Strings

On Conditional Love and Recovery

I grew up believing love was conditional. If my behavior was good and I did what I was told, my mother would love me. She never stated it outright, but it was clear from her actions. Whenever I did something wrong, she would chastise or ignore me.

If I pleased my mother, her love surrounded me like sunshine. It was warm and powerful and wonderful. She would coo that I was her little Barbie doll, and I would bask in her praise. I relished those moments. They made me feel complete. I wished they could last forever.

The other moments hit me hard. Sometimes they would come from nowhere. Everything would be ok, and then suddenly it was not. I had said something wrong, been disrespectful or disappointed her. She would release the full force of her wrath, her words like bullets striking me.

It could be something as simple as cleaning the bathroom, which was one of my regular chores starting at age 10 or 11. There was a list left for me that I’d check every day after school.

I remember my mother checking my work after I’d cleaned the bathroom one day. I thought it looked fine, but she leaned over the bathtub and scoffed. “That tub is not clean!” she said. “Do you see that ring? If you’re going to do something halfway, then don’t do it at all.”

Or I had failed to load the dishwasher properly, and she would be furious. “The dishwasher doesn’t have fingers! You have to rinse the dishes thoroughly!” To this day, I scrub the plates before I put them in the dishwasher.

These times were so frequent, I learned to expect them. I’d steel myself against them, mostly by remaining silent and waiting for the moment to pass. The best response was blind obedience. “Yes Ma’am.” No matter what, do not defend, argue, or question.

What I found harder to handle was the unexpected. She’d seem fine, and then her mood would suddenly turn thunderous. Often it was fueled by alcohol, as if a valve in her had opened.

I was her best target: needy, compliant, and captive.

I learned to escape through music, television or reading. Alone time was my best chance of feeling safe. I stayed in my room as often as I could. If I kept away from the strike zone, I could avoid being hit.

When I had to be around my mother, I’d try to make myself as small and unobtrusive as possible. I was a phantom, too inconsequential to notice.

Years later, I learned to escape through alcohol. No one would love me the way I needed to be loved, but alcohol could make everything fade.

My mind told me that everyone expected something. If I didn’t perform well, they wouldn’t like me. Eventually they’d leave me.

Alcohol took me as I am. It tamped down my feelings and reduced my insecurities. The only thing it asked for in return was loyalty. It had to come first.

I didn’t realize the extent of my warped thinking until I walked into the rooms of my first recovery meeting. What I felt there was as powerful as it was foreign: warmth, empathy, and acceptance. I was sitting in a room of eyes on me, but I did not feel judged.

At first I feared being there would be like revisiting my childhood. We had moved more than a dozen times during my school years. Horrible times, often during the middle of the year.

I’d be the new girl at some strange school, thrust into the spotlight. Class, we have a new student today.

I’d shrink in front of the sea of faces inspecting me. If I could only fade away. I wanted to fit in, but I didn’t want to stand out.

But in this recovery meeting, I didn’t feel like an outsider. I felt like one of them. The faces around me looked kind, their expressions soft and compassionate.

For the first time in my life, I entered a room full of strangers and my anxiety disappeared. I instinctively knew I wouldn’t have to barter for their affection.

No one expected anything from me. All they knew about me was my powerlessness over alcohol, and that was enough. All they wanted for me was what they wanted for themselves, sobriety.

Since that first meeting many years ago, I have gone to countless more. Despite the welcoming enviromment, at times I still struggle with the concept of love. My first inclination is I must do something for it. And if I already have it, then I’m in debt.

One day I was short on cash at a meeting and a friend put a dollar in the basket for me. My mind took note. It told me the scale was out of balance, and I must make it right as quickly as possible.

A few weeks later, I saw my friend sitting across the room. I walked over and handed him a dollar. Looking amused, he said, “Evie, don’t worry about it. Put one in for someone else sometime.”

He had probably forgotten about it, but I hadn’t. Even just owing him a dollar made me anxious, because I was subject to his disapproval. My inner voice told me there is no such thing as a gift without an expectation.

I am years into recovery, but I still fight the inclination to keep score. On bad days, I get stressed if I anger or don’t acknowledge someone in the right way. On good days, I accept that friendships are cultivated, not purchased. I don’t have to earn my worth.

There is a bond, but there are no strings.