Dirty Dishes

Doing--or not doing--the dishes is a cause for disagreement among many couples. Sometimes the underlying causes are not what we think they are.

Last Friday, during a session with our therapists David and Tom (who co-facilitate together), Linda brings up her frustration at my leaving dirty plates on the kitchen counter and not putting them in the dishwasher.“I don’t believe this,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I don’t want to waste time talking about dirty dishes in a session! This is something couples do in their first year of marriage. Surely we’re beyond all this!”
“Well, it bothers me,” Linda says vehemently, “I want to talk about it, especially since we can’t talk about it without getting angry. I know there’s something bigger going on.”
“What a waste of time,” I say squirming in my seat. “Besides, I try so goddamn hard to keep the counters clean. I obsess about it. I’m like an OCD gone wild. I put everything away. I clean the counter with paper towels, I get up every last crumb . . . and you accuse me of messing up the place? Damn it, I’m trying to do everything I can to please you.”
“I don’t see why you have such a big problem putting things in the dishwasher. Is it that difficult?”
“First you asked me not to leave the dishes out to air dry, and now I dry them and put them away. What more can I do to make you happy?”
“Put the dishes in the dishwasher.”
I feel a wave of anger. “But I do put them in!”
“No you don’t. You neurotically take dishes out and wash them by hand.”
“That was just once . . . and I enjoyed doing it. What’s the problem with that?
It’s as if a seething volcano of anger is filling the room—all coming from me. And I never show my anger!
“What’s the anger about?” Tom asks.
An image surfaces of my stepmother Nancy doing the dishes before we’d even finished dinner. “My stepmother was so uptight she would grab the dishes off the table before we had finished eating and take them into the kitchen. And that was always the moment we were all beginning to have some fun after a few glasses of wine. For once my dad was happy . . . and she couldn’t stand it.”
“Uh-oh, I did a Nancy,” Linda cringes. “Peter hated his stepmother. He told his friend over the phone that he hated her and wanted to kill her—and she was listening on the other line.”
Tom raises his eyebrows. “That’s interesting.”
“Yeah, I really did—and I meant it. I really did want to kill her . . . but let’s move on. I want to get deeper on this.”
“Oh, that wasn’t deep enough?” Tom asks.
We all break up laughing.
“She really was cold and mean,” Linda adds.”
“I used to get furious at her for lying in bed all day reading and watching TV. I get angry at Linda for doing the same thing.”
“Nancy was not your mother, though, was she?” David asks.
“No, she was the ‘wicked stepmother.’ Suddenly a realization dawns. “But I had no reason to get angry at Nancy! This has nothing to do with her. It’s all about my mother. She must have been sick and in bed with cancer, and lying in bed all day. I was frightened and had no idea what to do.”
“You were only eight or nine then, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, I vaguely remember standing in front of our couch, while my mom tried to take care of my little brother Richard, who was just a baby. She said something like, ‘You’re a big boy now. You have to help me. I’m not well.’ I wanted to please her, so I made up my mind to do whatever I could to help her.”
“Was she sick then?” asks Tom.
Linda jumps in, “I’m sure she was . . . it was about three or four years before she died.”
“I must have realized that if I wasn’t a good boy, and didn’t help her, then she would die.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it felt like you’d literally die,” David says.
“That’s true. I was my mom’s favorite. She must have been really sick then—but no one told me anything. I can vaguely remember her coming home from the hospital, but . . .”
“He doesn’t remember anything about his mom,” Linda adds.
“What happened is that I did become invisible,” I say, shaking my head. “I was totally ignored. When my mom died I was left to fend for myself. The only way I could get love was by helping . . . by being a good boy. I had to produce. It was life or death.”
Tom and David nod their heads and just listen. I’m so grateful for their quiet wisdom.
“It’s no wonder I can’t relax. No wonder I’m so driven. I can’t even slow down, even for a second, or I’ll be dead. There is this terror of emptiness.”
“So you have to keep running as hard as you can . . .”
“Oh my God,” I say, turning to Linda. “My getting upset with you reading and watching TV is not because of you! It brings up the trauma of seeing my mother sick in bed, and having no idea what was going on.”
Linda reaches out to touch my hand.
“This has been so hard for you,” she says. “First you had to live through this with your mom, then with Fran when she was sick, and now me.”
“And this whole thing about the dishes has nothing to do with Linda,” I say, getting back to our original argument. “I’m terrified that if I don’t do everything perfectly, I will die! I HAD to please my mom. No, it’s more than that . . .”
“Dying isn’t enough?” Tom asks with a wink. We all laugh, relieving the tension.
“I must have known on some level she was getting sicker and sicker. I was petrified.”
“And no one said anything, making it even harder,” David says.
“So feeling that I’m somehow failing Linda brings all this up again, especially since Linda is sick and in pain so much of the time.”
“I don’t want to be,” she says lovingly.
“I know, I know . . .”
“And when you criticize me for not doing the dishes right, I feel hurt . . . like I’ve disappointed the person I love most in the world.”
“Oh sweetheart, I love you so. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. You’re my love.”
David and Tom smile.
“I’m so sorry if I got angry at you.”
We look deeply into each other’s eyes.
I feel a warm sensation spreading through my belly . . . a huge knot of energy has been released.
Our dogs, Kamalani and Lukey (always present for our therapy), have been chewing on hooves. They look up at us.
So, you’ve finally figured it out?