Handling My Inner Yosemite Sam

Cancer, enmeshment and caregiving have introduced me to such terms as, “vulnerable adult,” “self-care,” “Narcissistic abuse…” and “Grey Rock.” They are daily parts of my life now.

I can soldier on with the best of them. But, inevitably, there reaches such a point, that I, well… you know the cartoon character, Yosemite Sam?

Yeah, it’s like that.

“Dag gum, rootin’ tootin’ varmint!”

I devolve into him, maybe with steam escaping my ear holes.

Indeed, when it comes to a variety of issues involving my mother, Yosemite Sam is my spirit animal. Mom and I have an enmeshed, mother-daughter relationship. I truly am astounded I haven’t committed a felony (yet).

Coming from an abusive home, I believed, for years, that the main issue was my dad. A control freak, misogynist and possibly, a person who went undiagnosed as bipolar, he ruled the household in an unrelenting, stifling manner. Verbal and emotional abuse were “business as usual.” My mother and I were traumatized, trauma bonded, from the start. I soon, as a young child, came to view my family structure as “Us versus Him.” Survival mode.

Within that dynamic, my mother was in denial of the toxicity. “At least he doesn’t hit us” and “He’s a good provider” were her responses when I started challenging things as a small child.

I knew something was off. Mom, to keep life running smoothly, often employed the technique of gaslighting to protect the status quo.

“No, you didn’t see that. No, it’s not that bad.”

And I believed her instead of believing my child’s intuition. I tried to accept that our family life was just how it was. Play along. Just get through things.

But I saw inequity and hypocrisy. My dad could act any way he wanted; Mom and I, however, couldn’t. There’d be hell to pay if we displeased him. Therefore, experiencing that reality firsthand, my inner Yosemite Sam arose. I was rageful, with no safe place to put it.

By adolescence, I descended into the full-on flareup of my disordered eating issues. Anorexia and Bulimia were my desperate responses to the stressful reality of our personal misery.

I was living in a no-win situation.

As much as Mom downplayed my dad’s abusive behaviors, she also refused to accept her own dysfunction as well. She was depressed. Who knows how long that existed? Shame and secrecy permeated everything she did. Her diary, I later discovered, included many entries, stating, “I’m depressed.”

Of course, she never got help for that depression.

And she further nullified mine. She dismissed, mocked and criticized me. She refused to take my eating disorder behavior as an urgent cry for help.

Life moved on. I grew up, went to college, got married and wrote a book about my eating disorder experiences. I also finally went to some solid therapy at the age of twenty-seven, to address dormant issues that were simmering.

My inner Yosemite Sam intensely processed a large amount of that abuse, neglect and rage and my 2006 book was evidence of that processing.

By the time the book was published, my dad had died. I was safe from his fury.

But, my mother…

Again, Mom, anti-therapy, never sought help. She couldn’t because of the grip my dad had on her. And, of course, her deep shame and denial would not let her access her own dark, painful emotions and experiences.

Not surprisingly, my mother chose not to read my book (she still hasn’t to this day); she only brags about its existence to others. But there was no connection to her role in its creation. Detached denial, a desire to keep an unhealthy relationship with me going and a dismissal of urgent issues that needed attention were a part of her life skills.

This has continued, in more recent years, with devastating consequences.

As my mother aged, I pleaded for her to take care of herself. A socially isolated widow, morbidly obese for decades, she was adamant about, again, downplaying her reality.

And that led to her 2009 stroke. Since then, she resides in a care facility, was diagnosed with Type II Diabetes, and was placed on a restricted diet. And she has not been cooperative with that diet.

Mother-daughter enmeshment and fruitless arguing over her wants, therefore, have come into play.

Case in point: Mom loves salted peanuts. Years ago, she asked me to bring a jar whenever I visited. I did this a couple of times. However, she started gaining weight. Once that occurred, I stopped bringing the peanuts. But that didn’t stop her from asking for them. I told her no; she asked why. I argued the perspective of her health; Mom, countered with “I want them now.”

Mom kept requesting peanuts; I kept telling her no.

During a later visit, I noticed a jar in her room. She told me she had another person bring it to her. And, upon closer inspection, I noticed a two- inch white layer at the bottom of the jar. Mom was salting those already salted peanuts.

My inner Yosemite Sam, along with my codependency, kicked up dust. The care facility, her doctor, the nursing staff, and I were all trying to improve and maintain her health. And this was her response?

I didn’t want to explode. So, after only five minutes into my visit, I removed the jar and left.

