Copyright ©Arlene R. Taylor, PhD
www.arlenetaylor.org     Realizations Inc

Candy wheeled herself into my office and announced, “My body is falling apart, it is, and the doctors can’t seem to explain what’s happening or find a treatment that works.”

I looked carefully at the woman. Pain lines were etched into her middle-aged face. Worry lines, too.

“Tell me about it.”

Candy launched into a fifteen-minute recital of physical symptoms.

Well, more like a thirty-minute litany. Eventually she wound down. Knowing that ‘the body never lies,’ (to quote Alice Miller), I asked Candy whether she thought her ill health might be related in any way to hurtful experiences from her past.

“Oh, it couldn’t be,” she said, quickly. “I forgave everyone long ago.”

“Forgave everyone for what?” I asked.

“For doing the best they could,” she replied.

“Forgave them for what?” I repeated. There was a long silence.

Eventually she said, “I forgave my father for molesting me and my mother for not believing me.”

“At what age were you molested?” I inquired.

“It started when I was three,” Candy said, “and continued until I was nearly eleven. It stopped because my mother’s sister visited us and caught my father touching me inappropriately. She made a huge fuss about it and threatened to report my dad to law enforcement.” Candy smiled ruefully. “My dad was so angry he told my aunt to leave his house and never come back. He also forbade me from ever seeing her or contacting her in any way. I loved my aunt . . . at least my dad stopped molesting me.”

“Ouch,” I said. “You must have been very angry at having had your personal physical and sexual boundaries invaded plus losing contact with your aunt.”

“Oh, yes,” Candy replied calmly. “I’m still angry, but not at my parents. I forgave them. I’m just angry at myself for not preventing it. Also, I didn’t stand up for my aunt.”

“What part of ‘a child is no match for an adult male’ don’t you get?” I asked.

Candy shrugged. “There must have been something else I could have done.”

“Something else besides what?” I asked.

“Well, I told my mother, and she said I must be mistaken because my father would never do anything   like that. Thereafter, I decided that it must have been my fault, something I said or did. I’ve taken responsibility for that.”

Same story, same chapter, same verse, I thought. Aloud I said, slowly, “Let me get this straight: You are not angry at your father for molesting you, even though anger is the appropriate emotion when  your boundaries have been invaded, nor at your mother for not believing you, nor at being told you could never contact your aunt. But you are angry at yourself for not having prevented the abuse, and you have taken complete responsibility for being molested.”

Candy’s eyes widened. She nodded, albeit a bit uncertainly.

“At some level, your brain knows that a child cannot protect itself from an adult,” I continued. “Therefore, you cannot be responsible for what your father did. I’ll bet your body is hurting partly because your brain can’t believe that you are angry at yourself.” Silence.

“Have you ever contacted your aunt?” I asked, breaking the silence.

Candy shook her head. “I’ve thought about it, but I’ve never called her because I felt like I must obey my father.”

“And how old are you?” I asked.

Candy actually laughed. “I know, I know,” she said sheepishly. “It’s not like I’m still a little girl at home and must obey my parents, but sometimes I feel like that.”

“It appears to me that emotionally you still act like a little girl who must obey her parents, not like a confident grown-up woman who knows how to take care of herself and does so.”

“Oh my!” said Candy. “I’ve never looked at it like that. There is a truth to what you say, but I could never dishonor my parents by being angry at them. There’s a commandment and all about honoring your parents. You must know that.”

I clearly needed a different approach. “While driving recently, I saw a road-work sign and a highway worker waving an orange flag. What did I know for certain?” I asked.

Candy laughed and said, “That’s easy. You knew there was a road-work sign and an orange flag.”

“Exactly,” I replied. “Based on life experience, what did my brain guess?”

“That there might be something up ahead you would need to deal with,” said Candy.

“Right again,” I said. “The flag was a signal to get my attention. I honored that flag. Sure enough, there was a large hole in the asphalt. I slowed my vehicle and drove around it. I did not stop the car, grab the highway flag, and wave it as I continued on my way.”

