Matzav Inbox: When “Healing” Means Cutting Off Your Parents?!
Dear Matzav Inbox,
I have been wanting to write this letter for a long time, and I know I am going to get attacked for it. So be it.
Something has gone terribly wrong in the world of therapy.
I am not anti-therapy. Not even close. I know people whose lives and marriages were literally saved by good therapists. There are incredible therapists in our community doing holy work every single day. And obviously there are parents who are abusive, dangerous, manipulative, or so deeply unhealthy that distance is sometimes necessary. There are situations where boundaries are not only appropriate but absolutely essential.
That is not what I am talking about.
I am talking about this increasingly common idea that “healing” somehow means going back through your childhood, identifying everything your parents did wrong, giving it a psychological label, and then deciding how much access your parents deserve to have to you.
Suddenly, every difficult mother is a narcissist. Every controlling father is toxic. Every disagreement is a boundary violation. Every uncomfortable family dynamic is trauma. And every adult child who doesn’t want to deal with his or her parents anymore is “protecting my peace.”
What happened to us?
Parents are human beings. They make mistakes. Some make lots of mistakes. They lose their tempers. They say stupid things. They favor one child sometimes. They push too hard. They don’t listen enough. They worry too much. They interfere. They have their own baggage from the homes they grew up in. Sometimes they hurt their children deeply without even realizing it.
And yes, those things can leave scars. Therapy can help a person understand those scars. It can help someone stop repeating unhealthy patterns. It can teach a person how to respond differently.
But since when does understanding why you are hurt require turning the person who hurt you into a villain?
I hear stories that make my blood boil. A mother calls her married daughter and gets no answer. She texts. Nothing. Eventually she is informed that her daughter “needs space.” Why?
Because therapy has helped her realize that her mother “wasn’t emotionally available” when she was growing up.
A father who worked himself to the bone for thirty years to support his family discovers that his son has decided that their relationship is “not safe.” Not because the father beat him. Not because he abused him. Not because there is some terrible secret nobody knows about. The father was demanding. Critical. Maybe he wasn’t affectionate. Maybe he really did make mistakes.
So now he doesn’t get to see his grandchildren? This is healing?
And what frightens me most is how casually some people talk about it. “I’m going no-contact.” “I’m setting a boundary.” “I don’t owe anyone access to me.”
We’re talking about your mother! We’re talking about your father!
The people who changed your diapers, sat beside your bed when you had fever, paid tuition bills they couldn’t afford, drove carpool, made supper, worried when you came home late, married you off, and probably made a thousand mistakes along the way because they were human beings raising human beings.
Does none of that count anymore? Does kibbud av v’eim get thrown out the window?
And please don’t misunderstand me. Kibbud av v’eim does not mean a person has to submit to abuse. It doesn’t mean there are never circumstances requiring serious boundaries. There are tragic families where contact causes genuine harm, and those situations need competent rabbinic and professional guidance.
But that should be the tragedy. The last resort. The heartbreaking conclusion after everything else has failed.
It should not be a therapeutic milestone.
A therapist should understand the enormous gravity of telling someone to distance himself from a parent. You’re dealing with a relationship that existed before the client ever walked into your office and, very often, a relationship that affects siblings, spouses, grandparents and grandchildren.
And there is something else that bothers me. Therapists generally hear one side. For fifty minutes, week after week, they hear one person’s memories, one person’s pain, one person’s interpretation of conversations that happened twenty years ago. Mom isn’t sitting there. Dad isn’t sitting there. Nobody is cross-examining the memories. Nobody is explaining what else was happening in the house at the time.
Yet sometimes astonishingly sweeping conclusions are reached about people the therapist has never met. Would we tolerate that anywhere else?
Imagine walking into a bais din and saying, “I’d like you to pasken this case. Only one side will be appearing.” Absurd.
Yet a parent can effectively be tried, convicted and sentenced to emotional exile without ever knowing that a trial was taking place.
There is also a difference between understanding your childhood and living in your childhood. At some point, adulthood has to mean something. Maybe your mother didn’t validate your feelings enough. Maybe your father pushed you harder than he should have. You’re thirty-eight. Work through it. Understand it. Cry about it if you need to. Talk about it. Learn from it. Be a different kind of parent to your own children.
But perhaps healing can also mean forgiveness.
Perhaps healing can mean developing enough strength that your mother’s annoying comment doesn’t destroy your week. Perhaps healing can mean understanding that your father was raised by Holocaust survivors and didn’t know how to say “I love you.” Perhaps healing can mean recognizing that your parents were twenty-something-year-old kids themselves when they started raising children and were figuring things out as they went along. Perhaps healing can mean becoming bigger, not merely becoming more protected.
And therapists should be extraordinarily careful about the language they introduce into families. Words have power. Once someone begins viewing his mother as “toxic” or his father as a “narcissist,” every interaction gets filtered through that label. Mom asks why you haven’t called? Manipulation. Dad gives advice? Control. They complain that they barely see the grandchildren? Guilt-tripping.
Eventually there is no possible move the parent can make that isn’t further evidence of the diagnosis. That is a very dangerous place to bring someone.
Again, I know there are exceptions. Real ones. Serious ones. Nobody should read this letter and remain in a genuinely dangerous situation because some anonymous letter writer said to honor your parents. But exceptions are supposed to be exceptions.
We are a people who believe in kibbud av v’eim. We are a people who believe in hakaras hatov. We are a people who believe in teshuvah, in forgiveness, in human beings changing, and in relationships being repaired.
Surely our definition of mental health has room for those things too.
If therapy helps someone become calmer, healthier, more self-aware, a better spouse and a better parent, wonderful.
But if after three years of “healing,” a person has a longer list of people he can’t tolerate, a vocabulary full of diagnoses for everyone who ever disappointed him, and parents who cry themselves to sleep because their child has decided that speaking to them is bad for his mental health, maybe somebody needs to ask a very uncomfortable question:
What exactly are we healing?
One Who Knows What’s Going On
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