone died last week? I had to drive to City Hall in P.V. to get a copy of a permit for the buyers who subsequently backed out. So I went to the Apple Store in Manhattan Beach without an appointment and was aggravated by the long wait. Maybe it’s because Mercury was in retrograde for 3 weeks, but it’s one frustration right after another. Normally I could handle a broken phone, but my resiliency is at an all-time low and everything feels like a crisis.
And here’s the reason why: My husband died two and a half years ago and I never would have moved if he were still alive. http://www.sydellweiner.com/surviving-complicated-grief We’d enjoy a comfortable retirement in the house where I knew how everything worked. I wouldn’t have to read an outrageous Inspection Report, picking at every detail in our home–from missing spokes in the dishwasher to electrical issues to doorstops needed to protect the walls.
My sister tells me not to take it personally when someone doesn’t want to buy my house. I wish it were that easy. My emotions are too unstable. When I think someone loves the house we remodeled and lived in for 17 years and then they back out, it breaks my heart. My husband and I took so much pride in that house and made it look so beautiful.
Still, the criticism hurts; it feels like I didn’t do a good enough job of keeping things up. My fears turn into anxiety and I’m up half the night wondering if I did the right thing moving. I suspect buyers are being critical as a ploy to get a lower price. Or an Inspector is finding fault so he can show the buyers how smart and thorough he is. Whatever their reasons, it shakes my confidence and robs me of my resiliency.
Lately I’ve been calling it “Widow Shit.” Losing your husband is so much more than grieving for the person you’ve lost. It’s figuring out how to spend your remaining years. Should I move away from a community I love, because there’s nothing there for older, single women.? Will I be able to handle being a renter after 40 years of homeownership. Can I navigate my way around a new community with steep underground parking even for supermarkets. What a cool adventure it would have been exploring a new community with Rex. We’d laugh at the underground garages and explore all the cafes together. I miss him beyond words, and moving brings that back to the forefront.
And yet, there are indescribable perks. Moving closer to my son means surprise visits at 6:15 am, while he’s doing his morning run. Thes’s comfort in being a mile and a half from five of my grandchildren. It’s my sweet daughter coming over with new beach towels and a tool kit fit for a woman my age. And having my son’s daughter telling my daughter that it’s her turn to live near grandma. It was lovely to have a spur of the moment pool parties in my backyard with the children (and adults) playing nicely together. And it’s reassuring to know that if I have to go to the hospital, it would be the one where my son is Manager of Spiritual Care, and I’d have excellent care.
So I have to put on my big girl pants and figure out how everything works on my own. I’ve figured out the pool heater and called a repairman to show me how to work the confection oven. I’ve unpacked in less than 2 weeks and have even hung pictures on the walls. I hired a plumber to install the new toilet that was left for me in the garage. I’ve connected with an old friend and colleague who I didn’t even know lived in this part of town. And my puppy and I are moving forward, enjoying the walks to the shops, right in our neighborhood.
When I remind myself of the good, it’s easier to practice gratitude. Breathe deep, Sydell, and look to the light. Be patient with yourself, for you are the only person you can always depend on. Remember to treat yourself as you would treat someone you loved–with kindness and empathy. You will get through this, your house will eventually sell, and you’ll enjoy more of the perks of living on the Westside.
So yes, it was the worst of times, it was the best of times. I’ve moved to the Westside and for better or worse, I’m moving on with my life. Wish me luck my friends, I will definitely need it!
For so many years my purpose was clear: wife, mother, professor, director, therapist. I knew my roles and they gave my life structure.
Then you left me Rex. You promised you’d always be there, but you died. I couldn’t even connect with you while you were so sick. I was scared and caring for you took all my energy and I had to protect myself so I wouldn’t fall apart.
I have so many wonderful things in my life, yet I am paralyzed by fear. My foot hurts–is it bone cancer? If I drive too fast will someone sideswipe me and leave me in a pile on the side of the road? Irrational fears, but they keep me from moving forward.