I paused, so her brain could catch up. “Think of anger as a highway flag, a signal to let you know your boundaries have been invaded. You can recognize the emotion, get the information it is trying to give you, and take appropriate action, without picking up the flag of anger and waving it for years.”

“Oh, I get it,” said Candy. “I picked up the flag of anger and have been waving it madly, but I directed the anger at myself.”

“Do you still visit your parents?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” she replied. “My father even built a ramp at their house for my wheelchair. I visit regularly, but it’s not pleasant. Even before I turn into their driveway my stomach heaves, and I feel sick. Once inside, my father stares at me in a way that makes my skin crawl. Nevertheless, they are my parents, and I must honor them.”

Oh, my, I thought to myself. Aloud I said, “You can honor the position your parents hold in your generational inheritance without subjecting yourself to continued abuse.”

I raised an eyebrow, hoping Candy would continue. She did.

“I was advised to forgive and forget, so that’s what I’ve tried to do,” Candy said, a slight edge to her voice. “Whenever the memories start gnawing at me, I just try to put them out of my mind.”

Ouch, I thought to myself. Those unfortunate and unhealed memories will likely be acted out in illness, which can result in a shortened lifespan.

In her book, The Body Never Lies (2005), author Alice Miller talks about how adults may misapply  admonition to honor their parents. In return, parents misuse this admonition to either sweep their dysfunctional behaviors under the proverbial carpet or to continue to control and abuse their grown children. Miller’s position is that individuals who were seriously abused in childhood, thinking they must honor their parents, try to do so through repression and emotional detachment, since they cannot build up a relaxed and trustworthy relationship with parents whom they still fear consciously or unconsciously.

“Have you ever heard of counterfeit forgiveness?” I asked. Candy shook her head.

I defined counterfeit forgiveness as saying, “I forgive you,” without moving through the process of genuine forgiveness and recovery. Counterfeit forgiveness involves pretending, minimizing, denying, repressing, or taking inappropriate responsibility for something that you could not prevent and that should never have occurred. For grown children, this can result in their allowing their brains and bodies to remain emotionally battered in any number of unhealthy ways, continuing to accept abuse from dysfunctional family members or others, or even abusing themselves.

Candy actually stuttered when she said, “B-b-b-but I never heard anything like this before, and I wouldn’t know where to b-b-begin!”

I encouraged her to find an experienced counselor who could help her move through the recovery process. When Candy said she knew no counselors, I gave her three names that she might want to interview.”

Six months later when I answered a knock on my office door, I was surprised to find Candy standing there. Standing,  mind you. She was using a cane—to help her stand and walk. Naturally, I was interested in her story.

“I’m putting it together,” she announced, “and I feel better than I have in years. Do you know that I’ve been married three times to abusive men? In effect, each time I married my father!” And she was off and running. Candy had been collaborating diligently with her counselor. She was connecting the events of her childhood and three marriages with her health issues.”

“You were right,” she said. “There is a connection between my past and my current health. When I told my parents that I was taking a break from visiting them, my father said that I was no longer his daughter and that he never, EVER, wanted to see me again! I was persona non grata and was never, EVER, to communicate with either of them in any way.”

“How are you managing that?” I asked.

“I was shocked at first. However, it has turned into an immense blessing. You cannot imagine my relief not to talk to my mother every day on the phone, not to have to see them and be stared at in that scary way. Oh! I reconnected with my aunt. It is wonderful! I feel as if a dark cloud has lifted for the first time in my life.” Candy smiled widely.

Candy had not only been abused by others, but she had abused herself by becoming stuck in the lethal trap of counterfeit forgiveness. She had turned the anger, designed to help her identify how badly her boundaries were being invaded, against herself. Fortunately, Candy recognized this and took immediately corrective steps to improve her life. In another six months she may be able to discard her literal cane—as well as her metaphorical crutch of well-meaning but unenlightened excuses. Counterfeit forgiveness.