High tolerance

“You have high tolerance,” Therapist said.

“Huh?”

“When something negative happens, when someone’s behavior hurts you, you analyze and look for the reasons inside yourself. Then you try to find the underlying causes for the behavior. You don’t just dismiss the person.”

Other people more often than not say, “what an asshole,” and are on their way. But I don’t do that. Take my last work experience: I left my job on really bad terms with my former boss. I don’t like her work mentality, and the strife caused me considerable distress and not a few tears. It cost me not only my job, but also my last chance for an academic career. Am I mad? Am I bitter? Am I resentful?

The answer is a resounding no. I understand why she is the way she is. I understand she must think I am a bad person, indeed. Her view is that I behaved horribly towards her. I get it. But I chose not to let it define my professional life. That’s just the way it is. She sees the world differently than I do. For all the stress and tears she caused me, I don’t blame her. It couldn’t have worked between us. In fact, the only reason it lasted as long as it did was my high tolerance, if I believe some of my former colleagues–but that’s their view, which might or might not be true, if such a thing as universal truth even exists.

It’s the same with personal relationships. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” people tell me sometimes, and I wonder at their hesitance, because I can’t imagine an occasion where I’d actually take things the wrong way. I might think I’m wrong, or I’m behaving suboptimally, or they just misunderstood, but I rarely ever think, “they’re being unfair to me,” or, “how dare they!” This kind of basic self-righteousness was stomped out of me pretty early on. Was it my family? Society? Misogynism? Who knows? As for the things people sometimes tell me, those I could “take the wrong way,” I never felt they were particularly hurtful or negative when they were finally uttered. “You appear arrogant at first” just gives me useful information: I appear a certain way when one first meets me. Why on Earth should I be mad at the person who shared their honest view with me?

So, high tolerance. Who knew! I should probably reduce the tolerance, though. No reason to remain in situations that cause pain and discomfort.

3. Raising an adult

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For the past couple of days, my husband has been exhibiting a remarkable degree of emotional intelligence. The change wasn’t instantaneous. I think he’s been developing an understanding of our kids and their feelings—or me and my feelings—at a higher rate during the lockdown, and even more since we got professional help with dealing with our pre-pubescent daughter. I now think—or at least hope—that our sixteen-year-long journey as a couple, otherwise known as “Becoming Proper Adults” has paid off: I finally live with an emotionally intelligent adult. His progress is astounding. I never thought that a grown person could improve so much.

I’m convinced Urban’s emotional development stopped at the age of about eight. He’s a very calm, organized, introverted person, but has difficulty dealing with any kind of stress or changes to his schedule. For most of our life together, unexpected tension resulted in tantrums, things thrown, walking away in anger, banging doors. He didn’t understand the feelings behind simple gestures. In the first months of our relationship, I gave him a mug with a picture of a pirate mouse sitting on top of a treasure chest and the words “You are my biggest treasure” painted on it, to which his response was, “I don’t like mugs with pictures on them.” There’s a host of things to unpack right there—suppressed intergenerational war trauma, Germany, you see—which we are now beginning to tackle with the help of a psychologist.

And what about me? I just struggled to survive in my adopted country, strove to understand Germans and their ways. Years passed while I single-handedly took care of household and children and saw to everybody’s small and larger needs—not the sausages from that supermarket, mama, I know they look the same, but they taste differently—at the same time trying to be an adequate researcher. Shouldering the mental load of running a family while burdened with this handed-down emotional wound and having to deal with Urban’s dysfunctional, overbearing, sometimes downright hostile family brought me to a state of extreme irritability. For months before my breakdown I couldn’t stand the barest hint of a raised voice. It immediately sent me into a spiral of hyperventilation and despair—sometimes accompanied by hysterical crying. The kids got scared, I felt bad—what kind of a mother am I, unable to keep my cool during a regular family quarrel? Sometimes Urban showed maturity: he soothed me by saying it’s okay, everyone is allowed to get upset. Still, noises had to be kept low, interactions had to be polite, the kids needed to be nice to me, Urban had to be patient with all of us. At the smallest hint he was upset—a mere twitch, the slight alteration of the pitch of his voice—I freaked out.

He’d been making progress on the emotional intelligence front all these years, but I think he became more emotionally mature after my first hysterical crises, which started a couple months before the breakdown. But he still shouted at the kids—unable to deal with the behavior of our daughter, who’s reaching stages of development he somehow skipped when he was that age—and I just couldn’t stand it. Our daughter would cry, she’d scream that daddy doesn’t understand her, and I’d have to stop whatever I was doing because, in case you have forgotten, I’m the problem solver in this family. I’d have to convince her that daddy loves her, and I’d have to coax him into actually giving her what she needs, which is always a good, long hug. Urban still doesn’t understand the significance of hugs: even as a kid, what he wanted when he was upset was to be left alone. For me, as a child, being left alone was proof that my parents didn’t love me, and I’m sure our daughter feels the exact same way (she tells me so).

I’d been telling him for weeks: I can’t keep living like this. The strain is too much. The lockdown was a factor, sure, the months of homeschooling took their toll. Trying to make those two do anything was a constant, often futile struggle, like pushing an elephant uphill. Kids are little emotional elephants, if they don’t want to accommodate your wishes—ten minutes homework, not a big deal, you’d think—there’s nothing you can do to make them. On top of everything else, this was just the drop that overflowed the glass of my sanity.

All those days with two kids at home, trying to get answers to simple questions while they talked and shouted, jumped around, ignored me, fought, and didn’t do their damned homework, drove the stress levels to new heights. Every day there came a point when I felt dizzy, and I had to go out. I took short walks, breathed in the cool air, and then I came back, thinking I’m all refreshed and calm. But ten minutes in, the dizziness would return, and I would beg them to speak one at a time, to ask for things one at a time, and to just answer my questions. It never really worked. And when Urban emerged from the basement after work, he just added to the mayhem.

Somehow, now it works. Everybody talks in low voices, differences are solved quickly and without fighting, and Urban is the model of the perfect, calm parent, who treats his children with endless love and respect, who never loses his patience, no matter what tantrum the kid has worked itself up to, no matter how bratty or disrespectful or stubborn they’re being.

I watch him go about it, and I don’t know who this person is. For the past seven years, since our son came into this world, Urban’s frayed nerves and shouting were things you could depend on. Even two weeks ago, I dreaded going to my room to work, because I knew that five minutes later I would hear him shouting at our daughter, and she’d start to cry hysterically, and then the little one would start crying too because he can’t stand the others screaming at each other, and doors would be slammed and harsh things would be said. And every time, my anxiety would go up a notch.

But now, he’s perfect. I watch with suspicion, wondering how long it will last. The kids are also wonderful, but I trust them more: they can get used to new behaviors, they can easily develop new habits, they’re still young, moldable.

Dimitra says he’s scared out of his mind after what happened. This might explain this new personality. I have to say, I like this man, the one who’s not irritated all the time for reasons he doesn’t understand, the one with the calm, soothing voice, who makes everything all right. If this continues, I might even remember how it was to love him.