“The world separates you and then there are a lot of people in a broken place.” ~Ernest Hemingway
My grandmother just died. My sister and I came from the room where her body was still lying and we were standing in the elevator silently when the door closed. My sister looked at me and said, “Now you are the last strongman in this family.”
It was comforting to hear her words. I feel proud. And then almost immediately there was something else. My stomach gripped. I just want to stop the elevator, run away and not look back. My sister did not tell me anything new. She just gives words to something I have known for a long time, and some of me admit that I want to leave. But I do not know how. Still.
To understand why those words went the way they did, you have to go back to a hall. I was six years old, about seven years old, standing outside my mother’s room. She returned from a psychiatric hospital a few months ago. I was waiting for it. I took pictures of it, the return of relationships, life back to normal, even though at that time I forgot what normal looks.
Then she came home and closed the door. Behind it, I could hear her typewriter. She is writing a novel.
I knocked politely. By then, I had already learned politely about my needs. The answer came quickly: “No, do not disturb me.” I recognized the specific tone of her voice. I heard it before when she would tell me I was “too much” for her.
So I left. I do not remember feeling angry. I remember feeling that I understood. Like it makes sense that the door would be closed. Like a correct response. Take care of myself And do not ask again. That decision, made somewhere on a highway at the age of six or seven, became the blueprint for the next four decades of my life.
My mother’s absence, even when she was physically present, began earlier.
When I think back to the day she was admitted to the psychiatric hospital, I remember waiting for her to spend some time with me. I remember she told me to stop crying because it was too much for her. Accusing me of stealing a ring from her, which I did not get, just because she put it wrong. Shouting to my father that I was too strong and she could not deal with me anymore.
They are all signs of a woman about to lose weight, but I do not understand.
When I was about five years old, she decided to go to a psychiatric hospital with severe mental illness. Frankly, I do not remember much of that time. My sister was born a few months ago. My grandmother suddenly appeared and took me out of school. My grandfather brought me and my sister in and suddenly I was in another city, another school, no friends. Something in me had to decide at that moment that I was in some important way myself
When she comes back, I want to believe that things will be different. The closed door told me they were not. So I became useful. I took care of my little sister. I followed my father. I monitored the atmosphere in our home in such a way that a small meteorologist monitored the weather, constantly scanning, making sure no one was worried about me because I was worried about everything else.
Later, when my parents divorced and my mother moved to another place, I took care of her. Every two weeks I traveled with my sister by train to visit her. Do not know what to expect. Carefully examine for signs of manic episodes. Walk on the eggshell, do not let her trigger.
And when I decided at the age of fourteen not to visit her anymore, I tracked her remotely over the phone. For years. I do not remember who but her mother. Never a daughter.
Strength for everyone did not feel like what I had to do at the time. I thought about who I was. It felt like a necessary job. But one that came with a strange sense of security. As long as I hold things together, it has a role for me. Reasons needed. And was feeling that if I was honest, like being loved so much.
What I did not understand at the time and what took decades to see clearly was that I also built a prison in it. Because I believe that if I stop being stubborn Everything will fall apart. Not just for the people around me. For me, too. Because who went to catch me? I decided at the age of six to stand in the hall that the answer was no one.
So I continued. The desire to be useful and remarkable drove me through life. I worked for two decades as a professional actor. Returned to study and received a doctorate at the age of forty-five. Started a completely new career at a university. Married with two children. Life looks like someone who has it together. And in many ways I did. But I am also the one who answers every call that shows up when asked who answered yes before checking if I have anything left to give.
They say the body keeps scoring. Min kept the record carefully.
Years later, my sister went through a difficult time. What is happening in my life has fallen into the background. There is only one clear focus: drastic change. But this time, my body pushed back. I immediately felt cold to the bone. My head started spinning. Nausea. Even though I wanted to start an action, I could not. I slept in bed for hours, not because I decided to take a break, but because I had no choice.
Lying there under a blanket, trying to stay warm, something changed. My body made decisions that my mind could not. “Not today,” it said. And first I let it be enough. It feels like a relief. The next day I realized my sister was in control. Without me.
The real turning point came on vacation. My mother called. She wanted me back as soon as I got back and “finally” took care of her. She listed what she expected of me, what her daughter did. When I tried to stop her, she told me stories about other people’s daughters who did those things. And as soon as she stopped, I said quietly and almost in surprise, “I’m not like that.”
I knew, as I said, that it was not true. Not the way she meant it. I have been like that for decades.
I called every day for years to let her breathe. I looked for signs that she might be in the hospital. In many ways, I have been more of a parent to her than a child.
But I also know that what I say is true in a way that matters to me. I will not confirm anything else. Not today. Not for this. I hung up and felt something new: relieved. Relief of setting something.
What I have come to understand slowly and imperfectly is: Being strong is not just about me. I also chose it. It gives me something I really need: a role, a sense of security, a way to be close to my loved ones without risking the vulnerabilities that have already cost me so much. Seeing clearly, without blame, and without shame is the most important part of changing it.
The process has been less robust since then. I am still strong. That really is part of who I am. What has changed is what strength is for. It doesn’t have to be the price I pay for ownership anymore. It does not have to prove that I deserve my place anymore.
What I am learning instead is: I can be present with the people I love By not accepting their struggles.. I can let someone I care about sit down with something difficult without rushing to fix it. I can assure you that they are capable of saying that my absence from the role of savior is not the same as giving up.
And little by little, in the space that opens up when I lose control of everything, I am looking for something I did not expect. Finally there is a place for someone to ask how I am doing. And the first room to answer the truth.
The decision I made in front of the closed door was not wrong. It’s best a six-year-old can do with what she has. But I am not the other six.
I have never been the only one who is strong. I am also a detainee.
About Femke E. Baker
Dr. Femke E. Bakker is a Certified Political Psychologist, Meditation Teacher, and TEDx Speaker. She is the creator of the concept of self-gentleness, which is the practice of accepting yourself as the most important person to achieve your personal softness consistently. She writes and teaches for self-aware adults who continue to draw back to self-criticism and self-satisfaction even after years of internal work. Find her at drfemkebakker.com.
