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Abstract

er and was often never home.These torturous moments still affect my younger brother. Sometimes, he talks about it. But mostly, he’d rather talk about his work. In his new incarnation as a real estate magnate, he spends much of his time running towards his next deal and away from the shadows that chase after him.I’m still tortured by self-doubt. Because of the big-headed boy’s disability, I’ve always questioned my own intelligence, wondered if I was as damaged as he was. My mother’s need to protect him didn’t help my self-confidence. She used his disability as an excuse for his bad behavior. Instead of condemning him for his actions, I became the focus of her anger or the target of an argument. She never punished him for consequences that were clearly his fault.When we were children, if I protested an under-the-table kick at my younger brother, I would get punished for intervening. My mother would race into the dining room from the kitchen, where she was preparing a tuna casserole, and evict me from the table. A happy outcome I have to admit, in dodging the tuna casserole.To this day, the big-headed boy isn’t punished for his misdeeds. A feeble attempt at discipline withers into acquiescence. If he crashes a car, he gets a new one; loses a phone, gets a better one; as my parent’s insurance rises along with the debris field he leaves behind.My anger towards my mother lingers along with sadness and pity. It’s a tenuous balance. I sense her anxiousness, see the strain in her eyes and on her face. She wears her shame like an old tattered jacket, unable to forgive herself for bearing a mentally disabled son.For my parents, there is no relief from him. At a time when it should just be the two of them, there are three. They’ve never been empty nesters like their friends. The big-headed boy still lives with them. He still yells at my mother when she tries to shield him from bad influences, or stop him from making bad choices, like the new cellphone he bought. It came with an iPad and a $45 per month bill. My mother coerced me into helping him set up his new iPad on a Saturday afternoon. He stands in the kitchen, cradling his spoils, as I confront him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.“$ 45 is a lot of money,” I tell him. “But the phone can do a lot more than the old one,” he says. “$45 is a lot of money,” I repeat. “But it came with a free iPad.” “Nothing is free!” “Can you just help him set it up?” my mother asks. I had no choice but to say, “Yes.”I had to help him as she has always helped him: by not letting him fall, not letting him suffer the consequences of his actions, which my parents suffer for him.Though the big-headed boy still lives at home, he controls his own finances, despite having no concept of money. He earns a meager salary from the one customer he occasionally chauffeurs and receives disability from the government, an arrangement he facilitated alone. Part of his brain is intellectually capable. He knows just enough to be dangerous.The money my parents allow him to manage is mostly spent on gambling and sketchy people he calls friends. In his desire to gain the approval of others, he gives away the best of himself to strangers whil

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e abusing the ones closest to him, my parents, the victims of his outbursts, especially my mother. Every adolescent tantrum evokes a lifetime of guilt in her, which empowers him and punishes her; he adeptly manipulates her emotions in spite of his deficits.My 92-year-old father knows when the big-headed boy is insincere but is too fragile to confront him. Because of his dementia, he often forgets what happened. At times, I see the light of optimism in my father’s eyes. Other times, I see the dark faraway look of hopeless confusion.There’s no compassion in the big-headed boy’s eyes, only contempt. I have seen the angry insults he hurls at my father.“You’re stupid!” he tells him while standing in the den, as my parents and I sit watching TV. “Leave him alone!” I yell. My father slowly pushes himself up from the couch, shaking as he rises in anger. He yells, “Stop that! — “You’re rude and disrespectful!” “Leave Dad alone!” I say again. He finally does.But we really can’t leave Dad alone, not for too long anyway because of his dementia. He once left the room to use the bathroom and returned wearing a different pair of pants. He couldn’t remember changing them.The big-headed boy needs supervision, too, which he only gets when he has to be saved: from leasing a car he couldn’t afford but the dealership approved anyway. The big-headed boy said my parents would co-finance it. Several months later, the bank repossessed the car because he didn’t pay the bills.He doesn’t understand cause and effect. He doesn’t learn from his mistakes. He is transactional and lives to feed his greed and desires. He doesn’t care how his actions affect my parents. He doesn’t care that he hurts them every day. He doesn’t care that he’s a burden to my parents and eventually will be to my brother and me.The anger I harbor towards my mother, and older brother by association is deep and pervasive. A part of me I never want to lose. Anger is my survival mechanism. It is how I overcame adversity in childhood. How I protected my younger brother and me. How I was able to escape the shadows that still chase after my younger brother.It is how I will survive when it’s time for my younger brother and me to handle the big-headed boy. The monster my mother created out of guilt. The man child never punished for his misdeeds and always escapes the consequences that were clearly his fault. And the ones who watch over him, who care for him, and will eventually have to save him, are the ones who are punished instead of him.This is the legacy my parents will leave behind. The burden they carry and will pass onto us. A disaster that cannot be averted. No matter how often we try to change the outcome. There are things in life we can’t control. Moments when we need to take a step back in contemplation and say, “It just simply was.”Follow Lauren on Twitter: <a href="http://www.twitter.com/thinkspin?source=post_page---------------------------">www.twitter.com/thinkspin</a> Follow Lauren’s antidote to chaos at her blog <a href="https://www.thinkspin.com/?source=post_page---------------------------">Think Spin</a>© <a href="undefined">Lauren Salkin</a> 2020</article></body>

