The Varnished Untruth (39 page)

F
ORGIVENESS

Forgiveness doesn’t come easy, but for the first time in my life, I may be ready. I’ve tried many times before. In 2003 I knelt in the graveyard in Russell, New Zealand, where my parents’ ashes were interred. ‘For God’s sake, Pamela,’ I harangued myself, ‘let it go. Just . . . let it go!’ But I couldn’t. On that occasion I couldn’t even locate the elusive pain. Oh, I knew it was there – I’d felt the effects for three decades. Somewhere inside me there had to be understanding. John Bradshaw put it in perspective:

I recognize that the hurt I sustained was not deliberately caused but, unfortunately, insight alone is never enough. More work was required. The first step was to risk connecting viscerally with my deep rage. That was hard until I learned that such a powerful emotion – the one I used to be ashamed of – is actually evidence of the courage and integrity of my inner child. Yes, now that I have fully felt the pain of that rage – its white-hot heat – I may at last be ready to cool off. Oh, please let that be true . . .

Strange that we measure fury and passion in terms of temperature; our emotions do seem to have that effect – ‘My blood was boiling’; ‘My face felt flushed’; ‘Her heart was cold.’ Even stranger, my mother spent much of her academic life studying the effects of temperature on the internal organs of small, bewildered beasties. ‘Effects of temperature on tadpole hearts
in vitro
’ was one of her published scientific papers. (I think that meant she actually removed the hearts, grew them in a Petri dish, and observed what happened when they froze or fried – what an awful job!) Another of her papers was ‘Temperature and other environmental effects on ammocoete organs in culture’. When she paired up with my father they wrote ‘Locomotory invasion of human cervical epithelium and avian fibroblasts by HeLa cells in vitro’ and ‘Invasive locomotory behaviour between malignant human melanoma cells and normal fibroblasts filmed
in vitro
’. (Well, who knew they were film directors as well?)

I don’t understand how any of that work is connected to finding a cure for cancer, but I’m sure there was a substantial relationship. I wonder, did they manage to see the Gestalt of what they were doing, or were they – like many scientists – essentially so focused on minute details they were denied the luxury of the bigger picture? I dunno. I dunno. I must say, it’s hard to get my head around what it must be like to spend many of your waking hours (for that’s what they did) waiting for a tadpole’s heart to melt. Perhaps that’s why their own hearts seemed so . . . frozen?

My first therapist, Lu, called me a deprived child. That shocked me at first, but now I accept it as the truth. Outwardly, I have presented myself as a confident, powerful woman, but deep down it was a different story. With few signs of love or appreciation – even encouraging words – within the family, I did what all human beings do in such a situation – I grew up feeling deeply insecure, unworthy and full of rage, and I sought validation from others. It is a precarious and futile way to live one’s life, and it can only lead to further profound disappointment.

In the past, I was always able to feel empathy for others, but not for myself. My need to feel understood, adored and loved – the right of every child, which was denied me – spurred me to find places in the world where I could, at least temporarily, achieve a sense of belonging. Initially, these were the public arenas of my career in show business, places over-populated by people imbued with longing, just like me. It wasn’t until I embarked on my psychology degree that I began to have a first inkling of just how damaged I really was. But that took a long time to sink in. I was so alien to myself that I didn’t even know that I didn’t know who I was. Things I read – Alice Miller’s wonderful book
The Drama of the Gifted Child
, for example – spoke deeply to me; yet at the same time my conscious mind was insisting, ‘That can’t possibly me?’

Worst of all, I must have unconsciously repeated some of the mistakes of my parents in my own parenting style; oh, I hugged and encouraged my children, and I told them that I loved them but, like my mother, I was . . . very busy. I just hope they can forgive me if I seemed . . . preoccupied. But isn’t that the challenge we working women always face? All right, we give lip service to the appropriateness of ‘having it all’, but show me a working mother and I’ll show you a guilt-ridden soul. Yes, recently I have actually come to reframe my mother’s busyness as the challenges of a highly intelligent and capable woman trying to make her way in the essentially male scientific world. She was doing her Ph.D. when she had me, for God’s sake. Back then, how many women did that? Would I have preferred a Valium-popping Stepford wife of a mother? Wouldn’t I then just have internalized an acute sense of longing – of a different nature? And Dad – he was the product of a large, pioneering, multiracial family, who undoubtedly had a less-than-satisfying portion of whatever was in the love-and-affection pot and never learned to express his feelings the right way. Yes, as my first psychology professor, Dr Joy Turek told me: ‘It’s not a matter of whether or not you’re going to fuck up your children; it’s a matter of
how
.’

On that cheery note, I’ll say thank you for staying with me. I suppose it hasn’t been easy. And if I’ve triggered thoughts about your own life, your own pain, I’m glad. In many ways, that was the point of it all. But I want you to feel hopeful, so here’s the essential truth about raising children: if a child feels that she is loved for who she truly is – rather than for who her parents want her to be – she will be happy and feel safe in the world. Can you do that for your kids? OK, then. Thank you. I feel good now. Don’t forget, will you . . . ?

Strange, my other, therapist’s voice is quiet now. We are one. It’s a relief she’s stopped talking, analyzing. Just like my mother . . . Ahh . . . Are they one? Now that I no longer sense her expectations of me – that inner push, push, push I inflicted on myself – I can finally breathe . . .

