"right to folly"

the pain of caring for a mother who abused you

When I became my grandmother’s legal guardian in 2011 she lived at home, alone. She was 94 and managing pretty well, considering. She was also frail and exhibiting signs of mild dementia, but otherwise healthy.

What I remember most about that time is how her neighbors, her long-time lawyer and friend (who urged her to name me legal guardian), and my mother (who lived about 400 miles away), were concerned that she would fall and break a hip, that she needed more in-home assistance, that she should go to assisted living, etc.

I thought about those things as well, not to mention the half-eaten bits of food in her refrigerator that she refused to throw away and the stacks and stacks of paper (mail, newspapers, catalogs) on every floor and surface, all of which had a date and other notes written on them.

She could become verbally and physically violent, if I touched any of it (she’d always been this way).

She wanted to be left alone except when she needed someone do her bidding.

My mother wanted to force her into a nursing home and “make her suffer.” I totally got that one.

Sure it would have been easier if she was being cared for 24/7 but I couldn’t “make” her do anything unless and until she was deemed incapable. I did have her evaluated. I did make sure her home was as safe as it could be. I made sure she had a medical alert device.

Ultimately I realized that if she fell and broke her hip...she would fall and break her hip.

And that may be her demise.

But she would die...free. On her own terms.

My attitude was not so much “you’ve made your bed now lie in it“ but “you are free to live your life...and death...as you see fit.”

In so doing I unhooked myself from a pattern that wove itself through many a maternal lineage:

You either “give of yourself selflessly” to someone who abused you all the while feeling bitter and resentful ...

or

You say “fuck that bitch” all the while feeling defensive and angry ...

or

You say “I can’t do it” (when what you mean is “I don’t want to do it”) all the while feeling guilty and regretful.

There is another way: the right to folly.

The “right to folly” is the right to make poor, eccentric, or risky life choices and it refers to an individual’s legal and ethical autonomy to live as they choose, even if it is detrimental to themselves, provided they retain mental capacity and do not harm others.

I learned about the right to folly when I read The Pain of Caring for a Parent Who Abused You (if you don’t subscribe to the New York Times you can cut and paste the link into removepaywalls.com).

The right to folly dovetails with my core value of autonomy. When I lean into it, it feels both generous and powerful. And loving. It’s conscious and intentional.

Because I include myself in my own values.

Including yourself in your own values doesn’t necessarily make life a breeze. It doesn’t prevent uncomfortable emotions. And I am not always consistent in doing it.

Eventually, my grandmother did fall. She refused to use her medical alert device for more than 24 hours. That was her right to folly.

She didn’t break any bones, but her skin was torn up and she developed rhabdomyolysis and was in the ICU for several days before going to a rehab facility and then into a nursing home. I wrote about it in detail in Your Are Not Your Mother: Releasing Generational Trauma and Shame.

She exercised her right to folly until she couldn’t. I like and respect myself and my reasons for “letting” her. I also like and respect the way I handled “taking over” and making choices for her I knew she didn’t like, while also not harming myself.

In the last several years of her life, I was the only family member who saw or communicated with her, with the exception of her son, who visited once. Neither of her daughters did. I don’t blame them.

She died alone.

That’s neither a “good” thing nor “bad” thing.

I have no idea what the near future holds for my mother in regards to her health. Right now she is an autonomous woman who gets to make her own choices.

And so am I.

Much, much love,

Karen

These are the kinds of things we talk about and work on and grapple with in the Shame School Community. Join us.