My Mother’s Legacy of Shame

Birthing a mentally disabled child.

Photo by Kevin Jesus Horacio on Unsplash

My parents are dying. Actually, they’ve been dying for the past 92 and 88 years respectively. My father is 92, my mother 88.

In their waning years, my parents are closer to death, and with it, the unspoken shame they keep close to them, like a secret. My father’s shame: dementia, my mother’s: birthing a mentally disabled son. Now a 64-year-old man child lacking emotional intelligence.

My mother doesn’t listen when I tell her, “His disability isn’t your fault. It wasn’t the plane trip you took in the early months of pregnancy. It wasn’t the medication you took.” It just simply was.

Her dark sagging eyes hold the weight of the guilt she carries from bearing an irregular child. Like the non-perfect items put aside on the irregular shelf in a department store, my older brother was put aside with the irregular kids in school. My brother’s irregular status is obvious. He’s got a big head, a looming billboard advertising his disability, and will always be the big-headed boy to me.

18 months my senior, the big-headed boy and I became peers in high school after he returned from a special school. The place irregular kids go when a school doesn’t know what to do with them. I knew what to do with him: ignore him, walk past him, avoid the intimacy of eye contact.

The big-headed boy stole my freedom and hurt my reputation. Once addressed by my given name, when we were reunited, some unevolved classmates called me “the retard’s sister,” which both angered and embarrassed me.

Though I mostly avoided him because he was in a “special class,” there were times I’d see him in the hall. Dreaded moments that darkened my way forward. His lips would part when he saw me and would try to reel me in with a “hello.” But I wouldn’t bite, not because of cruelty, because of survival.

The big-headed boy tormented my younger brother and me at home. He chased after us, threatening us in a hostile aggressive manner, not innocent sibling horseplay. We ran from him in terror and locked ourselves in the bathroom, listening for his footsteps to recede before unlocking the door.

When my parents went out for dinner with friends, a babysitter became the focus of his ire. One sitter even called the police. I remember seeing the silhouette of the policeman at my bedroom door, checking on me as I lay awake in the darkened room, trembling.

I’m sure my younger brother and I suffered PTSD from our years of torment. But my brother suffered more than me. The big-headed boy tortured him whenever I wasn’t home to protect him. He once locked my brother in the basement and took the phone off the hook, to prevent him from calling my mother for help. She was a real estate broker and was often never home.

These torturous moments still affect my younger brother. Sometimes, he talks about it. But mostly, he’d rather talk about his work. In his new incarnation as a real estate magnate, he spends much of his time running towards his next deal and away from the shadows that chase after him.

I’m still tortured by self-doubt. Because of the big-headed boy’s disability, I’ve always questioned my own intelligence, wondered if I was as damaged as he was. My mother’s need to protect him didn’t help my self-confidence. She used his disability as an excuse for his bad behavior. Instead of condemning him for his actions, I became the focus of her anger or the target of an argument. She never punished him for consequences that were clearly his fault.

When we were children, if I protested an under-the-table kick at my younger brother, I would get punished for intervening. My mother would race into the dining room from the kitchen, where she was preparing a tuna casserole, and evict me from the table. A happy outcome I have to admit, in dodging the tuna casserole.

