Relationship psychotherapist Nicholas Purcell writes that while physical abuse leaves marks, covert dysfunction is absorbed as normal and often goes unrecognized until someone else—a spouse, a friend, or a therapist—points it out. He illustrates this with the story of Oliver, a client whose mother was a narcissist and father avoidant, and whose own breakup forced him to address his dysfunctional childhood.
The Water We Swim In
Purcell explains that we inherit more than eye colour and bone structure from our parents. We inherit rules, silences, habits, and beliefs. We inherit the shape of our parents’ presence or absence, the flavour of their neglect, and the confusion of thinking this is love. Every week in his therapy practice, he meets people living out their inheritance: re-enacting childhoods, becoming the parents they despised, clinging to survival strategies that are slowly killing them.
American writer David Foster Wallace illustrated the problem with a parable: two young fish meet an older fish who asks, “How’s the water?” The young fish later wonder, “What the hell is water?” A fish doesn’t know it’s wet; a child doesn’t know her childhood is unhealthy. While physical abuse leaves marks, covert dysfunction is absorbed as normal, and most of us don’t question what feels normal. It can remain unrecognised until someone else—a spouse, a friend, or a therapist—points it out. Sometimes loss, such as a divorce, is required for us to finally accept that something fundamental needs reconsideration.
Oliver’s Inheritance
Oliver’s father had spent the last 15 years of his life sleeping on a pullout sofa in his study. He even had a stationery cupboard converted into a wardrobe and used Post-it notes to communicate with his wife—a spectacular commitment to avoidance. He wasn’t the only family member to avoid Oliver’s narcissistic mother, a woman with strong but warped opinions. “Darling, you can’t date her, she works in a shop,” Oliver imitated his mother’s plummy Margaret Thatcher accent. “People like us don’t associate with people in service.” While the absurdity of that statement might be obvious, it wasn’t for young Oliver. What Oliver heard was that his family was special; what he didn’t hear was the silent second part: “... and therefore alone, and therefore unable to seek help because needing help means you’re not special.”
Despite rejecting his mother and idealising his absent father, Oliver had taken on features of both. He was highly avoidant in relationships and chased sexual conquests with the same desperate energy his mother pursued social status. Raised by a mother with a disordered personality, it was inevitable he would absorb narcissistic traits. When a family member urged him to try therapy, Oliver cut contact. When his long-term partner finally left (“You’re exactly like her, you know that?”), Oliver spiralled into depression. That’s when he found his way to therapy.
He was enraged at his partner: “I’m nothing like my mother! Who does she think she is!” Purcell challenged that statement; Oliver couldn’t see he had partly absorbed what he hated. After a long silence, Oliver glimpsed himself, finally, and it nearly broke him.
The Things That Didn’t Happen
The dysfunctional things that happened are easier to see. What’s harder to grasp are the things that didn’t happen—emotional safety, stability, nurturing. Purcell describes another client, Kate, who survived 25 years in a marriage where she felt completely alone. The answer was in her childhood bedroom. She had spent her early years alone in her bedroom silently eating toast she had made herself. At age six she was making and packing her own school lunches. By seven she was taking her younger sister to school on public transport. She learned early to never ask for help. For Kate, neglect was normal. Kate swam in loneliness.
While seeing the water is hard, getting out is harder. Kate, now a nurse, took a long time to open up. She understood intellectually the connection between her lonely childhood and lonely marriage but admitted feeling deeply uncomfortable being vulnerable. In their last session, Kate sat with her arms wrapped around a cushion, looking at the carpet. They had been talking about what it might mean to leave her marriage—what it would require of her—to believe she deserved something. She said, “I’ll think about it,” and didn’t return. Purcell sensed the particular unease he feels when a client isn’t coming back. Some see the water but choose to stay submerged. The alternative—opening yourself up when you’ve spent a lifetime closed—means feeling everything, all at once. For some people, that doesn’t seem survivable.
The Courage to Surface
Purcell reflects that what haunts him is not so much the patients sitting in his office; it’s those who never arrive. How many people are losing decades—entire lives—in water they can’t see? And even when they do see the water, sometimes, like Kate, that isn’t enough. Not every adult escapes their childhood. Some do—slowly, painfully, one breath at a time—but for many, the water is just too deep.
Oliver comes to Purcell on Thursdays. The work of learning a new way of being—one without his mother’s narcissism or his father’s avoidance—is ongoing. Sometimes Purcell sees his mother’s snarl superimposed on his face, then his father’s silence dominates, and then there’s this other thing: Oliver showing up, catching himself. Purcell doesn’t know who will win. Learning what a healthy relationship feels like takes time, but now, at least, Oliver knows what water is.
Kate stayed in the water. Oliver is trying to surface. Purcell wonders which takes more courage: the staying or the struggling. Maybe they’re the same courage, just differently expressed. Maybe we’re all just doing the best we can with the inheritance we got.
*All clients are fictional amalgams. In Australia, support is available at Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636, Lifeline on 13 11 14, and at MensLine on 1300 789 978. In the UK, the charity Mind is available on 0300 123 3393 and Childline on 0800 1111. In the US, call or text Mental Health America at 988 or chat 988lifeline.org. Nicholas Purcell is a relationship psychotherapist based in Adelaide. He is writing Raising Love, on why our theory of love is broken – and what an active one looks like.
