Olivia Benson is my TV Mom
The Secret Agony of Disorganized Attachment
There’s a very specific, primal wounding that occurs when growing up without a healthy relationship with a mother. Attachment theorists have come closer to recognizing and legitimizing the psychological damage done to babies and children by this deficit, but this has been discussed mostly on an academic level. There are few people who have written about the emotional pain carried by people who had — essentially — emotionally — no one to bond to, as a mom. Words defy us.
Infants do not know self apart from a caregiver (in this essay I will be referring to the primary caregiver as the mother by default, but this can obviously be any person of any gender who consistently provides care and nurturing).
Being alone at all is stressful for baby mammals (Levine, 2005). Their biological systems become disorganized when separated from caregivers because they have no sense of safety apart from adults...they instinctually panic — their lifeline is gone.— Psychology Today
Further, an infant’s self-concept and self-esteem are literally built upon quality and consistency of caregiving — and the two are not mutually inclusive. At birth, the infant has no concept of their existence apart from the mother in whose womb they were formed and spent the first ~40 weeks of life. Even after birth, scientists theorize that babies cannot conceive of their existence as a separate entity from their mother. We first learn that we exist through the eyes of the other — our caregivers.
Consistent, attuned nurturing builds a belief in the infant that the world is safe and good, that the world is able and willing to meet their needs — and that they are safe and good, worthy of having needs met. Conversely, inconsistency, lack of attunement, and neglect build the opposite beliefs.
“Self apart from mother” …is annihilation. Infants without a healthy, reliable connection to a mother are being annihilated, alive. They have no lifeline. This happens on a biological and neurological level long before the baby’s brain is developed enough to comprehend — nevermind communicate — the emotional experience. As disorganized attachment patterns start to develop, the infant is left, emotionally speaking, dead in the water.
One of my earliest memories is of waking up in a cherry wood crib in a small stale room, wearing some kind of footie pajamas, the pilling grainy against my skin. Pulling myself up to gnaw the sour plastic railguard, a goatee of drool pooling under my bottom lip, the springy crib mattress twanging under my tiny feet. I became distracted — and then fascinated — by the dust motes floating through the air near the wooden-framed window, the sunlight dappling in streaks through the printed curtains…Peanuts. (confirmed later via pictures) The carpet was some kind of vomit-colored greenish-yellow, cellulite texture. This would have been circa 1983.
I was probably somewhere between eighteen months and two years old.
I was alone. I did not cry.
It did not occur to me to cry.
Already.
The Poison in the Well
The story would leak out, in the following years, like poison into a drinking well. Not all of the information was directly stated; some of it was only implied. But the messages soaked into the pores of my psyche, like black ink infiltrating clear water. I was unplanned. I had messed up her life. I was a problem — her only problem. If I wanted her to like me, to take care of me, to value me, I should have been different — if I couldn’t be nonexistent all together. Or at the very least, dear God, be quiet. Stop making noise, stop asking, stop crying, stop caring, stop hoping, stop feeling, stop needing so much.
I would try all of those things, over the years — including being nonexistent — and succeed at none of them.
Years in and out of therapists’ offices, dragged there in hopes they could fix me, because fixing me would fix everything that was wrong with our family. Me staring out a cascade of windows, wishing they could just shoot me instead. Thinking, At least it would be quick. Therapists who, unbeknownst to me at the time, were taking more notes on my parents than they were even on me. The pitying looks. The family sessions, which were really just more opportunities to discuss my faults. The confused admissions (“Well, we want you now …” — of which I was not convinced in the slightest — “…so what difference does it make?”)
The scapegoated child performs a very important role in the dysfunctional family unit. They carry all the shame for everybody else. Other members of the family…are only able to experience success for the sole reason that the scapegoated child is taking the hit for the trauma of the parents. They are vilified, so others can thrive. — Mary Toolan (@scapegoatchildrecovery), Dysfunctional Families & the Scapegoat Child
There were brief fleeting moments of clarity, which I didn’t know how to assimilate at the time. The white-washed walls of yet another hospital, after yet another suicide attempt. Asking my mother plaintively, “Why can’t you just leave me alone” (— the unspoken half of the sentence: “and let me die?” hanging in the air)
Her sharp retort: “I could get in really big trouble for that.”