Mom’s parting words, punctuated with a chuckle? “You’re taking my peanuts.”

(Calm down, Sam, At least wait until we’re in the car).

I didn’t know it then, but I was already practicing Grey Rock, a technique practiced within the context of Narcissistic abuse and toxic people. The goal is to be as non-reactionary as possible, just like… a grey rock. To do otherwise only gets the other toxic person’s juices flowing, harming us further.

Nope, don’t want that.

Ready for more caregiving fun?

How about the elderly individual’s quarterly care conferences?

Held every three months, these meetings cover all things resident: activity level, diet, various health issues and an opportunity to voice anything that has become a need.

Mom has always wanted people to see her as “nice.” Often, she clams up regarding problems.

I am her health care agent; ergo, I deal with such problems concerning her. However, my mother only sees me as the child playing dress up. That viewpoint, coupled with her nervous discomfort over uncomfortable matters, therefore, regularly sparks her laughter at me during the meeting’s discussed topics. Typically, I ask questions and go over her stats with the social worker, dietician and nurse case manager.

And, typically, Mom laughs at the seriousness of the discussion. Her laughter is distracting; all discussion stops.

“Mom, what’s so funny?”

“Oh, just something,” as her body convulses with passive-aggressive giggles in her wheelchair. Eventually, we wrap up the conference and I end yet another fun adventure in this mother-daughter relationship.

And, just like times before, once I was safely in the car, I become Yosemite Sam. I vent, scream, sometimes cry. My poor husband gets an earful during the two-hour drive back. Years of this.

I thought I could go on like this indefinitely. I convinced myself I could. After all, Mom’s elderly. I’m her only child. We have precious time left. I can tough it out.

Not so fast.

For in 2017, I received my Breast cancer diagnosis. But even then, it took a while for me to access Grey Rock for my benefit, as well as for Yosemite Sam’s.

A year after my diagnosis, I’d finally discovered that my meek, sweet, vulnerable adult mother was, more than likely, a Covert Narcissist.

That was a fun day.

Because of my abusive childhood with my dad, I knew there was codependency. Our lives were spent walking on eggshells and pleasing him, “or else…”

I knew my mother was in a submissive position within that atmosphere. She wasn’t allowed to be anything but that. No voice. No opinion, at least, no opinion that didn’t align with my dad’s views.

I believe that, in the middle of the stifling circumstances, Mom made her choice. We all make deals, in the name of survival. Her refusal to see how bad it was, her desire to be taken care of, to be viewed as a “nice woman,” and to have affirmation any way she could get it, all led her to be covert about obtaining, maintaining and executing power, control and her “voice.” She mostly achieved this via, me, the powerless child.

(And yes, I know, this is not an objective stance).

But my mother has acted in a passive-aggressive manner my entire life. She doesn’t directly voice what she wants. She undermines. She comments. She asks a question, instilling doubt and guilt. She makes light of a distressing situation, laughing about it.

But she does it all sweetly. She’s “nice” about it.

She did this even after my cancer diagnosis. She just couldn’t-or wouldn’t- get that I was preoccupied with treatment and healing, not orbiting around her.

And that’s what she wanted. Me orbiting her until she dies.

Only now, there was a real possibility I could die before her.

So, frustrating conversations with her, trying to reason with her, led to one critical exchange, exposing her victim mentality, a hallmark of Covert Narcissists. She told me that I disappointed her, even though what I was doing was recovering from my cancer experiences and practicing “self-care.”

To her, however, that was unacceptable.

And now, that conversation was also unacceptable to me. Yosemite Sam was not only furious. Now, he was despondent.

Something had to change.

Okay, then, time to recalibrate. I’m still her daughter. I’m still her caregiver. But I’m also diagnosed. And, if I’m not physically dying right now, I’m certainly emotionally strained, remaining in this unhealthy dynamic.

I had to change. Mom wouldn’t. Mom couldn’t. She’s over eighty years old. She is the person she is.

I had to fight for my life.

Therefore, the “Grey Rock” technique would be my paperweight, holding my psyche together and keeping Yosemite Sam at bay. It’s not a perfect method, but it helps me, nonetheless.

I was initially inspired by the fictional character, Lurch. You know, the tall butler on “The Adams Family” television show? Ah, Lurch. A deeply Baritone example of the Grey Rock response, answering the family’s requests with, “You rang.” Even though he was awaiting instruction, he still emitted no inflection.

I needed to do that with Mom now. I needed some go-to phrases in response to her that had the B-flat sentiment attached to them. Staples like...

