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Why it terrifies me to mother daughters

03.19.09 | daughters | 26 Comments

When my sister’s husband walked out on her and their three children, aged five, three, and one, my sister was shattered. I held her as she cried that day, and I raged that a man could be so careless with the heart and the lives that were given in trust to him.

It’s been a year now, and my sister is stronger. Harder, in some ways, and still soft and vulnerable in others. She risks becoming a bit emotionally careless herself as she negotiates new relationships. Power, the power of being the one who cares less, the one who loves less, the one who needs less, because one is damaged or hurting or scared, or simply, carefully, guarded, is the only real power there is. Relationships become a zero-sum game, where the one who won’t cooperate with a partner who longs to cooperate, wins.

And then there’s the specter of domestic violence. The Rihanna – Chris Brown thing horrifies me. Not only because of what happened, though that is terrible enough. But for the reactions of teenage girls to the alleged attacks. (Alleged, yet heavily substantiated by photographs, police reports, and Chris Brown’s own statements.)

In the paper today, there are quotes from ninth graders speculating that Rihanna “probably made him mad for him to react like that” and that Chris Brown shouldn’t be punished because she took him back:

“So he shouldn’t get into trouble if she doesn’t feel that way,” one girl said. “She probably feels bad that it was her fault, so she took him back.”

My sister was willing, even eager, to take her husband back. She was ready, even eager, to forgive him for infidelity and abandonment and narcissistic disregard for the feelings of everyone around him.

And she changed herself. First, unwillingly losing twenty pounds (that she didn’t need to lose) because she was too sick to eat, and her stomach too sick to digest what she could choke down. Then she bought flattering clothes and highlighted her hair (as I’d been nagging her to do), and wore more makeup and remembered earrings more often.

She wondered if it was her fault.

My beautiful, sweet, innocent, loving, trusting, sacrificing, and forgiving sister wondered if it was her fault.

Do you have any idea what I would do if Dick beat me or he left me? Words fail me.

I stake my life, my hopes and dreams and my children, on the belief that Dick will never betray me, or us. There are men who are worthy of the hearts and lives that we entrust them with. Men who honor covenants and who would sooner hurt themselves than strike a woman or a child.

How do I guard my daughters against the others? How do I teach them, if I cannot protect them from the betrayers? If I, and they, cannot expect to recognize the danger, because betrayers often don’t start out that way?

How do I love them and sculpt them enough so that I never hear them wonder: Was it my fault?

totally unrelated, but fun to read

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