You probably don’t.

(But Jane Fonda does, and more on that coming up.)

You probably don’t know ALL of me. Not the past traumas that shape me to this day. Not the deep, dark secrets that society once dictated remain in the shadows. Not the thoughts and feelings that are still coloured by fears and doubts that germinated decades ago. We are all products of our pasts and the truth is, if you’re looking for an easy way out, just blame yesteryear.

Or your parents. because it’s pretty much a given they had some hand in the ultimate shaping of YOU.

My son Sam Drysdale’s latest record is called “Who’s Going to Love You the Way I Do.”  It’s a sweet and sad song to be sure, but also contains lyrics that intrigue me, his mama, immensely. Is he taking me to task?

“We were always scared of love, parents could’ve showed us better. We were always scared of love, parents couldn’t stay together.”

Hmm. It would appear that I am at fault here somewhere. Well, me and those three other parents.

But then I listen to Carly Simon sing a song called “Didn’t I” and my favourite lyric is –

“Sorry that your mother dropped you on your head, maybe her mother dropped her too.”

Brilliant.

In the end we all get dropped and black and blue (thank you, Sylvester “Earl” Powell – songwriter).

However …

I am a person who values accountability (especially when it comes to my son) and so I look back over my shoulder, way back to my teens, and the beginnings of my own struggle to create and maintain relationship. Why the heck was it always so damn difficult?

Jane Fonda has the answer. Jane says that a woman needs three things to forge a successful union:

1. She needs to feel safe.
2. She needs to feel seen.
3. She needs to feel cherished.

Well, holy crap! This may explain a great deal. About me.

My father was a wonderful, supportive, loving and attentive dad. He also had a wicked temper and a long-instilled set of beliefs that were quite at odds with his teenage daughter coming of age in the 70s. His wicked temper was at times matched by my wicked tongue and, on occasion, when he hit “the wall,” he backhanded me.

My first serious boyfriend (read: lover) also ultimately decided that hitting me was a surefire method to silence my lips. He succeeded a few times until we finally broke up.

My next love was witness to Boyfriend #1’s violence when, after our first evening together and his subsequent departure, B#1 (who had been spying) marched into my parents’ house (they were away) in a drunken rage, demanded that I sleep with him, smacked me a few times and then threw me down a staircase. He finally stopped this rampage when he saw something protruding from my arm (broken bone?). After swatting me away from the wall phone (where I was desperately trying to call the police) he begrudgingly took his leave, slamming and shattering the screen door in the process.

I immediately called New Boyfriend who returned to console me, treat my wounds (it was not a broken bone in my arm but my ribs were cracked) and express disdain that any man could behave in such a way!

My parents were also none too pleased … with me. Wanton young slut that I was. Sure, they weren’t thrilled that I got the shit kicked out of me but when B#1 came calling, quivering in his boots and simpering like a wounded dog, so sad was he that he had decimated their screen door (and maybe their daughter), they forgave him.

They fucking forgave him!

B#2 and I ultimately got married. Not because we were desperate to tie the knot but we really wanted to live together. My parents icily informed me that, were such an arrangement to come to fruition, they would disown me.

Period. Full stop.

Nice.

So, even though I was far too young and too inexperienced with all things related to love, we got married. And guess what? After our first month of wedded bliss, Husband#1 hit me. He actually pinned me to the linoleum, banging my head into the floor.

That was the first time. There were a few more before I took my leave.

(I would see him several years later, at which time he confessed humiliation and remorse at his primitive behaviour and assured me it had never happened since – thank God for his new wife.)

So let us analyze – was this violence my fault because I have a quick wit and razor-sharp tongue? Did I inspire these men to ferocious outbursts because I used my words as weapons? Would it behoove me to be accountable to MY roll in all this brutality?

Maybe. But I think by now we know that physical assault is never the answer, no matter who is inflicting it or why.

For me, the bigger significance is Jane’s #1 point – how could I possibly ever feel safe in a man/woman relationship when every man in my early life hit me?

(To be clear, no man has attacked me since although one subsequent beau did exclaim, “If I was ever going to hit a woman, it would be you!”)

And how could I possibly ever feel safe when my very own parents threatened to disown me? Because they didn’t agree with a lifestyle choice? What might possibly compel me to believe that anyone might have my back when, in those formative years, no one actually did? My lack of safety, my mistrust of men and their hurtful tantrums and even my eventual contempt for my own role in these dramas was a heavy anchor. And even when my physical security was no longer threatened, I wasn’t home-free.

Because feeling safe isn’t just about safeguarding from injury. In order to truly feel safe, we must feel emotionally safe as well. We must feel free to express our innermost thoughts and fears, confusions and questions and we must feel that our emotional safety is of such value to our partner that he will protect it as he would our corporeal sanctuary.

This is where my second husband (Sam’s father) ran into difficulty. I knew he would protect me, my son and our home like the fiercest warrior ever to defend. But his interest in fostering my emotional safety was minimal. “I don’t need this shit” was a phrase uttered more than once. And I learned quite early in our union that if the sensitive (read: irrational) atmosphere in our dwelling became too fervent, he would simply remove himself from the premises. I would then calm down (ha!) and life would go on … his way.

And so there I was. Unsafe AND unseen (Jane’s #2). And I learned that, in order to keep peace (and my marriage) it was I who had to accept this reality.

Did I feel cherished (#3)? Yes, I guess so. I knew I was loved. Loved in HIS definition. Just not in mine.  Or Jane’s. Because in order to adequately cherish someone we must first discern what makes them feel cherished. And then act on that (not our own notions).

So here I am now (in my dotage) wondering how much of my storied past has made me who I am today? Or even who I was 20 years ago? Could I have done better by my son? If I knew then what I know now about early trauma and its lasting effects, or if Jane Fonda had befriended me and shared her insight, might I have changed the course of history, mine and my family’s?

The thing is, we all did what we could with what we knew and what we experienced. This goes for my parents, my son’s father and me. Twenty years later we can’t rewind anything with all our newly acquired wisdom. All we can do is move forward, learning from the past, avoiding the repetition of mistakes and perhaps even understanding that we were all products of “a different time.”  A different culture.

I am not condoning. Merely attempting to understand.

What I do know is that for all we may have withstood and endured, we should now teach our children just a little bit better. And perhaps try to learn from them too.

Son, sorry if I dropped you on your head.

Maybe my mother dropped me too …