This past week I had so much fun. And the second I walked back into my home it evaporated like so much hot air. On Sunday morning I babysat my son’s 4 kids, ages 6 to 14. Don’t tell my daughter, but Jason’s 9 year old Ayden, is my FAV. She started talking to me the second I walked in and didn’t stop until 4 hours later when my daughter-in-law came home. Ayden still wasn’t done, so we took orders and walked to Baskin Robbins so we could bring back ice cream for all the other kids. She is such a joy, and she’ll be at my house for Thanksgiving with my 5 other grandkids.
My son is a mensch, but he’s very busy and doesn’t call me often. He answers almost immediately whenever I text him and is always engaging when I’m at his house. Yet weeks can go by without him initiating contact. So Thursday, after listening to a client talk about why her grown son doesn’t call, I thought about Jason. I sent him a text: “It would mean so much to me if you could call me once a week.” His text back simply said, “OK.” I was on my way to the market so I didn’t have time to obsess about his response.
I got home, sat on the sofa with my puppy and vegged out in front of the TV. And then my phone rang–the screen said Jason–I picked it up. “I know you’re busy,” I said apologetically, “but sometimes I get so lonely.” “I know,” he said. He told me about his stint as Scholar in Residence the past week-end, and I told him how much fun I had babysitting for the kids. “Kayla is really starting to take school seriously, now that she’s in high school,” he said. “Yes, I noticed a change in her attitude,” I answered. “And that sweet Aydenie has become such a delight. Remember when she was in pre-school and wouldn’t listen to anyone? I remember you saying you felt sorry for her future husband.” We both laughed, and then I thanked him before ending the call. Yes, I asked for what I needed and believe it or not it was given to me!
This morning my daughter started texting me at 7:15 in the morning, we’re going to the theatre together tomorrow. ”
Eric is playing poker tomorrow night, so why don’t you stay for dinner after the show and keep me company? Or maybe we can go out to eat with the kids.” “Either way, is fine” I texted back. Then she called. “I just told the kids and they’re so excited you’re coming for dinner.” I know it is 43 miles to her house in Costa Mesa, but after a conversation like that, it is more than worth it.
Life is challenging for me these days, but easier when I appreciate what I have. I know my roles, but I’m still redefining my purpose. I can make it through the difficult days, when I just remember to take my time and count my blessings.
Children are the innocent victims of divorce. They don’t ask for it, they don’t cause it, but their living conditions are often disrupted by it. Here are some ways you, as a parent, can make it easier for them:
1. Divorce is Not Their Fault:
Most Kids will internalize the conflict in your relationship or act up to divert attention away from from it. They need to be reassured that you will both love them and continue to be their parents even when you’re living apart. Remind them that the divorce isn’t because of anything they’ve done wrong and you will never divorce them.
2. Communicate Appropriately:
Remember that you’re the adult and they’re the child. It’s tempting to use them as confidantes, especially when there are no other adults in the home. Unfortunately, this creates parentified children, who worry unnecessarily and feel burdened by your problems. If your partner had an affair, for example, an 8 year old will not understand what that means and become anxious or upset. It’s more loving to just comfort them, and share your problems with friends, family or a therapist. Continue reading “Divorce: How to Keep Your Child Out of the Middle”
If your relationship is stuck in a cycle of blame, you probably wonder what happened to the communication that brought you together. It may work in politics, but blaming your partner will never get your needs met in a relationship. You have a better chance of recapturing the intimacy with a few simple tools from Marshall Rosenberg’s in Non-Violent Communication.
When you start a sentence with “you” or “you always…” your partner will hear it as criticism and probably become defensive. For example, “You’re always late, I can’t believe how inconsiderate you are!” is filled with blame and bound to start an argument. Instead, try calmly stating the behavior you observe without evaluation. If you say, “you’re 30 minutes late,” or “when you’re late I feel…(impatient, angry, worried, etc),” you’re off to a better start.
Expressing feelings is trickier than it sounds. For example, “I feel like you’re always criticizing me,” uses the word feel, but is more about your partner’s behavior than about what you feel. A healthier way to phrase it would be: “I feel hurt when you tell me that I didn’t do a good job.” To keep the feelings about you, try words like: angry, discouraged, scared, worried, frustrated and heartbroken. Your partner’s actions may trigger your feelings, but they are rarely the cause. More often, your feelings are rooted in unmet needs. Continue reading “Communication Basics: Stop Yelling At Me”