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

This is not groveling. For decades, I incorporated sincere grovels as I tried to reason with my mother why I could not meet her expectations. And that never worked. So, no more. It’s a new day.

I now make this remark to her, whatever she says, be it guilt-inducing or martyr-filled. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” It plainly communicates I have heard and am responding, but she is not getting any further past the protective barrier.

Boundaries. “Do not cross.”

Sometimes, she insists on mocking me. Sometimes, she is quiet. In any case, I am resolute. I’m taking care of myself. Simple.

“That’s interesting.”

I use this response whenever Mom insists I make lifestyle choices that would move me geographically closer to her. Perhaps, now, she posits that because of “the cancer,” the only logical option for me is to move into her care facility, residing right next door.

Or better yet, bunk beds in her room! My husband could assemble a cot nearby for himself, I guess.

Ludicrous, right? Even with “my cancer.”

Still, Mom wants me to revert to babyhood. I cannot comply.

So, “That’s interesting.” I give no other spirited Yosemite Sam feedback. And yes, “Y-Sam” still is there, doing some huffing and puffing. But now, I do my best to “observe, not absorb” what is being said to me. Her comments are faulty, anyway.

“I’m hanging in there.”

I say this whenever we speak by phone and she asks me how I am doing.

At first, she didn’t know what to say to that. Sometimes, she comes back with the question, “What does that mean?” and I retort with, “Just that, Mom. I’m hanging in there.” Sometimes, she laughs at me.

It probably frustrates her, sure. But that’s because she’s not getting “the intel” she desires, intel which gets her attention/sympathy from her care facility and intel which she can use against me later. That stuff has happened too many times.

Early in my diagnosis, I did try to inform her, with as little gore and fear as possible. She just didn’t want to hear anything other than “I’m back to normal and I’ll soon be focusing on you again.”

But energy is finite now; I need to be mercenary, even with this seemingly, sweet, meek, old woman. Yosemite Sam cannot get all riled up as he once did.

Mom’s still “covert.” Secret. Sneaky. Agenda-filled.

She has not- and will not- change. Therefore, I need to. Cancer doesn’t give me the luxury of enduring what I once experienced with her.

“I’m fine. How are you?” and “Not much. What’s going on with you?” (In response to her question, “How are you?”/ What’s going on?”)

These responses address the “spin it around” tactic.

Again, I strive to be boring in my answer and I quickly ask my mother what’s going on with her. I’m not talking about me. Let’s interact concerning your life, Mom.

She usually doesn’t have much to say. It’s surface chit-chat. Unfortunately, that’s our relationship. That’s as deep as we are going to go, woman to woman.

And I grieve and resign myself to that. Sometimes, we don’t get what we need from these important loved ones in our lives. Sometimes, circumstances trump our efforts to make that happen.

But I am worth being in a healing, peaceful place. Change concerning Mom is helping get me there. I’m still her caregiver, but I do things concerning her more at a distance. I employ the speaker phone concerning her care conferences. I see her, but now, it’s less frequently.  I tend to her needs and issues as best as I can…mostly, from afar. And that must be enough.

I love my mother. But sometimes, loving her can turn into risking my life. I’m aware of that now. That needs to stop. 

I give myself permission to make it stop.

Life sometimes means that we have not only one life-altering issue to deal with, but we have multiple, at the same time. Cancer and caregiving have been that for me. Both have been fraught with pain and fear. Both demand attention.

Do you see yourself here, in any way?

Are you a diagnosed caregiver, embattled with a vulnerable adult who is toxic to your condition?

There’s so much emphasis on the elderly or designated “vulnerable” person, their health, their well-being. We, as caregivers, can often get lost in the shuffle. It’s just assumed that we’ll be bulletproof indefinitely. Don’t worry about us; we don’t have needs; we’re hearty. We can take it.

Only, sometimes, we can’t take it.

Sometimes, we are the vulnerable adult, requiring extra care and attention. And sometimes, we are the adults that need to choose self over duty. And that is what caregiving is, isn’t it?

Loving, mixed emotion, challenging duty, but duty, all the same.

Dysfunction, abuse, codependency, aging and any myriad of health or personal issues don’t resolve themselves, by themselves. All of this requires our action, especially if someone we care for, is hindering those resolutions. Yosemite Sam can be our alarm, alerting us to danger and informing us of our need to change. But WE must make that change.

It’s not selfish; it’s self-care.

It can be a matter of life and death. And you and I, no matter what, deserve life.

Therefore, care-give yourself!

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse