LETTING GO OF OUR ADULT CHILDREN
Chapter 9: Closure When Reconcilliation Is Not Possible
Page 28
BY ARLENE HARDER, MA, MFT
Continuation of Chapter 9 of Letting Go of Our Adult Children, in which you can learn how to let go with love when true reconciliation is not possible.
To use the following as a guided imagery exercise, read it slowly into a tape recorder, pausing at the places indicated, or have a friend read it to you. Or you may just want to read it several times (to under- stand what you are to do) and then complete the exercise without a tape recording.
After you are through, you may want to take a few moments and write about what happened during the exercise. Some people find it helpful to do the exercise more than once.
Let yourself become as comfortable as possible. Allow yourself to be gently supported by the chair or sofa on which you are sitting and move, if you must, to find the most relaxing position. As you let your body find its comfort, allow your eyes to gently close. . .
Now begin to relax by taking a few slow, deep, abdominal breaths, filling your lungs to capacity and releasing the air as completely as possible . . . Each time you breathe out, say to yourself, "I am relaxing. . ." After two or three of these deep breaths, let your body breathe according to its own natural rhythm, slowly and easily ...
Each time you inhale and exhale normally, allow yourself to become twice as relaxed as you were a moment before . . . Twice as comfortable . . . Twice as peaceful . . . With each breath every cell of your body becomes at ease . . . You find yourself in a state of pleasant, relaxed consciousness . . .
And now imagine that you are standing on a grassy low hill near the sea. You can smell the clean sea air and hear the sounds of birds as they circle overhead and onto the beach below. You notice a path that follows a stream flowing gently into the sea. You take the path and walk slowly to the shore, and then along the shoreline until you come to a dock where a fairly large boat is tied. The weather is perfect and you imagine it would be a good day for taking a boat ride across that sea, or to various places along the sea's edge. Allow yourself to experience being here in a place of calm, serene beauty with a sense of potential healing all around you . . .
As you look back toward the hill on which you were first standing, you notice that there is another path, different from the one you took, that also leads to the shore and then to the dock. You notice on the path a person who, at one time, had been in a relationship with you but with whom you now have a conflict that keeps you physically or emotionally apart. You can see him or her clearly, and even though you may have had difficulty being together in the past, now you realize that no harm will come to either of you in this place.
You watch as the person walks along the path and slowly comes toward you. You greet each other and walk together toward the boat. During this time you discuss how one of you will go on the boat and one of you will wait on the shore. There are a number of reasons why either one of you should go or stay, but you realize that the journey is more necessary for the one than for the other. Perhaps you talk about where it is that either one of you needs to go. You discuss the fact that sometimes people who set out on a voyage and plan to return may discover during their trip that other places hold a strong attraction for them. And so it may be possible that the person taking the trip will not return for some reason.
Once you have decided who will take the journey and who will wait on shore, you pay closer attention to the details of the boat. What does the boat look like? Notice what provisions are already on the boat and which ones still need to be brought on board. How do you fee I about the boat and what it has to offer the one who will be traveling? . . .
Now the one who is to take the journey gets on the boat. The one remaining behind unties the rope that holds the boat to the dock and watches as the boat moves slowly away into the distance and out of sight. The person on shore will experience this time in a way that is just right for that person. The journey may last only a short time, or many months or years may be needed before the journey is over. Since this is an experience in the nonlinear part of the mind, time is not of consequence; the journey can last as long as either of you needs for it to last.
Let the journey begin . . .
Now it is almost time for the boat to return to shore. Does the boat return? If it does not, allow the person on shore to accept the choice of the one who does not return. Have the person who has been waiting sit for a while and consider what it means to allow another person to choose his or her own destiny.
If the boat does return, have the person on shore greet the one who has gone on the journey. Find a comfortable place to sit and talk with the other person heart-to-heart about what happened to each of you while you were apart. You may experience this conversation as a real dialogue in which first one of you and then the other speaks. Or you may just get a sense of what happens as you and the other person discuss what you experienced while you were apart . .
What do you learn that you had not realized before? What happens as you open yourself to listen to what is in the heart of the other? . . .
As you prepare to part, remember that you can return to this place and talk again any time you need to. And now say goodbye and walk back to the hill on separate paths . . .
Become aware of the room again and take a deep breath. As you exhale, accept the healing and insights from this experience as being just right for you at this time. And when you feel ready, open your eyes.
