When I was a freshman in college and just starting to understand how people could “on purpose” be cruel to others, my Resident Assistant told me “I’m sorry Stephanie but hurting people hurt people.”
I suppose this is true. I have read it, of course, being from a family that stocks up on tomes such as “What To Do When You Are An Apple Married to An Orange”, “How to Be Nice When You’re Feeling So Mean” and “Now That You Are Twelve, You Are Going To Be An Emotional, Hormonal Mess For the Next Few Years But That Is Okay, We’ll Get Through It Together”. I’ve been in therapy off and on since I was sixteen. I’ve read the books, listened to the programs and sat through the lectures.
Violence begets violence. Cruelty begets cruelty. A child that is not shown love does not know how to show love to others.
On some level, I even believe it. I’ve seen my two year old nephew try and walk like his father. I’ve been at the family reunions where we sang hymns just as our fore bearers did. I know that were I not my mother’s daughter, I would not clear the table while people are still eating and were I not Daddy’s Girl I would not be a terrible dining companion, obsessed as I am with identifying every song that comes over the sound system.
So yes, I believe that children learn what they are taught. But I’m also starting to believe that people have choices. To speak or not to speak. To share or not to share. To model or not to model. People should stop. People should think. People can choose.
But we don’t, do we? We go ahead and miss the meetings. We blurt out the insults. We utter in the privacy of our homes things that we would never want strangers to hear us say, much less those whom we love the most.
I was reminded of this truth recently while watching “The Commish”. I’ve been using Netflix and Hulu lately as a way of reliving parts of my past TV landscape and have already gone through “Full House”, “Jem” and “21 Jump Street”. I was wary about starting “The Commish” because I couldn’t remember how much gunplay there was (after all, the same actor was in “The Shield” and we all know how THAT turned out). I needn’t have worried. The police work is there, yes, but the loving relationship between Police Commissioner Tony Scali and his wife Rachel is there as well.
In an episode I watched (re watched?) recently, Rachel’s father has come back into town, promising to take her to the circus. He was on the road as Rachel was growing up and had never taken the time to have that special Daddy/Daughter experience. As the episode draws to a close, Rachel’s father once again is “on the road” missing the promised trip. “Why do I believe he’d change?” Rachel asks her husband. “He does this every time. Why do I always believe he’s changed?”
Tony didn’t have an answer. Neither do I. I have a “Rachel’s Father” in my life too. Perhaps everyone does. My particular model swooped into my growing up experiences with lessons such as “You’re ugly the way you are. You must follow these steps to be more pleasing to people.”, “You’ll never amount to anything in life. You can’t do anything right, so you might as well stop trying.” and “You probably never should have been born. All you are is trouble.”
These lessons weren’t an every day occurrence, but they came often enough. And they are still there. When I try and sing a song I’ve never sung before, there goes “You can’t do anything right, so you might as well not do anything at all.” When I actually try and put on make up, I hear “No one will ever like you. You’re so ugly with that hair and those clothes.”
“You shouldn’t have been born.” “No one will ever love you.” “Why can’t you do anything right?” “You’re ugly. Ugly. Ugly.”
I see my “Rachel’s Father” every so often and talk to them more than that. Now that I am grown our relationship has smoothed out some. I’m married. I teach classes. I sing solos. I obviously HAVE done things and (some) people DO like me. In that respect, my “Rachel’s Father” has changed. The venom isn’t there. Neither are the words. We are cordial, civil, even loving at times. I suppose I’m expected to be quiet, to go with the flow. Looking at us from the outside, few would believe the words were said anyway, so what is the point of dredging up any unpleasantness now?
But the hurt is still there. Hurting people hurt people, remember?
And they do. My relationship with “Rachel’s Father” impacts my relationship with my husband. I become especially sensitive before planned visits, even developing physical…well, not symptoms but I can’t eat or sleep or breathe well at times. It impacts my relationship with my classes. There are things I’d like to say, to do, to teach but I can’t…or won’t because the fear of failure is stronger than the fear of trying. There are songs I won’t sing, lessons I won’t approach, skits I won’t write because I’m afraid. “What’s the point of trying when you are only going to screw it up in the end?”
It impacts my relationship with the world around me. There are times when I won’t venture out of the house alone, even to do things I wish to do. The college, for example, has a pool. I love swimming. The college is no far from my house. But will I walk over to dip in the water? No I will not. I can barely walk alone to the church up the street. There is no way I could venture solo down the road. “You’re worthless. You’re ugly. You can’t do anything right.”
The hardest part of all, however, is the impact my relationship with “Rachel’s Father” has on my relationship with God. See I’m a minister’s kid. So I’ve heard all kinds of sermons, read all kinds of homilies, attended all kinds of meetings. Some of what I’ve heard, I’ve agreed with. Some I haven’t. I don’t for example, believe that anyone is out of the reach of God’s love. God is love. God loves us. Period.
God, however, is holy. Sin is not. And this is where my relationship with “Rachel’s Father” and my relationship with God intersect. I’m not quite sure what the sin is. Is it my inability to forget the hurtful words and forge ahead in peace and harmony? Is it holding on to a grudge and not being able to let go? Is it the fact that I keep saying I have forgiven people but every time I am expected to see them begin to whine “I don’t want to! I don’t want to!”?
Whatever the case, I’m sinning. And part of me is choosing to sin. Hurting people hurt…themselves?
For it is hurting me. I believe that God cannot look on sin. So, if we sin and knowingly have unconfessed sin, is there really any point in praying? Will God even be able to hear us? Will any of the “bless Mommy and Daddy and the missionaries” make it past the ceiling? Or will our words just float away in a cloud of good intentions yet hardened hearts.
I haven’t hardened my heart. I don’t want to. I’m not Pharaoh telling Moses to work a miracle in the throne room. I’m just hurt. And confused. And lonely.
I’ve never had the kind of “God is my friend” kind of relationship that other people have. God and I aren’t “buddy buddy”. We aren’t “pals”. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t picture myself trying to impress some man with a white beard and wrinkled face. God’s not my Santa Claus. But He’s not my “homey” either.
Hurting people hurt people. Hurting people hurt people who can’t pray.
And it hurts. I’m sad. I usually go to sleep saying my prayers. I miss that. I miss Him.
I know it’s not “Rachel’s Father’s” fault in entirety.  I could pray. I could confess. But I’m not sure how. I don’t know what to say. How do I say “I won’t feel this way again” when I’m not sure that that isn’t a lie? I don’t know that I won’t feel this way again. I have to see “Rachel’s Father” sometimes.  The anger is lessening. I’m understanding more about why people say what they say when they say it. I’m clearer as to the psychology of “teach a child how to speak cruelty and they will indeed be cruel.”
What I’m not clear on is the whole “Our Father” of it all. Do I ask God to take away the hurt when I’m not sure that I want that? Couldn’t the hurt be protecting me somehow? Isn’t the memory of it keeping me from saying those very things to someone else? What is taking away the hurt takes away my empathy? What if taking away the anger takes away the distance I’ve put around my heart and I end up even more broken than before? Who would reconstruct me then?
Hurting people hurt people.
Hurting people hurt others.
Hurting people can’t sleep.
Hurting people can’t pray.
I miss Him though. That’s the worst of it. We’ve been together since I was five. Not talking to Him is killing me.
I will. Eventually the pain of separation will be too great and I’ll have to say -something-, even if it’s “I don’t wanna lie to you but I don’t know what else to do.” He’s there. That I know.
But oh how I wish Hurting People could keep their big fat mouths shut.
At least around me.