I shuttered from the thought of hearing Dad’s angry voice when he came home from work. With a window-shaking slam of the kitchen door as he entered the house, I could just imagine his heavy work boots stomping through the house leaving a trail of mud clots from working out in the fields all day.
“Karen! Get me my slippers!”
“Don’t drop the mayonnaise jar!”
How could I tell him my 4 year old hands could barely hold on to the jar without it slipping? My insides shook as I watched the out-of-control jar crash against the hard kitchen tile.
I looked up at Dad’s face. His eyes were almost bulging out of their sockets, glaring in a moment of rage. He stiffened his shoulders, clenched his fists and pounded the kitchen table. The sound of forks and glass plates and cups shaking against the surface of the table hurt my insides.
“I told you not to drop the mayonnaise jar! Are you stupid?”
I dropped my head and cried, just like I saw Mom do when Dad’s outbursts blasted at her.
All I could do was run to my room and hide in the darkest corner I could find, inside the closet.I sat there for what seemed like and hour, whimpering like a wounded puppy dog feeling sorry for myself.
Within the hour, Dad walked into the room.
“Where are you Karen? Daddy’s sorry.”
His voice had transformed into a soft gentle coo.
I sat quietly, hiding in my corner.The door squeaked as Dad opened at the door peering into my safe space.
“Daddy’s sorry Karen. Please come out now.”
At 4 years old, I didn’t know that dad grew up just the way I did, on a farm where his father’s fits of rage were common. Dad’s father too, had a thunderous voice that shattered the windows when he was mad.
I didn’t know that Dad was trained to to react in fits of anger. And I didn’t know I was being trained to be a nervous insecure woman who didn’t believe in herself just like my mom.
Growing up, in everyday conversation, the tone of Dad’s voice rattled my nerves and in his presence I felt as if I could never live up to his expectations. Any B on my report card brought a frown to his face, even if it was a B+. I could feel the room shake as I cowered my head in shame.
Looking back, I could see how his perfectionist irritated behavior reflected through my own actions and beliefs.
When I was in 16 my 6 year old sister and I were making cookies on a cold December afternoon.
“No Kathy! It needs to be round!” I shouted.
Poor little Kathy dropped her hands to her sides, stopped what she was doing and waited for my big sister approval.
When I saw the look on her face, my heart ached, realizing my own uncontrolled actions were hurtful. I was acting just like Dad, replicating his critical outburst of anger.
From the time we’re in the womb, until age 7, our baby minds are like sponges that absorb everything happening around us. We subconsciously record the behaviors and beliefs of our parents. Everything they think say and do gets recorded, good or bad and becomes everything we think say and do. This is how we learn to be human, by replaying the behaviors of those around us, our parents.
Behaviors are programmed into us and continue to repeat generation after generation until one day, someone wakes up and says, there’s got to be a better way.
By the time I became a mother, I had been programmed to be just like my mom. I had downloaded her reactions to stress. When Mom was stressed she cowered and shrunk as I watched. My heart ached every time I saw her cry.
It wasn’t until my own son grabbed my hands one day and said, “Mommy, it’s OK. You need to go to the gym,” that I realized,
What am I doing to my son with my behavior?
That was the day that I decided something had to change. I spent the following years of my life looking for answers and upgrading my own behavior.
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