The realization: that is literally the only reason.
All I knew of women was cattiness, ulterior motives, impossible expectations, and blistering cruelty. Ironically, growing up in the Bible Belt did not help at all. Even in religion, being a woman was a liability at best.
To put it mildly, by the time I was a young teen, I was terrified of becoming…well, my mother. I could not imagine inflicting the kind of pain I was in on another human being, but the older I got, and the more I was told I looked just like her (while at home she berated herself out loud at the mirror), the more I believed it was inevitable. It was my fate, and my fate was inescapable.
The Dawn of a Legend
Then Law & Order: SVU aired its first season the year I turned sixteen, and the character of Olivia Benson emerged into my life as it emerged onto primetime TV.
I was immediately fascinated with this woman: such a compelling mixture of tough and tender; ruthless and gentle; wounded but hopeful; powerful and vulnerable — each trait, in turn. I had never seen femininity expressed this way. I had never witnessed a woman so self-directed, so formidable. I’d never known this was possible. I was dizzied by her. Enraptured. I could not stop watching episodes, I could not stop studying this woman. I desperately wanted Detective Benson to be real so I could get to know her, to know what it was like to be near this dazzling creature. But I also wanted to be her, while simultaneously knowing that who I was at the time, was about as alike to Olivia as a yellow jacket was to a unicorn.
Olivia Benson was so different from me, both then, and for the many years that followed. As I finished high school, moved to college, and began my freefall into the deadly triad of eating disorder, depression, and suicidality — my descent no longer slowed by parentally mandated therapy — I demonstrated everything Olivia did not. I was sarcastic; timid; manipulative. I was passive-aggressive. I did not know how to communicate, and I was still years away from developing enough self-awareness to have anything to communicate. At the bottom of everything, I was terrified. Deep down, I didn’t want to die; I just didn’t know how to live.
Emotional Intelligence… As Seen on TV
Things fell apart in college, of course, and as I landed in hospitals, in treatment centers, in beds, in locked wards, in dayrooms, in more therapists’ offices, on friends’ couches, in my own apartment, SVU was on. I watched marathon after marathon on CW and USA. I contemplated Olivia as if I were examining some strange exotic beast as she took on case after case; pursuing predators; dauntless, compassionate, even sometimes afraid herself — but emotionally honest, which fascinated me —while never backing down from pursuing justice or doing what she believed was right. Her backstory unfolded and my connection to her deepened. I relived the pain of being an unwanted child, viscerally on the TV screen, through her raw transparency.
Born February 7, 1968, Benson was conceived by her mother’s rape.[9] Her mother’s rapist, Joseph Hollister, later committed suicide.[10] Benson’s mother, Serena (Elizabeth Ashley), an English professor, was an alcoholic who abused Olivia emotionally and physically…In a later episode, “Intoxicated”, Benson mentions being engaged briefly when she was 16 to one of her mother’s students; when her mother found out, she broke a bottle of vodka and went after her with it. Benson fought back, kicked her mother twice, and ran out of the house. — Wikipedia, (emphasis mine)
Olivia actively channeled her anger and pain into her passion for her job as a police detective, which ultimately helped her rise up through the ranks over the course of her career on the show. By watching her fighting for victims of a different kind of trauma (sexual trauma, to be more specific), I saw a new possibility unfold in my own life, one that had never occurred to me before: the possibility of transmuting my pain into something else. Something that looked an awful lot like something worthwhile. Something fulfilling. Maybe even a gift to the world — or at least, to the people in her proximity. Theretofore I’d just vaguely believed I was slated for a life of emotional agony, through which I would just have to somehow muddle through, failing at things, disappointing and angering my mother, until I died — hopefully young. That there were any other alternatives had honestly never registered to me until then.
In my family of origin, emotions were dismissed, denied, and if all else failed, attacked. Showing vulnerability, needing help — in fact, needing anything at all — was seen as weak. Power was delineated as the person who managed to maintain the most control — over themselves and over others. Authority was used primarily for one’s own benefit, and anyone weaker had to stay in their lane and hope for crumbs.
