Im-possible Endearment

To endear oneself to another seems to be a necessary ingredient of a loving relationship. We are, quite naturally, drawn to those who endear themselves to us.

• The small child, who falls down, snuggles into us when we scoop them up and wipe away their tears—and then asks us to call the ambulance because the hurt is so big.
• The young boy, whose eyes shine upon us and ask, “Like this, right Mom?

• The friend who leans in when you tell her your shit-storm of shame, and says, “I hear you pal.”

• The loved one who holds your hand, when there are no soothing words.

If one were bent on logic, like me, then one would ascertain that we are not drawn to those who do not endear themselves to us. True.

“Leave me alone! You’re not my parents.”

(Sigh) “Yes, honey, we are your parents.”

“No you’re not. I hate you.”

Having a child who does not endear herself to me—who is routinely oppositional; who runs swear words together, like a shopping list, because there are no other words strong enough; who is mean-spirited towards those that I love; and who responds “No you don’t!” when I say, “I love you”—is nearly impossible to parent. But only “nearly” impossible because it can’t be impossible—can it?

I have to find a solid path when I have no idea what to do. I have to be compassionate when I feel indignant. I have to be safe and secure, even when I am angry and hurt. I have to put away my reasoning brain that says, If I do this, she will do that. And I have to find the right kind of support, so that I don’t give up, or go crazy—or both!

A child who has suffered immeasurable trauma and emotional loss is not wired for endearment. Not because they don’t want a loving relationship, but because they can’t trust that such a thing even exists. My child, my beautiful, honey-brown child—the one with the smile that can stop me in my tracks, the one that will cook alongside of me and abandon her internal turmoil, the one who runs free on the soccer field, like a wild horse—she has deep wounds that are covered in bands of scar tissue that may never loosen.

In the midst of a garden of flowers, she may not see the blooms. Surrounded by softness and comfort, she cannot sink in. Even when she is given the substance and fiber of her dreams, she cannot knit together a peaceful shawl. Not by herself.