But let’s you and I revisit Brazil for a short while, walk calmly along the beach in Porto Seguro. The tourists are gone just now. The thump, thump, thump of the loud speakers are absent for a bit. You can even hear the breeze ruffling the palm fronds. It’s low tide, and someone’s out there, picking up sea-urchins. Hey, there’s a shack selling
açaí
, that Amazonian energy berry, and am I just imagining it or is the sand dotted with large, round craters, the impressions left by scores of women with gigantic Brazilian bums –
bom dudas
they call them – proud manifestations of the fact that, for all the women in the world, body image is shaped by culture. The wind picks up and we break into a scamper. My thighs are flapping, my tummy is bouncing, but I no longer care.

And other important things have happened while we’ve been together – I’ve told you who I am. And you’ve formed your own opinion, which is your right to do. I wish I could honestly say that whatever it is, it’s OK, that I don’t mind . . . But, well, I do, so be nice. What’s more important, though, is how do I now see myself? Well what I always needed to see myself as – a survivor. And I’ve finally become a proud woman who has learned to value – far above all her achievements – her ability to be more at peace with herself. It’s taken a long time, but ahhhh – I’m here. What is WRONG with me? At last I know the answer – hah! I never thought I’d say this but the answer is – nothing too terrible!

So, now, let’s talk about you . . . Who exactly are you? Yes, you . . . I’m listening . . .

Who are you?

Progress Notes – Dr P. Connolly

Patient has made a good recovery. In recounting, reliving and re-assessing her life – including previous trauma, illness and past treatment – there has been a positive shift in her self-perception. All too often, healing from childhood trauma, anxiety disorders, stress, eating disorders – in fact any kind of psychological challenge – can be a frustrating process of ‘two steps forward, three steps back’. Fortunately, the patient has summoned the perseverance to continue the painful process of self-examination, and it seems to have paid off. She understands the role of risk-taking, extensive physical self-improvement, over-eating and compulsive care-taking in her life, and has learned how to manage them.

It has been healing for her to tell her story; after listening to others for so many years, the patient herself needed to feel fully heard.

She now self-identifies as a survivor, rather than a victim. This is a breakthrough.

However, although the patient does have considerable perspective on her parents’ own circumstances, and can intellectually explain their abandoning actions – including what she experienced as a lack of love and understanding – she regrets that she has so far been unable to ‘forgive’ them. I say, ‘forgiveness’ is overrated. In fact, her continuing anger towards her parents is an unconscious means of staying connected with them. One day she will realize this and let go of her fury. That will be her moment to move on.

In the meantime, her rage serves certain useful purposes, such as fuelling her passion for adventure – which is, after all, essentially life-affirming. And it has facilitated the escaping of many yowling cats from an extremely large bag on which is inscribed ‘The Varnished Untruth’. In view of this veritable plague of feline creatures, perhaps she should have called it (in reference to the quote on page 3) ‘World Split Open’.

But perhaps not . . . I still hear a faint meowing . . .

Case closed . . . for now.

G
RATITUDE

I’m grateful to all the women in my life. After experiencing my mother’s coldness and envy, it took me time to learn to feel safe with women generally. But my girlfriends, especially Sharon, of course, but also Trudy, Michelle, Aly, Kathy, Tania, Sarah, Jo, Lizzie and many others, including Lu – my healer, mentor and guru – have taught me the things my mother was unable to teach – especially how to be a woman. And, just as importantly, they’ve helped me take myself less seriously. My daughters have shown me how wonderful it is to give and receive affection. And Martine, who has now worked for our family for twenty-six years, has been the best mummy a grown woman could ever have. As for Nanna and Auntie Sally – without them I might never have been able to feel loved or safe in the world.

I am grateful to all the men in my life – the goodies and the baddies – I have learned from each and every one. Andre, Paul, Steve, Dennis, Phil, Terry – as well as every one of my gay friends – have taught me that there are wonderful, kind and nurturing men in the world. As far as my lovers are concerned, yes, there have been many. I haven’t used real names for the few I’ve mentioned in this book, because I think they would prefer to be anonymous, and I would certainly like them to respect my privacy, too. But the most profound learning in my life has often occurred via my lovers. Perhaps I only truly learn in the presence of someone with whom I share intimacy; for therein lies safety and ultimate acceptance. OK, eroticism is thrilling and powerfully life-affirming, but embraces are sweeter – and more healing. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

I was very lucky to meet Billy. He’s been a rock, a sanctuary in my life, although many people – including me, early on – have imagined it was the other way around. But he has provided me with longed-for consistency of affection, and the closest thing to unconditional love you can get past the age of five. Oh, he’s also upsetting and infuriating sometimes, and a terrible curmudgeon. When he’s on stage he talks about me behind my back – God knows what people know about me that I’m unaware of. And one day I really am going to throw that banjo out the window, I swear. But did you know he’s now a visual artist as well as everything else he excels at? He does absolutely brilliant drawings. Proper scary stuff, actually; as dark as all good art should be. He thinks I analyse them, but I really don’t . . . Well, not all the time . . .

As for my children – what wise creatures they are, all five of them. I asked each for ‘bad Mom’ highlights – expressly for your reading pleasure – and Scarlett, for one, sent quite a comprehensive list: