Scoring a Big Win

It’s a zero-sum game, I’d concluded to myself one evening last week, right after my recently published memoir, In Pursuit of Radio Mom, had begun to appear in stores. I’d arrived at this idea after ticking off all the reasons I should not confront an intimate friend about some information I’d received earlier in the day.  Apparently, she was spreading advice about me and the book to my family in the most hurtful and infuriating way possible—and doling it out to one and all. This seemed to me wildly inappropriate.
 
The report that I was hearing over the phone from a longtime family friend, and which had later been confirmed by another such, was that Diana––a woman whom I had loved for her humor and her warmth since our first meeting at college when we were still in our late teens––was working her way through the ranks of my family, quietly counseling my siblings to avoid reading it.
 
Stunned at hearing this, I’d grappled all afternoon with how to reconcile such backchanneled “news” with the praise Diana had offered me after powering through an advance copy of Radio Mom only a few weeks before: “Wow!” Di had exclaimed at the time. “Painful to read—but amazing. And beautifully written.”
 
When trying to square her kudos with her disapproval proved unsuccessful, particularly since friends and other family members had found it both difficult to read and moving, I considered calling her, but my internal voice issued a warning: You realize, don’t you, that you’re dealing with a  friend who, despite how close you feel to her, drives you nuts with her need to always be right. If you raise this with her, she’ll only spin what she did as justified, and then school you about why your reaction is overblown or just plain wrong.

“No kidding,” I mumbled as I padded toward the kitchen in search of some Ben and Jerry’s. I was already prepared to opt for two scoops this time, willing to ignore the fact that the bathroom scale would have the last word. I grabbed the ice cream from the freezer and began eating it right out of the tub.
 
In truth, Diana held strong opinions, and—unlike me—said what she thought without worrying about whether such remarks would upset her listener. Smart and articulate, contentious arguments seemed not to phase her, and she only used words like “Oops,” or phrases like “Sorry, I was wrong,” sparingly. Look, the voice in my mind continued, she has a good soul, and it’s not as if she hasn’t always been a loyal friend. But she’s as headstrong as both your mothers were. And that’s not about to change.
 
Ugh. Unable to remember even one instance when there’d been an upside to calling out my complicated mother’s difficult behaviors, I sighed. When I was young, verbally challenging what Mom said or believed practically guaranteed that she’d dish out a second helping of rage. Humiliation had always been the price paid for daring to speak up or speak out. For daring to have a voice, at all.
 
After licking the last bit of sweet from my spoon, I reached for my iPhone and powered it off. Temptation gone. Was it only an empty gesture? I didn’t think so. Turning off my phone symbolized how important it was to avoid an argument with her. Overcome by apprehension, I simply couldn’t imagine that a frank exchange with Diana would result in a win-win.

My hope that a blue-sky day would offset any further ruminations about these events dimmed fast. The following morning, before I’d even finished my second pour of coffee, thoughts about what I was now calling Diana’s “book review switcheroo” were again beginning to whirl. This time, however, like our lab mix, Fannie, worrying her bone, I could focus only on my building resentment toward my friend, and a deepening sense of mistrust.
 
Fortified by these emotions, how suddenly easy it was to move past my anxiety about getting into a tangle with her and latch on to a new mantra: Diana didn’t deserve to hear what I thought about giving “advice” to my siblings. “Don’t give her the satisfaction of knowing you’re mad,” cheered offended Terry. She’s probably just jealous of your success. Saying nothing means you don’t give a damn.
 
Whoa! How had I gotten myself in such a dither? And when had I decided that anger justified snark?
 
It took another full day and some sober reflection before I could deal with these questions in any meaningful way. But two days after learning about the advice that was making the rounds, “the reveal,” I curled up in a family room chair and wondered how I had lost touch with what I’d known and accepted even before I’d finished writing a first draft of Radio Mom: That there was a possibility––a likelihood even––that family members and others in my extended tribe would not embrace a book about the difficult relationship between my mother and me.

Yes, I’d written from my knowledge of and background in the process of healing. Of memory and perception. For all of my siblings and for anyone who knew my family and mother well––as Diana eventually had––each and every personal assessment by a brother or sister or friend might be different than mine—and yet nevertheless correct. All families are prisms: what is seen is either illuminated or distorted according to one’s own experience.

Moreover, wasn’t Diana entitled to speak her mind freely about what she’d read? To change her opinion? Share whatever thoughts she had, and even volunteer advice to whomever she pleased? Hmmm. Was I finally on the right track? It was then I began to consider the situation—in a deeper, less self-protective way.

I then asked myself another—and perhaps more important—question. It was a simple one; as a therapist, I’d sometimes posed just such a query when a patient’s response to an experience or event was particularly intense, or when they described themselves as being “in a spin.”
 
“What does this remind you of,” I’d ask in a quiet voice, introducing a line of inquiry that often resulted in the widening of an emotional door, a way to make the connections between old pain and new insights possible.
 
Not surprisingly, my answer came on strong and easily. My memories circled back once more to my own mother and the many times I’d been caught off guard––especially as a child and then as a teen––when her mood would shift from calm and clear waters to a churning blackness that left me alone. And with no warning: I would panic, wishing I could disappear. And so it was that early yesterday morning, my heart skipping beats, I dialed Diana. When she answered, I took a deep breath, exchanged a few pleasantries, and told her I had something I wanted—maybe I even said “needed—” to ask her.
 
“Sure,” she replied, “What’s your question?”
 
“I’ve been thinking,” I began, somewhat tentatively, “actually quite a lot, especially in the last couple of days, wondering if maybe you’re having a hard time at this point—having to deal with Radio Mom after you’d finished it a while ago. How do you feel now that it’s published?  To have to confront everything I chose to write about—even the most personal aspects of my relationship with my Mom throughout all those years. Maybe especially the things that mirror your own life, even somewhat.”
 
A long silence followed. I waited. Conscious that my pulse had picked up speed. And then what I had least expected to happen, finally did.

Diana spoke again and her voice cracked. “Well, yes. Like I told you. It was so painful to read about all that happened to you.”
 
“What was the hardest part?” I asked.
 
“There was no one part—I mean to say, all of it was hardest.”
 
“How do you mean?” My heart did a flop and I wondered whether I was, in fact, ready to hear Diana’s answer.
 
“It called up so many sad memories from my own life,” she continued. “Which, let’s face it,  wasn’t all that different from yours in some ways, as well as that of all your brothers and sisters. I mean, we both grew up in turmoil. Sometimes now, I think that the similarities between our family situations were part of what drew us together.”
 
An even longer pause now. On my part this time.
 
 “But for me, well, I just wouldn’t want strangers finding out the gory details about how I grew up. All that happened. If it had been my family you were writing about, I wouldn’t want to relive it by seeing it out there for everyone to poke into. Or, maybe, just having to remember it at all. I need to be able to keep all those horrible feelings in a box and just focus on the good parts of those times.”
 
“Are you talking about…”
 
“Yes, I am,” she said in a low voice—before I’d had a chance to voice the word I was certain she’d been avoiding throughout her confession. “I mean the shame that attached itself to everything we thought and did. And now with your book,  it’s right out there for everyone to see. The shame—of growing up really poor, of having a Mom and Dad who were so stressed out that they didn’t do a good job of protecting their kids from the tough times.
 
“I understand what you mean,” I answered.—“the shame itself. It’s so damn hard to let go of  that.”
 
Maybe it was because our conversation had unfolded so effortlessly, with such tenderness, without defensive posturing or rationalizations about wanting to protect everyone affected—as if that were even possible—and with words that caught our sad mood so exactly, it bothered me not at all that our exchange was only brief and quickly ended. Moved as I was by all she said, I realized that I needed it to unfold in precisely this way. She had reached me.

“It’s important to know we have choices about all this,” I  answered then, lowering my voice so that it wouldn’t jar her or the mood we’d created together. In only a minute, we understood and respected each other—and with empathy—perhaps for the first time in many, many years.  “And, of course, that includes your own ability to choose whether to be candid and look hard at your past, whether to keep your pain stored on a shelf as you are doing your very personal examination. It has to be whatever feels right to you.”
 
Diana signed off then. “Hey, Terry? I just want to say thank you for broaching the subject at all. I’m sure it was difficult just to consider writing about it all so directly, to even think about tackling a memoir that details your past so openly. Maybe your feelings about all this made it easier, in the end, to actually think about that shame and that pain.” She sighed. “But thank you for wanting to understand me. Wanting to know about it all: wanting to hear if I’ve been struggling with the effects of both those things as I read your book. Let’s talk about it more sometime soon.”
 
After we hung up, I dropped my phone into the pocket of my cardigan, feeling happy about the truths each of us had faced such a short time ago. I had been aware, certainly, that there are often legitimate reasons for avoiding conflict as it arises in friendships—such as a need to break off an abusive relationship. Nevertheless, how enlightening—and satisfying—it had been to be able to lean into the fear and the ire that this incident had evoked, to approach it through an empathetic lens, and discover––yet again––that in doing so one could often repair the rent in a relationship that you valued and did not want to lose.
 
As for my idea that a quarrel with Diana was a zero-sum game?  Well, let’s just tag it as a blunder fueled by an overwhelming anxiety. Why? Because I’d rather stick to what I know to be true: that writing Radio Mom wound up offering me an opportunity which was fulfilled after publication; I gained something valuable when my candor moved people––a sense of wider community and of being understood deeply at last–– and, in fact, had touched others with whom I was close.

Also true was what my friend and I, pals since we were eighteen, had shared our families and our emotions before in some, although not all, ways: previously, we had circled difficult and dangerous topics—though not precisely down in the depths as we had today. It had always been at more of a remove.
 
In the past, we had tackled such situations and experiences obliquely, perhaps to overcome them in some unspoken, instinctive manner, one that we didn’t even really understand. Yet, never before had we been able to delve into this kind of deep conversation with each other. Ultimately, the publication of Radio Mom had made our relationship stronger and richer. And in allowing ourselves to be so open, we had each scored a big win—for ourselves, and for each other.