“I feel kinda guilty about it…” I concluded as I finished scrubbing the last pot. Dishwashing is a lot more fun when I chat with my sister-in-law. Besides, I would rather wash dishes in her kitchen than in mine—in my own house, I always have something to do, and dishes are not a priority; in her house, dishes are a welcome distraction from my social awkwardness and an escape from inactivity.

Frankly, I do not even remember what I felt guilty about, but Axita’s words stick in my head: “Yes, you keep saying that. What is that all about? You are not even Catholic!” We both chuckle: I have been the member of this Puerto Rican family several years now, and I know exactly what she means. Then I ponder: I often do feel guilty. Guilt is such a familiar emotion that I cannot imagine describing myself without the acknowledgment of its weight and presence in my life and character.

Guilt

The literature is teeming with articles on the subject of guilt. Guilt has been observed, interrogated, documented, analyzed, compared, conceptualized and extensively studied–both quantitatively and qualitatively–in every context and direction, or so it seems. It is complex. It is rich. It is deleterious and yet, unavoidable (Borelli et al., 2017; Heimowitz, 2013; Tangney & Dearing, 2002), or, as Findler, Jacoby, and Gabis put it, “paralyzing and overwhelming” (2014, p. 47).

Paradoxically, guilt is bound to empathy through their social roots. According to Tangney and Fischer (1995), the more empathetic the individual, the more intensely she or he experiences guilt. Thus, guilt is not an entirely negative emotion as it plays a role in regulating pro-social behaviors.  Roberts, Strayer, and Denham suggest it is best presented as “adaptive-maladaptive continuum” (2014, p. 465) rather than a dichotomy with a clear boundary that separates the two polarities–the “destructive” and the “constructive.”

I typically know when I feel guilty, although the exact location of each situation on the “guilt” continuum, is not immediately clear.  Overall, I am cognizant of how guilt undermines my confidence and turns my mental self-portraits into undignified auto-caricatures. I also recognize how it gives power to some of my accomplishments, adventures, and positive self-appraisals, and therefore, helps redraw my caricatures into decent sketches. “Ego reus, ergo sum.”

Guilt vs. Shame

In its “adaptive” role, my sense of guilt is the magic of magnetism that keeps my moral compass in working condition and my flip-flops on the ground. Still, my “guilt trips” rarely look like a straight line because guilt is messy. In literature, the efforts to detangle the complexities of guilt appear to lead to an explanation of differences between  “guilt” and “shame.” For example, in APA’s Dictionary of Psychology, guilt is “a self-conscious emotion characterized by a painful appraisal of having done (or thought) something that is wrong and often by a readiness to take action designed to undo or mitigate this wrong. It is distinct from shame, in which there is the additional strong fear of one’s deeds being publicly exposed to judgment or ridicule” (2014, p. 476). It follows, then, that shame carries a heavier negative load than guilt through the added pressure of public judgment. However,  Tangney and Dearing (2002) argue that contrary to this well-accepted assumption, the distinction between shame and guilt does not occur in the public-private dimension, but in the “self vs. behavior” dimension. In other words, “Shame involves fairly global negative evaluations of the self (i.e., “Who I am”). Guilt involves a more articulated condemnation of a specific behavior (i.e., “What I did“) (2002,  p. 24).

Trading Shame for Guilt

As Liss et al. (2013) point out, mothers who report “feeling guilty” most likely experience shame, not guilt, although the literature’s presentation of boundaries around each concept continues to be muddy. I find the observation is true at least for me, the mother of three. I much prefer bringing up guilt, not shame, because when I say “I feel guilty,” I admit my vulnerability, and seek support or forgiveness from others. More often than not, I get rewarded. When I say “I am ashamed of myself,” I feel I invite the judgment of others because when people “shame” someone, they take a moral stand; when people try to make someone “feel guilty,” they are being less assertive, if not manipulative. Therefore, if Tangney and Dearing’s (2002) distinction between shame and guilt is accurate, and if mothers who feel like they do not measure up to their own or to an externally imposed model of what a good mother is (Liss et al, 2013), they may, in fact, be experiencing shame, but asking for support by saying they feel guilty. This hypothesis comes with implications for mothers of children with developmental disabilities (and by extension, for their children).

