Fear, obligation, and guilt: walking through the family fog

The courage it takes to break the chain and change your story

Credit: gorchittza2012

Note: This post may come across as critical of my parents & my brother. An important aspect of being clear is looking directly at things from my past. I try to observe, with as much honesty as I can, and learn what I can from those observations. I’m sure some projections remain. I welcome any thoughts on my blind spots.

Seeing through the fog

Family units fall into familiar behaviour patterns. You adopt a role that fits within the dynamics of the family. After long enough playing that role it feels… normal.

Normal doesn’t mean comfortable. The role you play may not be in your own best interests.

But it’s a role you’ve played for so many years it has become normal, to you and to your family of origin.

In my therapy journey I’ve come across lots of useful acronyms. One of my favourites is FOG: Fear, Obligation, and Guilt.

When we’re in the fog we experience intense emotions triggered by the expectations others place on us. Those emotions lead us to behave in dysfunctional ways that don’t serve us.

With my parents I spent 40 years lost in the fog of fear, obligation and guilt.

In the fog I would fall back into the old familiar role I’d played for years. I’d learned from many painful encounters that behaving the way others expected me to was safer.

Then I started to look at my family of origin and the impact it has had on me. The scars those painful moments have left. The way they influence my behaviour and emotions even today.

I realised I had to face into a choice: Stay lost in the fog, or try to break the chain and walk a different path.

Spotting familiar patterns

Years ago we were out in the South of France where my parents have lived since I was 17. This was the first time I’d taken Jo, early in our relationship.

Our usual family routine was dinner followed by games. Cards, or Scrabble, or Yahtzee. All the classics. I have some happy memories of that from my early childhood. Beautiful middle class moments. Just how we’re supposed to behave.

This time we were playing Boggle. If you don’t know it, there’s a square of 16 letters and against the clock you have to make words from the letters. It's fast-paced and fun.

You only get a point if no-one else comes up with the same word you do. The more unusual a word, the more likely you score points. So there is a strong incentive to make-up words...

A familiar pattern was playing out, particularly now that my Dad was a few drinks deep. He made up a word, insisting it was correct and ridiculing anyone who questioned him. We looked it up in the dictionary to humour him. He refused to accept that it didn’t exist and wouldn't let it go.

Truth is, I was embarrassed at his behaviour in front of my new girlfriend. I called him out, clumsily. I was frustrated and angry, my voice raised. He staying calm, smirking, enjoying my loss of control. Enjoying his power over me.

Another familiar pattern.

My Mum and brother recognised it. They exchanged a knowing look and eye-roll that said “Here we go - Deri’s being difficult again”.

The familiar family story. I was in the wrong. It was all my fault for losing my cool and getting angry. Attacking my poor father who was only joking. He must have told me a thousand times: “Deri bach, you need to learn to laugh at yourself!”

The classic excuse of a bully.

Finding safety in the fog

When these family dynamics play out in our early years we adopt behaviours to survive.

Being myself, expressing my feelings, saying what I thought - I’d learnt that these things were all unsafe. Instead I’d realised it was better to try to go along with how people wanted me to behave.

That's the origin of fear, obligation and guilt. We learn that we'll be rejected if we don't fall into line, so we do what we’re told in order to stay safe. For kids, rejection is too painful to bear.

As adults those learned behaviours are hard to change. To change them means to clash with our parents, draw hard boundaries, hold our ground. Society does not encourage that.

Moving forward through the FOG

Three years ago I faced into that difficult choice - stay in my familial role defined by fear, or try to break the chain. There was risk in facing into these issues, but more risk in staying on the path I was on.

Becoming a father had changed me. My eldest son was 4 years old and I was struggling to connect with him. My anger frequently overwhelmed me and I’d end up shouting at him. I could see how much it hurt him but I didn’t know how to stop. I was in danger of passing on my wounds, as my Dad had passed his childhood trauma on to me.

I was scared. What damage was I doing to my son? How could I be the father I wanted to be?

Nothing was more important to me. I had to face into my anger and where it came from. The only route out of there was to reject that fear. To clear the fog.

For the first time in my life I spoke honestly to my parents. I told them how their move to France when I was 17 had impacted me. How I still felt trapped by fear, obligation and guilt towards them.

I said I needed things to be different between us. I wanted to move to a grown-up relationship with them, based on honesty and respect, rather than manipulation and fear.

It didn’t land well.

It was hard for them to accept that I was changing the story. They responded with excuses, justifications, arguments, denials. And lots of anger.

Family units are like planetary systems. There are powerful forces that keep every part of the system moving the way it has always moved. You can’t easily change the orbit of one planet. Gravity kicks in.

When I decided to change the story it was like trying to pull Mars out of orbit.

I faced that choice again: stay in the fog and pass my wounds to my kids, or keep moving forwards to try to break the chain.

I realised that these choices don’t just happen once. It’s like fighting addiction. Every day we have to wake up and choose the life we want again.

I’ve chosen to put myself and my kids first. I haven’t yet found a way to do that whilst maintaining a relationship with my parents.

I feel guilty. I want to rescue my parents. To say it was all a mistake, let’s go back to how things were, I’m sorry.

But to do that is to fall back into the fog. To give up the progress I’ve made on becoming a better father, a better husband. A clear man.

And that progress is significant. I’ve come so far from the path I was on. Rejecting the fear, obligation and guilt from my parents was like putting down a heavy weight I’d been carrying. I feel free for the first time in my life.

I hope there is a way to rebuild the relationship with my parents before it’s too late. I have that hope, but no expectation - I understand it may not happen, and I’m not prepared to step back into the fog for it.

Instead, I’m choosing every day to break the chain.

That is the biggest gift I can give my kids.

🙏

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His gift to me was a broken chain - Dave Kline (via Twitter)

One Father's Day, when I was 9, my Dad asked me to hop in the car. We drove to an elementary school. It was Sunday at 11 am. Inside the gym, cigarette smoke filled the air as three dozen adults milled about.

Confused, he told me to sit.

He then walked to the front. He was the only one up there.

Were they here to listen to my Dad? Was this his meeting?

My Dad went to a lot of meetings. That is what I thought work was. He asked for quiet and began to speak. "My name is Dave, and I'm an alcoholic."

What!?!? Stunned, I learned about a life I didn't know. Of cases of beer that disappeared and days that did the same. Of a war we didn't speak of and the birth certificate he forged to join it. Of parents who showed love with fists.

When it ended, I watched something else. A parade. It seemed like each person had to greet my Dad. He was a celebrity. I'd learn that in these circles, 10 years sober was quite a miracle. And miracles inspire. Sharing was his gift to them. And a burden he gladly wore.

But that Father's Day, he gave me a gift. A gift he had started to wrap a decade earlier. He was determined that I would not grow up as he had. That my normal would be a safe and sober normal. That his duty as a parent was to be better.

His gift to me was a broken chain.