From seemingly out of nowhere, into my mind popped the theme music from Captain Kangaroo. I have no idea why; I had not thought of it in years – certainly not as long as I can remember. I always have a song in my head, but usually I am aware of the stimulus. I never even really liked the Captain. With the remembered whistling tune came a rather painful memory I don’t recall having before, when my sister was a baby, being parked in front of the Captain while my mother was with my sister. I felt lonely and left out, but also the spectrum of typical neglect feelings: rejected, unimportant, less loved/lovable, hurt, mad, and jealous– and most certainly unaware of all those feelings. To be sure, I had no language for any of it, but it all swirled in my little body and wafted faintly back with the snippet of musical recall.
I was two and a half when our little sister was born. I have always, and continue to, adore her. And admittedly, I was jealous. She was the pretty one, with great big beautiful eyes. People stopped on the street and remarked about those gorgeous eyes. Our mom was plain and non-descript-looking, but the new baby looked like our dad, who was proud and rather vain about being decidedly handsome. We recently found an ancient, dog-eared black and white of him flexing his muscles on the beach when he was in his twenties. Dad called our new sister his ”Little Monk” or “Little Monkey Baby.” Of all of us, she did not have a biblical name, so it seemed the wheels were greased from the start for her to be more “mainstream” or “American,” which I always rather envied. But long story short, her arrival meant greater scarcity of the already meager emotional resources in that house. So whatever neglect I was feeling was heightened and multiplied. Thankfully it never turned into resentment of her.
Our oldest sister was always more popular than I, or so I thought. I remember kids often saying to me in junior high, “Oh! You’re Becki’s sister!” And I bitterly thought but did not say, “NO! I’M RUTH!” But by then, I already doubted if, in fact, there was a distinct me, if I did exist, let alone had a right to. Existence is often a question that accompanies neglect. If I existed, would I not exist in the mind of the other? Oy vey, a child cannot think such complex thoughts. I just knew unquestionably that I did not matter and needed to find a way to compensate for it. (I have often wondered, how does Venus Williams do it? How does one continue to live and perform with such grace and dignity, even with immense talent in her own right, in the shadow of such a legendary sister? Kudos to Venus!)
Often neglect is a function of simply too many kids. How on earth could parents, especially single, traumatized, impoverished, enslaved by impossibly long and depleting work hours, or otherwise disabled parents possibly attend to more than a couple of children, especially in light of a western atomistic, individualistic, lacking a “village” culture of parenting? Neglect is yet another expression of all of these. And, of course, this makes it more difficult for the child of neglect to name their experience as traumatic, viewing the parent as the afflicted one, and trying to compensate for that.
Many a neglect client of mine has been the younger or youngest of “too many” children when often there was not enough to go around to begin with, and jealousy is often the shameful and/or painful byproduct. In fact, whenever I encounter, particularly in couples, an extreme of jealousy, the first place I will want to look is at the history related to siblings. We often find the answer there. It may even be a case of a sibling with disabilities or illness that requires a disproportional amount of parental emotional energy or attention, making it even more challenging to feel worthy or to own the embarrassment of resentment.
Whenever a client laments a jealous partner or their own jealousy in general in the world, the place to look first is at the sibling story. Some profound neglect arises from the fact of simply too many kids. There was never enough to go around and with each additional birth, even less.
I envied not only my sisters but others too. I was always perhaps too aware of who got what and how much. I perennially seemed to come up short, hungry, explaining it as proof that I was not enough, and of course, the infantile lament, “It is NOT FAIR!”. I worried and envied about money for years, and when I finally became solvent enough to pay taxes without worrying about floating checks and holding my breath that they would clear before they bounced, I probably became one of the few people I know who actually took pleasure in paying my taxes – which I still do!
I was always perhaps too aware of who got what and how much. I perennially seemed to come up short, hungry, explaining it as proof that I was not enough, and of course, the infantile lament, “It is NOT FAIR!”.
Islands
I heard an interview on late-night radio – well, I should not say I actually heard it, as I was busily doing too many things, and my attention was spotty, like the I imagine the failing attention of a too-busy mother to be. What I did hear was a novelist, whose name I did not catch, being asked why he locates his fantasy stories on an island. He replied without hesitation, “Because that way, one can study a people or a culture without the influence of the outside world: the world outside the confines of the isolated island world.” I thought about what I think of as the “one-person psychology” that comes with neglect. There is such an ocean surrounding the child and the child’s solitary world, that the presence or influence of an “outside” world may be miles away, or simply non-existent. I always felt I had my own little culture, and in some ways, embarrassedly, still do. Until we recover enough to build a boat, an ark, or a bridge to connection.
Interestingly a life-changing event for me was in junior high, when I entered a national essay contest. High school kids from all over the US entered, and although I was one of the youngest entrants, I won. The theme we were all writing on was John Donne’s “No Man is an Island.” How ironic that, little island that I was, I wrote a winning essay on that. I will have to dig up that essay – I am sure it is somewhere in the archives of our family. The prize was $100, which I used to buy my first ten speed bike, which indeed became a bridge to life in the world for that disconnected young girl.
Similarly ironic, some of my favorite places in the world are tropical islands: Hawaii and Cuba. And the British Isles and Greek Islands are definitely high on my bucket list of destinations.
I have always found it easier to give than to share. I am decidedly generous when it comes to giving. However, I never lend anything without being fully prepared to say goodbye to it, and sharing evokes even still the shadow of a gnawing fear that there will not be enough, so deeply grooved was the circuitry of scarcity and, to be sure, injustice.
Sharing
I have always found it easier to give than to share. I am decidedly generous when it comes to giving. However, I never lend anything without being fully prepared to say goodbye to it, and sharing evokes even still the shadow of a gnawing fear that there will not be enough, so deeply grooved was the circuitry of scarcity and, to be sure, injustice. Sharing people? For me, that was always out of the question! And when others talk of polyamory, I honestly can’t imagine how they do it.
All this to say, jealousy, envy, hunger, and thirst may be lingering sequelae of neglect. Ironically, I hear the echoes of the old revolutionary rallying cry, Basta Ya! Enough now! Enough injustice, trauma, and neglect! And in our healing, may we strive to create the trust and safety emerging from that gnawing, when in real-time, in fact there will be enough. Basta!
Today’s song:
My book “Working with the Developmental Trauma of Childhood Neglect: Using Psychotherapy and Attachment Theory Techniques in Clinical Practice” was published on August 31st. It provides psychotherapists with a multidimensional view of childhood neglect and a practical roadmap for facilitating survivors’ healing.
