Addie C. had a terrible day today. She needs to get some more sleep. I think I have written about this before because it seems to have become a recurrent problem. She gets behind on her sleep and then things get pretty tense around here. And today was the breaking point ...
In a moment of bad judgment, or perhaps just utter frustration, I took her to her bedroom for a time out. We both needed a moment to regroup. However, Addie C. was not going to use her time effectively, and chose to stand at her bedroom door, screaming at the top of her lungs. Begging to come out, pulling on the door knob. While I, being the excellent parent that I am, stood on the other side holding that same door knob so she could not escape.
But I just couldn't do it. I felt like Julia. Julia the completely demented stepmother, and poor Addie was my Francine. So, I opened the door and let her out ... with strict instructions that she must lay down in Mommy's bed and watch a movie. We each ran off in opposite directions ... she to my bedroom with her blankie in hand, and me to the couch with my latest book in hand. Because I had to know how Francine was going to escape the evils of her stepmother...
Do you even know what I am talking about? If you have read A Sight for Sore Eyes by Ruth Rendell, you know that Teddy rescues Francine. But does he really? That is the question.
If you have to write a paper for an English class, and you need something to write about, pick up A Sight for Sore Eyes. I absolutely love this type of book because it is a psychological study of people. And you can speculate about why the characters turn out to be the way they are.
Teddy Brex is born to disadvantaged parents. Okay, I am being polite. Teddy's parents are losers and they really had no business trying to raise a child. But I guess that is point; they didn't really try to raise him. He was never touched, cuddled, or talked to. I think that the only time he was actually handled was when his diaper was changed; and I don't think that happened very often. He was not loved; in fact, it was pretty evident that his parents were devoid of any emotion, unable to engage in any sort of real (emotionally-based) relationship.
And so, of course, I was sympathetic toward Teddy while I read his story. Because I wanted to save him. But if you read this blog regularly, I am sure already guessed that.
Teddy grows up into a young man who is incapable of feeling emotion. He does not know how to have a relationship with another person ...
"People were, as he had long suspected, uniformly vile and rotten, vastly inferior to things. Objects never let you down. They remain the same and could be an endless source of pleasure and satisfaction."
This idea is carried throughout the book. When he wins an award for his artwork, Teddy finds satisfaction from the prize alone and decides he does not need to share his excitement with anyone else. He becomes obsessed with a house and the things inside it ... the beautiful ornate furniture, the structure of the home. And when he and Francine begin dating, he dresses her in silky fabrics, draped in jewellery, positioning her in bed the way he likes best, just like you might arrange flowers in a vase until you achieve the look you want.
Oh, and he finds that killing is the easiest way to get what he wants ...
I have seen Teddy referred to as being autistic. Teddy Brex is not autistic ... he is psychotic. People who suffer from phychosis are said to be lacking a true sense of reality. They often have hallucinations, are delusional, have difficulty with social interactions and are unable to handle "normal" daily activities. I have always equated psychotic with being emotionally void; they understand what is wrong, but they do it anyway because they just don't care. Of course, after a terrible day (like today) with Addie C., these words could be used to describe me.
But is it Teddy's fault that he is the way he is? I mean, the child was never touched or held or loved. Erik Erikson, a renouned developmental psychologist, teaches that when an infant does not receive consistent, prompt care it learns that people cannot be trusted. So, what must it do to a child whose cries are met only after a long period of crying and never are the cries calmed in a loving manner. Like a mother "normally" does. In the case of Teddy, who was never really acknowledged, it was almost a miracle that he (physically) survived his childhood.
In the 1960s, a psychologist by the name of Harlow conducted experiments in the area of maternal separation and surrogate mothers on infant development. His most famous study involved rhesus monkeys. In a cage, he placed a hard surrogate mother made of wire, who had an easily accessible bottle of milk attached to her. There was also a furry/warm/cozy surrogate in the cage that did not have any food attached to it. The baby monkeys ALWAYS chose the furry mommy, venturing near the wire surrogate only for very short periods to receive some milk. However, the rest of its time was spend with the furry, soothing mommy. A baby will choose comfort over nourishment ... it says a lot, doesn't it?
I experienced this all the time with my own kitty. She would meow and meow and meow to be fed, tripping me as I walked closer to her bowl. After I put the food in her bowl, I always took the time to give her some love. I would pet her and scratch her ears and have a little talk with her. Now, this supposedly starving cat would suddenly have no interest in her food; she would purr and rub against my hand. She always chose love over food ... always.
Feeling loved and having interaction with other human beings is an important part of childhood development.
Harlow also conducted experiments in which monkeys could see, smell and hear other monkeys, however, there was NO physical contact. After six months, these phsyically deprived monkeys were described as psychologically disturbed, and were unable to socialize with other monkeys when reunited with peers.
Premature babies who are held a great deal are known to put on weight at a faster pace than those who are not ... which explains why Caiden looked like a ButterBall when he was about nine months old.
And so, again I ask whether Teddy Brex's view of the world is a result of his mistreatment as an infant and child? I would say, yes.
I am beginning to see that my four years as an undergrad Psych student have paid off. However, this will conclude my psychology class for today. But come back soon, because I am sure to go into another rant soon!
