Dear Bel,
I need some guidance on what to do about my difficult siblings. I am
31, the eldest of four children — happily married to a man whom I adore,
with two lovely children. Having a large family has, at times, filled me
with immense joy and I love the fact that my children have a large support
network around them if they should ever need it. But recently I’ve been
finding the temperaments of my siblings hard to deal with.
At family gatherings (of which we have a lot) my sisters often display
obvious displeasure at something one or other of us may have done (usually
my mother or myself). They refuse to speak civilly to me, ignore me and in
general give me the cold shoulder. On occasions I tentatively ask if I have
done anything wrong (I always assume this role, as I have cannot bear bad
feeling) to which they respond aggressively.
In the past I’ve always remained calm and tried hard to be pleasant to
them. I do this mainly for my parents, who have given all their time and
energy into raising us. My mother often felt unloved and unwanted as a child
and as a result has always tried hard to bring us together and keep us
close. However, after another ordeal at the weekend, I feel utterly depleted
again. My husband is worrying about the effect this is having on my health
and I am finding it increasingly hard to find the inner strength to deal
with these gatherings any more (particularly with two little children). He
has suggested I stop giving myself away to them in the way that I do and
that I should take a step back from it all and find enjoyment in our own
children and our relationship with each other.
I have spoken to my mother about things in the past and she says she
loves me for my goodness to other people but she refuses to deal with the
issue any further because of her fear of confrontation and the thought of
losing the affection of her children. I feel empty and so tired of all this
— so desperately want us all to embrace family life and its great pleasures,
but feel unable to do this any longer. I feel as if I have been a doormat
for too long, but don’t know if I can find the courage to either carry on as
I have been doing or set about making changes.
Margaret
During the coming weeks, millions of people will spend time with their
families, obeying the imperatives of blood. Thanksgiving, Diwali, Ramadan,
Chanukkah, Christmas, the New Year . . . the great festivals of the world
traditionally involve family reunions, and Christmas, above all, has a
symbolic family at its heart. For the fortunate ones this is cause for
celebration; for many others the fulfilment of a duty bringing pleasure too,
even if simply that of making the elderly happy. Yet this time of year will
also be dreaded by those for whom the extended family is a battleground
littered with the corpses of murdered hopes and ideals. So you wistfully
invoke “family life and its great pleasures”, despite all the evidence of
your experience. You long for the construct “Family” to be something is has
probably never been. And your current situation would be so much easier were
you able to throw away your dream hand of “Happy Families”, realising you
cannot win the game, because there will always be something missing from the
sets.
It would be a great shame if your preoccupation with your siblings, and
generous compulsion to make up to your mother for what she lacked in her
childhood were gradually to sully your great good fortune. You have a wise
and loving husband; there is little I can add to his perceptive advice to
you, other than urge you to listen to it. He and your children have to come
first, for families remake themselves, forming new configurations. But for
this to happen things must be let go.
At this point I want to pick up another letter in my bundle, which is
relevant. This is from a 39-year-old I’ll call Christine, the middle one of
three sisters, with no husband or children. She writes at great length about
her problems with a family that settled early into cruel roleplay early,
with the three girls being given labels by their parents: “My older sister
was ‘clumsy’, my younger sister ‘a plodder’, but ever since I can remember I
have been cast as the ‘awkward, difficult child’.” Christine's mother and
older sister used to describe her as “ugly” , and “there was scarcely any
aspect of my appearance or behaviour which was not held up for derision, and
I felt permanently in the wrong”. Each time she gathers with her mother and
sisters there is “sniping”, and Christine is so beaten down by this she even
dreads that her two young nephews “will one day join in with the family
dynamic, and I will become a joke or an object of pity to them”.
On her 39th birthday Christine was invited to her mother's “for a birthday
tea”, and her older sister took the occasion to upset and humiliate her in
front of the nephews, so that eventually she was reduced to tears — just as
she used to be when a child. So pervasive is her family’s negative attitude
towards her that, “I have sometimes felt I am going mad. After all, my
family are the people who know me best and I wonder if there is something
wrong with me that only they know about”. Not making the obvious point that
her family has never bothered truly to know her, Christine asks me what she
should do, apart from avoid them.
What makes families behave in this destructive way? Parents will settle into
patterns set by how they were treated by their own parents, and so it goes
on — the only way of breaking the cycle is not to have any kids yourself, as
Philip Larkin bleakly advised. Siblings are boxed into their roles, as
typecast as any soap opera stars — the uncomfortable middle child such as
Christine, or the caring and responsible eldest, such as Margaret, who
believes it is her job to make everything work, despite the cost to herself.
When the family dynamic is set in this way, it’s usually because of a
collusion: the parents allowing their children to snipe and quarrel in the
old way, despite being adults, because somehow the conflict they preside
over serves to reinforce their old power.
The rituals have to be broken, or at least altered — and all the more so at
this time of year. I find myself wondering why Christine, nearly 40, has to
submit to a family birthday tea (was there jelly?) instead of going out for
a meal with friends, like a grown-up. Or inviting her difficult mother to
tea in a new, smart venue, where she has to behave herself. Her solution of
avoiding family get-togethers since that unpleasant day seems sensible,
although a more subtle way of tackling the issue would be to gather on
neutral ground. So for her 40th birthday she could invite the family to
lunch at a restaurant where she is well known by the staff — therefore
putting herself firmly in charge. It would worth some investment! Any
sisterly gibe about being incapable of ordering a decent wine would be
silenced on their lips by advance knowledge. And, “Mario, would you bring my
mother a cushion for her back?” would be a way of letting them know that
Christine isn’t the old victim any more. So would inviting the nephews to a
show/football match/whatever — without their parents.
You, Margaret, tell me that there are “a lot” of family gatherings, and I
wonder that your poor husband hasn’t rebelled already. Doesn’t he have a
family too? If so, they need attention. As they grow, your two children will
provide excuses not to attend every family gathering, for they will have
sports day, dance classes, parties. It would be good to invite the
grandparents to stay with you, on territory where you and your lovely
husband are in charge, rather than settle for the old pattern of gathering
at theirs. You are allowing your family far too much power over you. Are you
committed to a family Christmas? If so — I would be really brave and break
the pattern, making your little own brood an object of veneration. They come
first.
DO YOU NEED ADVICE?
E-mail your problems to: bel.mooney@thetimes.co.uk or write to her at: times2,
1 Pennington Street, London E98 1TT. Detail such as your age is helpful.
Please include your real name, but we will use your chosen pseudonym if you
wish. Bel Mooney reads all letters but regrets she cannot enter into
personal correspondence.
