I'm with you on that.
At 68, if I reflect back on my relationships with my parents, what I remember is
Dad talking endlessly about his own interests (which were interesting)
but never asking about my day at school, my hopes, agonies or fears, my experiences with neighbours, at the beach, reading, drawing or walking the dog,
nor what it was like enduring Mum's drinking binges when she nearly died and the house went without food.
After Dad died, when I was 14, Mum talked for 2 or 3 hours every day about my younger sister's latest acts of delinquency, never asking about my life.
I think both assumed they knew it all, and had no idea how a child needs to be able to express and feel heard, recognised and understood, and often needs help to understand or overcome difficulties.
It's a special kind of loneliness. One learns to become self-sufficient, but I've somehow never learned how to create that special kind of friendship that involves mutual trust, respect and open emotional intimacy. Somehow, I always meet the limits.
Maybe it's this dream of an ideal that is my faulting, believing in somethe st thing that can't exist -- just a child's need that can't be fulfilled.
My husband comes closest to being this kind of friend, but he's incapable of understanding many aspects of who I am. He has ADD - which means there's a neurological deficit that he can't overcome. It's organic & physical.
There's an irony in that. Did my unconscious accept a partner who mirrored that aspect of what was familiar in my family of origin?
Goodness knows, I would have given almost anything to learn how to be better at relationships. I still would if I could find out how. It's not for want of effort.