The Price of Guilt and Shame

In her study with intellectually disabled young adults, Grimmet mentions how the mother of one of the young men was “preoccupied by guilt she placed upon herself for his disability and struggled with the additional responsibilities that come with having a child with a disability” (2018, p. 84). The mother did her son’s homework, took care of every little detail of his life, and eventually, assumed permanent guardianship over him. The mother also felt guilty because care for her intellectually disabled son took away from her other children. However, Grimmet (2018) observed that at work, the young man received praise from his supervisor for excellent work ethic and positive attitude; therefore, she proposed that perhaps, the mother did her son a disservice by not letting him try to become more independent. I learned from this study because I relate to the participant’s mother. Guilt and shame (as conceptualized by Tangney and Dearing (2002)) turned the first few years of my motherhood into a perpetual trial.

Making Sense of My Reality

When Becky was finally diagnosed with autism at 9 years old, I began to construct a new reality: what autism means to me and how it will affect our future–mine, my husband’s, our boys, and Becky’s, of course? Reflection was a significant part of this process. I peered into my memories, especially those that centered on Becky’s past behaviors and stress that resulted from these behaviors, then made note of how autism explained what had occurred:  For instance, that time at the Zoo when she was three. Eddie, Becky, and I were standing with my friend and her two little ones on a wooden bridge stretched over the African warthog’s habitat. Becky was curious about the animals, like her brother and friends. She leaned against the railing of the bridge, and somehow, her pacifier fell overboard through the openings in the protective net. There it was, her beloved pastel green binky, suddenly made bright green the by the contrast of the pond’s muddy brown waters and the muddy shore. The moment I saw that binky go down, I whispered to my friend: “You might want to step back. It will get ugly.” I was right. Another moment later, Becky’s teeth were locked in the flesh of my forearm, without as much as one word of warning. She breathed heavily, and her eyes, glistening with tears, communicated anger, and pain.  I understood the significance of her loss and of her lesson–she was dependent on her binky to keep calm, and the physics of gravity forced her to witness the impermanence of reality. Yet, the intensity and the manner of her reaction were difficult to process.

Later, I made sense of this memory in the following way: Becky’s deficits in expressive language and reliance on sameness prevented her from appropriately communicating what had happened and how she felt. I also remembered feeling put on the spot because I had to figure out how what to do in this situation. With my friend next to me, I was afraid of her judgment, of looking like a permissive parent whose (obviously!) inadequate parenting practices gave my daughter an idea that she can act this way. I do not remember how I peeled Becky off my arm, nor what I said to her or to my friend after the fact, but I remember my shame: I was convinced I am a bad mother. Stories like this are too numerous to recall. I fought and argued with Becky since she was little and felt guilty after our confrontations.

After I learned she has autism, I tried my best to learn to back off, but my frustration did not go away. I struggled to find the balance between exercising my authority as a parent and letting Becky have her autonomy. I found it difficult to demand much from my two boys as well because of how I perceived the concept of “fair:” when Becky fought for her alone time, I granted her wishes because I thought her solitude would help prevent meltdowns, even if it meant she got out of doing chores and homework. Consequently, I felt guilty about making her brothers do chores, especially when my littlest one pointed out that Becky did not put away her things, why should he? I was trapped in a cage of my own making–guilt and shame, and I lived there for years.

Looking Forward

From my conversations with other mothers, I know that my situation is not unique and that many women who are raising children with autism struggle to reconcile the discrepancies between their “ideal and actual selves” (Liss et al., 2013, p. 1113). Literature offers a slew of themes and topics within the context of maternal guilt; yet, I am having difficulty locating research that does not just investigate the origins of guilt and shame but empowers mothers to let go of these maladaptive emotions and self-appraisals. I plan to explore this opportunity further using the qualitative approach.

