Changing Our Perspectives Can Improve Our Lives

I grew up with a mother who wallowed in self-pity, yet I viewed her life as charmed, without major financial concerns, and surrounded by those who loved her and cared for her. She was taken care of by my father and her own mother, who spent every day at our house. When Nana Bea wasn’t helping with dinner preparation and anything else that was needed, she rested in the down-feathered green armchair next to my mother’s king-sized bed. The piece of furniture was inhabited by my grandmother during the day and my father at night, before he went to sleep and after his return from his 12-hour day at the family’s custom shirt factory. It was as if my mother had two shifts of caregivers. “Ma needs a lot of rest,” my father frequently stated, as if to give a reason why a woman in her late 40s needed to spend most of her days in bed.

My grandmother’s boundless energy mirrored my own, and I was amazed that while her daughter lay under blankets, Nana was often out and about. She drove me to her apartment building that she managed, to the market to select, one by one, her favorite string beans, and to the shopping center, all with a smile and a San Francisco story to share. Most of all, I never remember Nana complaining about anything in her life: the loss of her husband from a sudden heart attack at 59; choosing to live alone the rest of her life; and having to take daily medication for her heart issues.

My grandmother was positive and never articulated, “Why me?” — words her daughter embraced. Still, I emulated my mother’s aggrieved and bemoaning state of being, which created my first behavioral imprints. I focused on my girlfriends' slights and what they didn’t do for me. “Why didn’t Karen call me when she said she would?” “Why wasn’t I included in Janet's sleepover?” It was easy to find missed expectations and disappointments. Such wounded feelings created my own foundation of my victim mentality.

I continued to observe my mother’s helplessness and her difficulty in coping with setbacks with curiosity and confusion. No one could fault my mother for her utter powerlessness over the horrendous loss of her toddler. In addition, she owned a misguided sense of guilt worn like a heavy weighted jacket for bringing Jeffrey to the market or the park or the store, where he must have contracted meningitis. Yes, in this instance, she was a true victim, as was my father, who shared with me Jeffrey’s unfinished baby book, something my mother considered permanently sealed. In this process of retelling of our family’s heavy loss, I learned that even this view of victimhood was a choice. My father experienced the same limitless loss, but he willingly talked about Jeffrey and even shared with me his eulogy for his baby’s funeral. Again, I could never know this unfathomable grief, and I hold space in my heart for my parents’ limitless loss, which was the impetus for Mother’s depression beginning at the age of 28.

But I soon realized that my own view of the world, my own victimhood, had serious repercussions—I often felt unhappy and disappointed and depressed. I truly was not comfortable viewing myself as a wounded being, which felt contrary to my soul’s natural blueprint. I actually adored life, loved my days, and realized that I had choices even though I was given few growing up. My father’s love of life and easy-going nature were familiar, because they were mine. Despite his loss of his baby boy, throughout his life, he always saw the glass half-full. My father’s jovial attitude often irritated my mother, as did my own natural attitude. My mother lamented about my lightheartedness. She would say, “Nothing bothers you, Barbara.”

I made a concerted effort to redirect the negative thinking I had taken on, which eventually became part of my daily routine. Instead of focusing on what might be lacking in my life, I chose to work on ways in which to focus on my betterment. This way of thinking has been a slow, steady, and essential paradigm shift. Little by little, I have rewired my thought processes. Rather than focus on who didn’t remember my birthday, I focused on only those lovely wishes and sweet cards that came my way. If someone hadn’t called me for a while and I wanted to speak to them, I called them. In time, I didn’t think about what I lacked, but rather, what I possessed. When someone did something to upset me, I either talked about it or let it go. I had my own litmus test: Will it matter in 10 years? 20 Years? If not…I let it go. And I did. As a generally easy-going person, it takes a lot for me to get upset. When I do so, I feel it’s warranted.

The author enjoying the California sun

Source: bjaffe/blogger

Today, I have expectations of myself—not others. This is easier said than done, but I have worked on this mindset over many years. I learned that expectations are planned disappointments. No one knows exactly what I need except me, so I have learned to tell my husband, my dear friends, or my children what I feel and what I want. I now accept responsibility for every area of my life that is in my control. What I cannot control, I have learned to let go. If my mother were alive today, and she admonished me by saying, “Nothing bothers you, Barbara,” I would say, “Thank you, Mom. I am working on this. You might want to try this process as well.”