To this day, the big-headed boy isn’t punished for his misdeeds. A feeble attempt at discipline withers into acquiescence. If he crashes a car, he gets a new one; loses a phone, gets a better one; as my parent’s insurance rises along with the debris field he leaves behind.

My anger towards my mother lingers along with sadness and pity. It’s a tenuous balance. I sense her anxiousness, see the strain in her eyes and on her face. She wears her shame like an old tattered jacket, unable to forgive herself for bearing a mentally disabled son.

For my parents, there is no relief from him. At a time when it should just be the two of them, there are three. They’ve never been empty nesters like their friends. The big-headed boy still lives with them. He still yells at my mother when she tries to shield him from bad influences, or stop him from making bad choices, like the new cellphone he bought. It came with an iPad and a $45 per month bill. My mother coerced me into helping him set up his new iPad on a Saturday afternoon. He stands in the kitchen, cradling his spoils, as I confront him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“$45 is a lot of money,” I tell him. “But the phone can do a lot more than the old one,” he says. “$45 is a lot of money,” I repeat. “But it came with a free iPad.” “Nothing is free!” “Can you just help him set it up?” my mother asks. I had no choice but to say, “Yes.”

I had to help him as she has always helped him: by not letting him fall, not letting him suffer the consequences of his actions, which my parents suffer for him.

Though the big-headed boy still lives at home, he controls his own finances, despite having no concept of money. He earns a meager salary from the one customer he occasionally chauffeurs and receives disability from the government, an arrangement he facilitated alone. Part of his brain is intellectually capable. He knows just enough to be dangerous.

The money my parents allow him to manage is mostly spent on gambling and sketchy people he calls friends. In his desire to gain the approval of others, he gives away the best of himself to strangers while abusing the ones closest to him, my parents, the victims of his outbursts, especially my mother. Every adolescent tantrum evokes a lifetime of guilt in her, which empowers him and punishes her; he adeptly manipulates her emotions in spite of his deficits.

My 92-year-old father knows when the big-headed boy is insincere but is too fragile to confront him. Because of his dementia, he often forgets what happened. At times, I see the light of optimism in my father’s eyes. Other times, I see the dark faraway look of hopeless confusion.

There’s no compassion in the big-headed boy’s eyes, only contempt. I have seen the angry insults he hurls at my father.

“You’re stupid!” he tells him while standing in the den, as my parents and I sit watching TV. “Leave him alone!” I yell. My father slowly pushes himself up from the couch, shaking as he rises in anger. He yells, “Stop that! — “You’re rude and disrespectful!” “Leave Dad alone!” I say again. He finally does.

But we really can’t leave Dad alone, not for too long anyway because of his dementia. He once left the room to use the bathroom and returned wearing a different pair of pants. He couldn’t remember changing them.

The big-headed boy needs supervision, too, which he only gets when he has to be saved: from leasing a car he couldn’t afford but the dealership approved anyway. The big-headed boy said my parents would co-finance it. Several months later, the bank repossessed the car because he didn’t pay the bills.

He doesn’t understand cause and effect. He doesn’t learn from his mistakes. He is transactional and lives to feed his greed and desires. He doesn’t care how his actions affect my parents. He doesn’t care that he hurts them every day. He doesn’t care that he’s a burden to my parents and eventually will be to my brother and me.

The anger I harbor towards my mother, and older brother by association is deep and pervasive. A part of me I never want to lose. Anger is my survival mechanism. It is how I overcame adversity in childhood. How I protected my younger brother and me. How I was able to escape the shadows that still chase after my younger brother.

It is how I will survive when it’s time for my younger brother and me to handle the big-headed boy. The monster my mother created out of guilt. The man child never punished for his misdeeds and always escapes the consequences that were clearly his fault. And the ones who watch over him, who care for him, and will eventually have to save him, are the ones who are punished instead of him.

This is the legacy my parents will leave behind. The burden they carry and will pass onto us. A disaster that cannot be averted. No matter how often we try to change the outcome. There are things in life we can’t control. Moments when we need to take a step back in contemplation and say, “It just simply was.”

Follow Lauren on Twitter: www.twitter.com/thinkspin Follow Lauren’s antidote to chaos at her blog Think Spin