References

American Psychological Association. (2015). APA Dictionary of Psychology. 2nd Ed. in VandenBos, G. R. (Ed.) Washington, DC: American Psychological Association.

Borelli, J. L., Nelson-Coffey, S. K., River, L. M., Birken, S. A., & Moss-Racusin, C. (2017). Bringing work home: Gender and parenting correlates of
work-family guilt among parents of toddlers. Journal of Child and Families Studies, 26(6). 1734-1745. DOI10.1007/s10826-017-0693-9

Findler, L., Jacoby, A.K., & Gabis, L. (2016). Subjective happiness among mothers of children with disabilities: The role of stress, attachment, guilt and social support. Research in Developmental Disabilities 55, 44-54. doi:10.1016/j.ridd.2016.03.006

Grimmet, K. (2018). Using photo-elicitation to break the silence. In M. L. Boucher (Ed). Participant empowerment through photo-elicitation in ethnographic education research: New perspectives and approaches. Springer

Guendouzi, J. (2006). “The guilt thing”: Balancing domestic and professional roles. Journal of Marriage and Family, 68(4), 901-909.

Roberts, W., Strayer, J., & Denham, S. (2014). Empathy, anger, guilt: Emotions and prosocial behaviour. Canadian Journal of Behavioural Science, 46(4). 465-474. DOI:10.1037/a0035057

Tangney, J.P., & Dearing, R.L. (2002). Shame and guilt. NewYork, NY: GuilfordPress.

Tangney, J. P., & Fischer, K. W. (1995). Self-conscious emotions: The psychology of shame, guilt, embarrassment, and pride. New York: Guilford Press.

Tani, F., & Ponti, L. (2018). How different guilt feelings can affect social competence development in childhood. The Journal of Genetic Psychology: Research and Theory on Human Development, 179(3), 132-142. doi:10.1080/00221325.2018.1453473

“I feel kinda guilty about it…” I concluded as I finished scrubbing the last pot. Dishwashing is a lot more fun when I chat with my sister-in-law. Besides, I would rather wash dishes in her kitchen than in mine.

Franky, I do not even remember what I felt guilty about, but Axita’s words stick in my head: “Yes, you keep saying that. What is that all about? You are not even a Catholic!” We both chuckle: I have been the member of this Puerto Rican family several years now, and I know exactly what she means. Then I ponder: I often do feel guilty; about everything, it seems. Guilt is such a familiar emotion to me that I cannot imagine describing myself without the acknowledgment of its weight and presence in my life and even character.

In certain disciplines, guilt is not necessarily a negative construct. In fact, the existential philosophy of Heidegger does not even perceive guilt as a feeling or an emotion; rather, it is the “Being-the-basis of a nullity”  (2006, p. 285, as cited in Kim, 2017, p. 235), and the frequently paired with it construct of anxiety, is a “state of mind” (Kim, 2017, p. 234). Other philosophers, for example, Benjamin,  may not agree with Heidegger’s definition of guilt, but they do not measure it in terms of emotions, either (Moran, 2013).

Unlike philosophical texts, contemporary psychology literature identifies guilt with social and moral developmental contexts (Tani & Ponti, 2018); it is “a self-conscious emotion characterized by a painful appraisal of having done (or thought) something that is wrong and often by a readiness to take action designed to undo or mitigate this wrong. It is distinct from shame, in which there is the additional strong fear of one’s deeds being publicly exposed to judgment or ridicule.” (VandenBos & APA, 2015, p. 476).

Heimowitz (2013) further distinguishes between “normal” and “neurotic” guilt (para. 4) (the latter is the contribution of Freud’s psychoanalysis theory) and therefore, suggests that not all feelings of guilt are unhealthy. Similarly, Roberts, Strayer, and Denham (2014) place guilt on “adaptive-maladaptive continuum” (p. 465) and reference a functionalist view of guilt as an important self-regulatory behavioral mechanism. Self-regulation sounds important, and I wish I could say my life filled with shame and guilt is a textbook case of self-regulation.  I am afraid, however, that psychoanalysis fits much better here.

