Herself spent some time recently conversing with an old friend - someone with whom she had essentially grown up (when the friend was not away at boarding school). They have many things in common, including a similar upbringing. The two of them have, happily, grown closer, rather than apart, over the years. Though they do not speak very often, they understand one another well.
Her friend -- whom we shall call B -- has had rather more than a fair share of trials and tribulations in life. After an arduous, lengthy, and painful ending of a fifteen-year relationship, B has at last found a new partner (to whom B lovingly and amusingly refers as "Spouse 2.0"). Currently B and the partner are in a long-distance relationship, seeing one another a few times a year; nevertheless, they have pledged themselves to one another, entwining their hearts and their lives as much as possible until they can be together in the same location. Herself empathizes with them; she recalls the years when she and Beloved Husband (then, Beloved Fiancé
) were apart, and still to this day she feels the echoes of the visceral pain of yearning for someone across space and time.
B's Parent has been, unfortunately, less than welcoming to B's partner. Initially, Parent would decline to use B's partner's name, referring instead to "THAT PERSON" when initiating conversation with B about B's intentions for the future with the partner. Even after B and B's partner held the ceremony pledging themselves to one another, B's Parent still does not include, or offer consideration to, B's Partner. For example, when B and Parent go shopping together, Parent happily offers to purchase items for B's Offspring, but specifically states that B is to pay for things -- even trivial, inexpensive items -- for B's partner. It makes B livid.
A couple of days ago, B's Parent sent an e-mail to B regarding various items, but did not inquire regarding B's partner. B wondered aloud to Herself whether Parent was deliberately ignoring B's partner, and could not fathom why Parent would not include any mention of B's partner. "Am I being punished," B asked, for not choosing a partner whom Parent would have found more acceptable? B was in an indignant, towering rage.
The answer to the one-word question -- WHY? -- is tremendously complicated. It involves an analysis and an understanding of Parent's personality (for a good description in regard to narcissistic parent, you can
look here). It could take years to parse the details. However, such a thorough understanding is not necessary, for regardless of the depth of comprehension of why Parent behaves in such a manner, one single overarching truth remains: Parent is unlikely to change. Ever.
That's a bitter pill to swallow.
And thus, B's anger.
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After her conversation with B, Herself contemplated Anger. Why do we feel such a tremendous outrage? Under such (and similar) circumstances, there are many facets to the fury.
Part of it is a sense of impotence: we cannot change what we perceive to be a tremendous unfairness, an enormous unkindness. We cannot
make another person behave as we feel a Decent Person ought to behave. Nothing we can do -- no matter how hard we try -- will make the other person sympathetic or thoughtful in the way we would be; for example, no amount of effort will cause Parent to spontaneously open welcoming arms to B's Partner.
Part of it is also a sense of being judged: we feel as though our choices have been weighed and found wanting. Thus, when B's choice of partner appears to be somehow insufficient to merit appropriate attention from B's Parent, it calls into question all kinds of other corollary questions for B: does Parent disapprove of me, my choices, my actions, my decisions? Of my ability to find worth and value in a person as special to me as my Partner? Of me? Am I inadequate?
Part of it is plain suspicion: is someone being deliberately mean? Is Parent purposefully excluding B's partner, and if so, to what end? Why would someone who is supposed to love unconditionally be so cruel?
Part of it is, too, a sense of emptiness, of loss of something that, in truth, was never had: we have a wish -- a wish that is forever unfulfilled -- to see that the people who are important to us (a partner, a close friend) are also important to others who matter to us. In the case of B, the thought is: if a Parent loves B, the Child, shouldn't individuals vital to the happiness of the Child -- such as B's partner -- also be important to the Parent? If not, why not? We are so very disappointed. Our hopes and expectations are trampled and left in the dust.
All of these parts can combine in a toxic way, yielding the fury that B felt - that we all would feel under such circumstances.
We are angry when we see that the people and things we love and find important, are not valued as we feel they should be. We are annoyed and humiliated when when someone scoffs, when someone denigrates, when someone dismisses our important people and things. We shrivel when our choices -- in people, in activities, in careers, in all the small things -- are questioned, frowned upon, mocked; or worst of all, when they are baldly ignored, as if they are unworthy of any consideration at all. We rage.
Anger is so much easier than sorrow. Anger is directed outward, radiating, directing the pain away from our cores. Sorrow is directed inward, piercing, channeling the pain into our hearts.
We carry our anger like armor. It protects us from grief.
And yet: grieve we must. We must mourn the loss of our hopes; we must let go of our expectations about other people. Once we accept that we cannot change others, we can find peace.
It is a lonely realization, to understand that who, and what, is important to oneself, is not important to another. Nevertheless, it is the beginning of freedom: freedom to follow our dreams, to love who and what we choose, and to find our happiness.
We need no one's approval to love.
All we need is to follow our hearts.
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