Like Father Like Son

They say we turn into our parents. As galling a thought as this might seem, it is probably true. Many a time recently I have found myself cringing with embarrassment after repeating to my boys one of my own parents’ admonishments, something I vowed I would never do. The embarrassment is even greater when I realise the things I’m telling them off for aren’t even important, or the advice I’m trying to convey is patently rubbish. Does it really matter if they get sandwich crumbs on the carpet? I have a vacuum cleaner. Does my air conditioning become that much less effective if they open the car windows? And so what if it does? Will all their teeth really fall out if they miss a brushing?

Some of you will know that I’m undergoing counselling for endogenous depression. It’s a battle I’ve been fighting for a long time. I have good days, I have bad days. When the bad days outweigh the good days either in number or intensity, I go for help. This time round I’m trying psychodynamic therapy. It digs deep into the past, uncovering things that have been buried in my subconscious for most of my life. And most of my issues can be traced back to childhood and, therefore, to my relationship with my parents.

My parents weren’t particularly horrible to me. They weren’t abusive. They didn’t deliberately go out of their way to make my life a misery. But it’s fair to say we didn’t have much of a relationship. My mum was, and still is, naturally quiet and retiring. My dad worked in the dockyard for 42 years. What did he have in common with the schoolboy swot who sat alone in the kitchen doing homework night after night before leaving home to explore the mysteries of theoretical physics? Perfectly natural that he should have a closer relationship with my mechanic brother.

Don’t get me wrong, we have a great relationship now, and I’m not blaming my parents in any way, shape or form, but that absence of a strong parental bond has clearly shaped my adult life, leaving me lacking in confidence, unable to form significant, lasting relationships, not having a framework or consistent set of rules in my life and ultimately leading to depression. 

Which is why I’m acutely aware when I repeat the phrases of my parents to my own children. On one level I can laugh them off with a “can’t believe I really just said that”. But on a deeper level I want to be a better parent to my boys.  As much as I love my parents, I don’t want to become them. I don’t want to make the mistakes, however innocently and inadvertently, they made with me. We only get one childhood and it completely colours our adult life. My boys deserve a better childhood and a fairer crack at the adulthood whip.

Looks like I’d better not give up the counselling just yet…