One of my earlier memories captures the moment of being shamed. I am about 3 years-old if that–I always remembered myself really early. I am at my grandmother’s, playing with rows of book spines in her bookcase. I cannot yet read, but I am impressed with the size of grandma’s collection, the long row of spines of different colors forming a ru.gged terrain on top. My fingers tip-toe, then jump, over a tall “hill,” then another one… The spot smells of old paper and bookbinding glue and of perfumed soap that my grandmother keeps on top of the bookcase. I feel elated, maybe a little hyper, then I realize: I need to use the restroom. Suddenly, my little legs in cotton tights feel warm, then wet and soggy, and finally, cold. My feet are in a puddle. I did not make it. I feel anxious–what will grandma say? Will she remind me, like my mom, that I am a big girl and that big girls do not have accidents? Will she shake her head? Say “ay-ay-ay!” and tsk her tongue like Mom? I call my grandma. She is kind. She does not make me feel bad and quickly takes care of the mess; I think I help. Unlike my mother, grandma lives in a Khrushchevka with all the modern conveniences, including running water.  Laundry is not such an epic undertaking for her as it is for my mom. Can this be why grandma is not cross with me? What a wonderful speculation! I dislike the idea of linking my Mom with my earliest memories of shame, but in reality, I have no idea why my mother made me feel bad for my missed potty runs, and my grandmother did not. Moreover, my mom tried doing the same with my little ones when we stayed with Dad and her one summer. I asked her not to do it to my kids, then immediately realized how guilty I feel for being irritated with her, and for not adequately raising my toddlers to live accident-free. Later still, I catch myself for shaming one my children for something and realize that I am no better than my mother. It is a vicious circle that intergenerational transmission of values and parenting practices (Yaffe & Seroussi, 2018) phenomenon makes it difficult to escape.

Power Struggles

Becky is almost three. I am in a rush to get to work. My shift at the newspaper begins at 3:30 pm, and my husband who works mornings in the same department is waiting for me in the Tribune’s parking lot, as he did every day: he’ll take our kids home, and I will go in until midnight.

But Becky does not want to leave home. She is busy doing her own thing. I asked her to put on her sandals–she can–as I wake Eddie from his nap. She ignores me. I stop for a second and look at her—what a cutie! She is adorable with that pacifier in her mouth (a permanent fixture on her face those days), busy with her plushies. A few minutes later, I am almost ready to go and run a checklist to see if I am forgetting anything. Diaper bag loaded? Check! Snacks and juice? Check! My dinner? Check! Am I dressed? Check! Are the kids? Eddie is good to go. I look at Becky: she is dressed and looking pretty, but her brown sandals are a still a few feet away. I start to panic–I cannot be late, not again, my boss had already given me a warning about this several weeks ago.

“Becky, please put your shoes on!” I plead, but there is no movement. Even the couch is more responsive than she is–at least it yields when I press on it. I go through my options: I could put Eddie in a stroller and grab her. Dang! The stroller is in the trunk… I cannot put Eddie in the car and come back for her–we live in an apartment complex, and not with the classiest of neighbors. The parking lot is too far away for my comfort, and safety is a concern.

Eddie is on my hip; the diaper bag and the lunch box are on my other shoulder. If only Becky would cooperate! But she does not. She is playing with her plushie. “Let’s go, Becky!” I shout. She barely acknowledges me with a turn of her head in my general direction. I cannot remember exactly what I say in the next minute–probably explain that I will get in trouble if she does not march out the door with me this second. “You do not want me to get in trouble, do you?!” I do not remember the exact words, of course, but the sentiment seems accurate—I am trying to make her understand and sympathize. She knows what “being in trouble” means.