Francine Hill becomes the object of Teddy's desire. Unfortunately, she does not come without her own demons. At the age of six or seven years, she is in the house when her mother is murdered; her father comes home to find his daughter weeping over her mother's dead body, sitting in a pool of her blood. Francine's father falls in love with Francine's psychologist (the Julia mentioned at the beginning of this post) and they end up marrying. Julia gives up her therapy practice and dedicates her life to protecting the now fragile Francine. In fact, Julia becomes a psychotic momoholic, when she puts the perceived needs of Francine ahead of her own. She becomes unnecessarily obsessed with Francine's safety; and in doing so, renders Francine dependant on her "parents" and very naive. Basically, Julia is like me times one hundred.
Momoholic Me X 100 = Psychotic Momoholic Julia
As the years go by, Julia becomes controlling, delusional and loses her grip on reality. Until eventually, in order to protect Francine from the (imagined) evils that she has conjured up herself, Julia locks Francine in her bedroom while her father is out of town on business.
We all want to protect our children ... but we aren't allowed to lock them in their bedrooms. Even if they are four years old and having a very terrible day.
Anyhow, I really enjoyed this book. It is a book that entertains you and scares you and makes you want to give your kids a big hug. I would consider reading another book by Ruth Rendell ... she has written more than fifty of them. In fact, she has a new book coming out some time this year.
When you read a story that moves you to have so many thoughts - and these are just a few of mine about this book - you must consider the title. "A Sight for Sore Eyes." Maybe Teddy says it best ...
"She (Francine) must easily be the most beautiful girl in the world. A sight for sore eyes. Alfred Chance had once used that expression and it had stuck in his mind. About an object, though, not a person. It meant that looking at beauty took away pain and hurt, and made you better. Francine made him better and his eyes were sore when they couldn't feast on her."
So, I guess this book has been a sight for my sore eyes. It took away the pain of having to deal with an overtired four-year-old. And, I feel better for having read it.
Give this one a try ... it would make a great book to read while lounging around the pool.
I found a black mole on my back. It is small, but I couldn't pretend that it was not there. It is in the centre of my upper back, about an inch above my bra strap.
So, of course, I googled it.
Apparently, black moles are a very deadly form of melanoma. They grow inward, toward your organs, and quickly metasticize. So early diagnosis is critical. This is not what I was hoping for.
"Jonesy, can you look at this mole on my back?" I asked, pulling at my t-shirt. "Get that look out of your eyes, this is serious. Tell me what shape it is."
"It's a perfect circle."
"What about the outside edge ... is it defined or kind of jagged-y?"
"I would say it is clearly defined," he reported. Okay, this is all good news.
"Is it all the same colour?"
"Yeah, in fact it looks like a blood blister to me," Jonesy said. A blood blister? Why would I develop that? Old people get those. Plus, Jonesy is not a doctor. I just ignored this as a possibility and moved on to the next question ...
"Is it raised or flat?" I asked.
"Maybe, a little raised."
"Hmmm..." I muttered, walking back to my laptop.
"What are you thinking?" Jonesy asked. I knew he wanted to know if he gave me the answers I was looking for.
"I don't know..." I answered.
So, I did what any sane person would do and headed for the bathroom. I sat up on the bathroom counter as close to the mirror as I could get and used a hand-held mirror to look at the black mole of death for myself.
And then I made a doctor's appointment.
I spent the rest of the afternoon and that evening pretending that it did not bother me. But what if it was something that I should be bothered about? What if it was something serious?
The Internet told me that the typical person inflicted with the black mole of death was often in the prime of their lives. They are not sun worshippers nor were they outdoor labourers who are exposed to the sun all day long. They are office workers who get large doses of sun exposure on the weekends.
Great ... now I am a weekend binge drinker, binge sugar addict and binge sun tanner.
The next morning I was still pretending that I was not worried about it. It's just a little mole ... he'll probably burn in it off right in his office. No big deal. Stop thinking about it. Seriously, stop thinking about the black mole of death that seems to be growing a little bigger with each minute that passes.
This is one of those times that it is great to have an entrepreneur for a husband ... because he could look after the crazy four-year-old while I went off to face my doom all alone.
"Hey, Jill," the Doctor said. "Good to see you. What brings you in today?"
"I have a black mole on my back," I said. "And, I need you to look at it."
He grabs his fancy Doctor's flashlight, and looks at it for approximately ten seconds.
"That's nothing. Don't worry about it," he reports.
"What? That is the black mole of death," I said, rather emphatically. Sometimes I can be a know-it-all, even when I am not.
"Really, you don't need to worry about it," he says, smirking. "It's just a subaceous cyst." That sounded about as alarming as a blood blister ... ugh. Maybe Jonesy is a doctor afterall. Do I have to tell him that he was right?
He explained that a subaceous cyst is a small sac (associated with a hair follicle, I think) that fills with sebum and causes a cyst. Sebum is a fancy Doctor word for fat or oil. So basically, I had some hair follicle that filled with fatty oil and created a very small cyst. Gross. Now, I'm just embarrassed to be here with my disgusting sac o' fat.
"Are you sure that is what it is?" I asked.
"Trust me, that is all it is," he replied, again with the smirk.
"I don't think I like this whole getting older thing," I told him. "I mean, there was a time when I had lovely skin that did not get sacs of fat lodged in it."
My Doctor laughed - right at me. "Well, think of it as a trade for wisdom and being distinguished."
Distinguished? Ugh. I don't want to be "distinguished." Old people are wise and distinguished.
All kidding aside, my Doctor's appointment could have turned out much differently today. It could have been something serious. My post today could have had much different tone.
Go ... buy yourself and your kids some sunscreen. Avoid the black mole of death.
