What happens when a child's "voice" has been stymied and he or she has
been socialized to stop whining, acting out, or throwing tantrums in
protest? The need for voice does not disappear. Instead, it
goes underground and re-appears years later in the form of hidden
messages. Here's an example.
Some time ago, Trish (a client of mine) told her husband, Randy, that she was bothered by a turf battle at the web design firm where she was working. Another woman, on her own accord, had taken over an administrative responsibility that Trish had previously been in charge of. Trish had stewed about it all day.
When she finished telling Randy the story, he hardly stopped to think. "This is what you should do...." he said, and he went on to explain, step by step, what he considered the best course of action. The advice was logical and to the point--yet when he stopped speaking, Trish felt worse rather than better.
Later, she approached her husband and said: "You know, I really wasn't looking for advice."
"Then, what were you looking for?" he responded gruffly.
"I just wanted you to know what I was going through, so I would feel less alone."
"What good is that?" he answered, obviously hurt by the perceived criticism.
On the surface the interaction is simple. A wife is distressed by an event at work and a husband gives advice. But why does such a simple discussion end with hurt feelings? And why did they have this same fight over and over again. To answer these questions we have to look at both parties' personal histories. Trish's father had died when Trish was three, and her mother had sunk into a deep depression from which she never fully recovered. After a year of therapy, Trish could identify the feeling of aloneness, a dark and scary part of her past, and ask Randy for help.
But how about Randy? Was advice simply a way of showing concern for Trish, or was something lacking in his capacity for empathy? Luckily, Randy came to see me for therapy shortly after this conversation took place, and so we can answer this question.
From the retelling of numerous childhood stories it soon became clear that Randy's parents rarely "heard" or valued what he said. While they were able to repeat his words back (and on the surface may have appeared to be empathic), they never paused to think about the meaning of those words from his perspective and savor his unique experience of the world. Although they were responsible parents, they almost never enjoyed him; most often they were too stressed or unhappy to listen--or preoccupied with left-wing causes, for which both parents were spokespeople. During his pre-teens he had a "mantra." He repeated "Who cares?" over and over again. His mother, amused by this expression, would come up with funny answers: the mailman, the dentist, etc.. Although an intelligent woman, it never registered that the phrase might have psychological significance. Randy's parents tucked him in every night and gave him a kiss, but the hidden message--you are not worthy of my attention--was far more powerful than the obligatory "I love you."
When Randy rediscovered his "voicelessness," he gradually realized he was doing to Trish what had been done to him as a child. His automatic response was not to listen, but instead to shut Trish and everyone else up. He was starved for "voice," and his hidden message--"I have something important to say"--was an expression of this need. In therapy, he grieved his loss of voice, and a childhood of emotional neglect. "Who cares?" became a real, painful question. It took some time before he discovered that Trish cared--and I cared. And he worked, and worked, and worked at learning to listen. Because of his efforts and courage, his relationship with Trish, with whom he could now speak about his unhappy past, grew deeper and more meaningful.
Little would have changed if Randy had not discovered his hidden messages and their root cause. The couple would have fought over and over again, without realizing what the fights were about. But Randy persisted at therapy, and ultimately both parties were able to turn a failing marriage into one full of growth and promise.