I set Eddie down, pile my bags next to him, then grab brown sandals and try to put them on Becky. She resists. We struggle, and then she bites. She practically hangs on the upper-inner part of my wrist. I scream in pain, then peel her off by pulling her cute little ponytail and she lands on her butt. I grab her, grab the bags, and instruct Eddie to toddle behind me. She is kicking and screaming and trying to get away, but I am holding on to her as firmly as I can. We make it out; somehow, I manage the lock the door, and make a run to the car. A few more struggles and minutes later, everyone is buckled, and we are on our way. I am crying, and the exact nature for my tears is difficult to discern. Let’s see. It is a mixture of things, for sure: I fought with my toddler, and my toddler won. What kind of a mother has no control over her kid?! I felt like a failure, again! My ego is badly bruised, for sure. Then I recall how I pull her hair. Poor baby! I wonder if this was child abuse but conclude it was self-defense. I look at deep purple teeth marks on my wrist rested on the steering wheel in front of me. What could have I done differently? I sob and feel sorry for myself.

When I finally reach work, I have only a minute to spare, so I give my husband a quick kiss and show him Becky’s teeth marks to explain my puffy eyes. No time for anything more. Two hours later, when all my ads are in and the pagination department is satisfied, I go to my friend Beth’s cubicle. She is my mother figure in the absence of my own mother nearby. She is a mother of six and a very much involved grandmother. I pull up a chair and fall apart. “I pulled her by her hair! I am horrible!” I wail. She is patient. “I should go to jail” “Of course you shouldn’t,” she assures me and tells me of her troubles with her ten-year-old very spirited granddaughter, and I feel better.

At that time, I knew nothing of autism. I thought Becky’s terrible twos were just that, terrible. I read in books and heard from others that power struggles at this age are normal, and I dutifully tried every reasonable solution to improve my position. Some things worked, others did not. I now wonder what I would have done differently if I had known she will be diagnosed with ASD?

As I browse literature to find a theoretical framework to undergird my study of relationship with Becky, I notice how collectively, the scientific literature is not a “body” of work at all, it is a sea with waves and tides of emerging new fields and theories. Some, like waves,  gain strength and momentum, reach the shore, then die off, replaced by other waves.

I walk on the shore, looking for treasures washed off on the sand.

When I was 18, I took a train trip from my hometown, Khabarovsk, to Moscow. I traveled with a large group of friends, and it took us one week to get there. It was a marvelous time in my life. I met new people, gained new perspectives, bonded with friends, took time to think… Motherhood seemed similar. I could not wait to go, and everyone I cared about knew I will be going.

Prior to the trip, I imagined what it will be like–nearly a month without my parents, the life on the train, the capital… I was bursting with excitement. Every friend I cared about was going, and everyone expected I will be going, too.

Of course, I prepared for it. My mom helped me pack and bought me a few things. Dad issued advice.  Motherhood is similar to this trip

I am stuck. Again! This time, because of Becky. She has been really mean and moody lately, and I was afraid we will have to Baker Act her again. Totally not feeling up to writing about how she and I connect.

After I met with Jenni almost two weeks ago, I have been thinking about the analysis part of the autoethnography. I have been preoccupied with the analysis in autoethnography since last February-my search even led me to the discovery of Carolyn Ellis (and the bitter disappointment after our email exchange when I learned she is retiring THIS very summer! I missed her by one semester!).

So analysis… I was surprised when Jenni told me to just write and get it out, and do a more analytical autoethnography later. Does it mean that autoethnography can be something that is not analyzed? Curious.

When my two oldest children were preschoolers, I often stopped and marveled: I am a mom? When did this happen? Time was a smooth, swift flow of days. My new identity as a mother was still being formed, like a new layer of skin.

Today, I refer to myself as the “mother of three,” but I am used to this idea now. It is a good feeling, just as good as the original one, just different. I do not take my motherhood for granted. I realize that I am who I am today because of my children.

It is getting more difficult to remember myself as a non-mother. I will always have that center–the “Me” who is genderless, cultureless, ageless, profession-less at the core. The me whose most powerful engine is curiosity,  not fear or conformity. I am just as easily enchanted by the impressive angles  If I could permanently exist in this state, I would. But I know I’d become lonely, and bored.

I never doubted I would be a good mother, and I always knew I wanted to have children.