From Behind Enemy Lines – Opposing Words and Actions
I don’t know who Elsa Kurt is, but this showed up yesterday afternoon on my feed, and I agree with it. It speaks better words than I can.
Chris will tell you that, during Trump 1.0 when I was suffering from TDS, I would often talk about the “mean tweets.” At the time, I was befuddled, and I couldn’t explain why they bothered me so much. I think perhaps now I have a better idea of how to put it into words. Elsa here has helped.
I can see and approve of, and indeed love, the THINGS that President Trump is doing while simultaneously decry some (but not all) of the things he says and/or tweets. I see all the good he’s done for our country, and I am very supportive of that. I see our economy recovering, spending going down, tariffs doing what they ought to, criminals being ousted from the country, and a general upswing in mood. But I also see his words. And they are troubling to me.
At one time, I lived in my parents’ home and in a very abusive situation. My mother only ever hit me once. At the time, I was a foul mouthed teen and I probably deserved discipline (though not a backhand with her ginormous wedding rings on). Her abuse was more sinister, though. It was mental. She was (and is, I suppose) an alcoholic who was undiagnosed and who refused to admit it. She drank frequently, and acted poorly when drunk. She was mean in general, but when drinking became a nightmare. I would be severely punished for such offenses as putting forks in the dishwasher wrong, having the wrong look on my face at a given moment, or asking for physical attention (hugs, etc.). Anything other than an “A” grade was also to be punished. Punishments ranged from being sent to my room, to berating and mocking me, humiliating me, and grounding me for months at a time. It was the digs, though, the mental and verbal digs that just kept coming, that destroyed me.
There was a time when I was 15 or so, when I finally broke and I went to the ER local to me, and begged them to lock me up on a 72 hour hold. After hours of talking to a therapist and various doctors, they basically told me I was fine, it was my mother who was sick. I could not get it through their heads that it didn’t matter if she was the sick one, _I_ was the one who had to change, because she wasn’t going to. That wasn’t just an assumption on my part, either. She’d told me that, to my face. I ended up medicated, because dulling my senses was the only way to get through my time living with her. I took up drinking and drugging, and inappropriate sex, because I needed to get love from somewhere.
Why are you talking about all this, you ask? Because when Trump does one thing and then says another, it shoves me right back into my days with my mother. It’s not so much of a match that I feel gut punched, but the discomfort is there. My mother could put on a dazzling display of “loving parenthood” when anyone else was around. Most people thought I was damn lucky to have such an attentive, wonderful mother in my life. They had no idea of the personal hell I lived through, every single day. When I see someone whose words and actions are at a mismatch, it is my natural reaction to look twice and thrice at every word and action they have made and are making.



There are *some* things wrong in the top part. There is nothing right about the bottom part. The temper tantrums being thrown are epic and ridiculous. This is what happens when you “gentle parent” your way through life.
Truth hurts.