Creating a Story of Healing
The stories we tell about our lives are not fixed and immutable, any more than our lives are fixed and immutable. The thousands of circumstances we have experienced over the years provide a wealth of possible meanings and interpretations. No one of them defines the underlying meaning and substance of events in our lives. But we keep repeating that story over and over again until we are convinced it is the only interpretation anyone could possibly arrive at, if they knew what we know.
If our story is a happy one, we don't have any incentive to change it. This is not the case with the story of disappointed parents who are unable to reconcile with their children. Yet just as we can discover new options by looking through different windows, we can discover that there is more than one story that can reflect what happened between us and our child.
If you are willing to entertain the possibility that your experiences need not be viewed as darkly as you have previously viewed them, you might try a story writing exercise I created. As difficult as it may seem to you now, this exercise can transform your story of conflict and pain into one of acceptance and peace.
This exercise will take a fair amount of time to complete; at least weeks, and probably months. It will be time and energy well spent. And while you can begin at any time, it is best if you wait until after you have worked through most of the tasks in the five stages of healing. Then, after those things have not been able to bring your child back to you, telling your story in a different way can describe the broken relationship in more healing terms.
To begin, find a quiet place, perhaps your private retreat, and sit down to consider what stories you tell yourself, and others, about your family's situation. What is the role you have assigned yourself and what is the role you have assigned your child? What emphasis do you give to each part? When you know how you want this tale to be told, begin with "Once upon a time . . . " (or something else if you wish) and write the first draft of the story of your relationship with your child. Be as creative as you can, perhaps telling your story as though it were about someone else. Write it down as thoroughly as possible and then put it aside.
The next time you feel like working on the story, read what you have written so far and notice what it feels like to have your story on paper. Since stories with many-faceted, complex emotions often change from one telling to the next, notice whether you still feel the way you felt when you first wrote it or whether some feelings have shifted. If something you had written now seems unimportant, or if you are ambivalent about some things you had previously held as absolutes, think about how you might change those things in writing the next draft. Leave this draft for your next visit.
When you return, read the story again and think about how you may want to rewrite it. This time make the rewrite shorter, if possible, leaving in only what you know are the important parts and discarding what is not essential.
Repeat this process as many times as you need, making the story more and more brief. You may even try seeing whether you can tell your story in one sentence! Long or short, realize that your story expresses, in a style that is uniquely yours, essential truths of what has happened. Your story is an important version of the unresolvable rift between you and your child, but remember, too, that it is not the absolute, definitive, final word.
When you have finished, notice what changes have happened to your story since you first began telling it. Notice that each retelling contains elements of the truth, with the whole picture evolving as you interpret events in a different way.
Writing a Letter of Closure
Two and a half years ago I met a woman whose son had recently died of cancer. As we talked, she told me that her son, who was the same age as mine, had abused drugs and alcohol before his diagnosis and continued to blame other people whenever he got into trouble. Knowing that her son was dying, she was able to share with him the things she wanted to say. When he died, she felt their relationship was complete.
Our conversation made me realize that if Matthew died, which was surely possible because he was living on the streets at the time, I would not only feel a deep loss, I would also know I had not shared with him all I wanted to share. I decided to write a letter to him, with a personal copy to each of our children. Since I sometimes over-explain myself, the letter was very long (I would write a shorter one if I were doing it today). However, the purpose was to express what I wanted to say. I did. If it took a long time to read, so be it. If my children did not understand what I was trying to say, so be it. I had done my best and felt a real sense of closure in my relationship with Matthew at that time.
Some time later I was talking with him on the phone about another matter and asked him what the letter had meant to him. His only comment was, "It's apparently something you needed to say, and you have a right to your opinion." That's not exactly the reaction I had hoped for, but at least I assumed he had read it. It would have been great if he had said, "Gee, Mom, now that I see how much you love me and how my situation has affected the whole family, I'm going to enter a treatment program and get a job." But that's just wishful thinking. I had no right to expect or demand him to respond in any particular way; nor was that my intent.
Since I wrote that letter, I have helped other parents write to their children. Before writing those letters, however, it has always been essential that the parent be willing to explore honestly why she wants to write. Only then can she be assured that the letter will not become a rehash of old fights, a defensive and angry diatribe, or a subtle manipulation to get the child to change. The primary purpose of these letters, after all, is to bring closure to a broken relationship, to acknowledge that, as things now stand, there does not seem to be a possibility for reconciliation, even though that is what the parent would prefer.
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© Copyright 1994, Arlene Harder, MA, MFT, Reprinted with permission
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