On SVU, I saw a different form of power: rather than the selfish conceit of power over, for the first time I saw power with, and power to. Power with other people, working together, alongside, for the common good. Power to decide for themselves what they needed — and ask, or go get it. Authority was used to care for other people in need, who had no means of their own. It was used to protect, to defend, to liberate. This new type of power was led by compassion, tempered with self-respect.
I had never seen this before, but it struck a chord somewhere deep inside me. I wanted this too.
Olivia as a Stand-In
Detective Olivia Benson’s propensity to voice her pain onscreen gave me language. Her willingness to show anger, even rage, to cry, to risk deep attachments and grieve her losses, made the realization dawn on me: I could do these things, too.
In addition to the new seasons, there were always SVU marathons available, and I found myself watching them more often than not. At times, when I was particularly sad or afraid, I would imagine Olivia Benson knocking on my door, asking if she could come in, leaning toward me on my couch. Attuning to me, as few others ever had. Tell me how you’re really doing, she’d say, with the inviting, clear-eyed sincerity that moved me to finally risk baring my soul to her. She always knew what to say. I imagined her as my actual mother. I imagined all the pep talks she gave survivors, all the attention and care, her readiness to answer a midnight phone call, her tenderness and fierce protectiveness toward children, — I imagined all of it bestowed upon me as her heartfelt care for me, as a daughter.
There were times in my twenties when I was battling severe depression, and contemplating suicide, and I made a compromise with myself: Stay on the couch and watch SVU rather than hurt yourself. See? There’s Olivia. There’s your favorite. She wouldn’t want you to do this. She would want you to live. See how devastated she is when she finds the body of someone she cared about who died? She would feel devastated if that was you.
You can call it cheesy, obsessive, unhinged, or whatever you like, but it worked. And for that, I’m grateful.
Sometimes when I was doing better, I would simply turn the show on in the background. Even when puttering about, doing other things, it comforted me to have her there in the background.
Healing By Example
Over the next ten, fifteen, twenty years, as the show continued renewing its contract, pushing boundaries in the topics it explored, and (eventually) breaking records in the television industry, I watched Olivia Benson’s character expand, unfurl, evolve, mature, and deepen into ever more beautiful and complex layers.
And slowly, at the same time, at a glacier-like pace…so did I. Through therapy, medication, a lot of self-help books (and I do mean a lot), support from friends I made as a young adult, a whole lot of trial and error, spiritual practices, plenty of unconventional means, plus the irreplaceable virtue of time… I found my way.
As actual fate would have it, there are deep similarities to who I am naturally, and Olivia Benson’s character. In fact, I relate more to Olivia Benson than I’ve ever related to any fictional character with the possible exceptions being June Osbourne from A Handmaid’s Tale, and perhaps (to some extent) Katniss Everdeen from The Hunger Games. All powerful, wounded, haunted, extraordinary women who came into their own and changed the course of their community forever, having a profound impact on the lives of countless people.
Of course, maybe this would have happened anyway; maybe I would have grown into who I really am without Law & Order: SVU. But I’m not so sure about that. Besides, it’s a lot easier to travel north with a map. And Olivia has been my north star.
The Layers
It is a strange thing to be more intimately acquainted with the thoughts, feelings, and facial expressions of a fictional character, than your own mother. Yet, I was. I am. Twenty-three years later, I can read Olivia’s face more quickly and more easily than any person I’ve ever known in my daily life. Micro-expressions, like the raise of an eyebrow, or the briefest of winces, the narrowing of her eyes— I see them, and I know what they mean.
And not only that, but I understand the underlying motives that drive her, because we share many of those same internal beliefs about ourselves and the world— not just the positive, but the negative as well. She isn’t flawless; that would be unrealistic and unrelatable. I understand her flaws possibly even more deeply than I understand her virtues, because I have many of the same — of both. And honestly, for some of us, our flaws are much easier to obsess over.
Even though she hasn’t been physically present in my life, Olivia Benson is the person who helped foster certain traits in me that have made me who I am today. These are some things I have been able to develop with her influence as my TV mom.
Putting others’ needs ahead of her own, when assuming authority.
Until I saw this demonstrated, my only experience of authority was wielding it as a flex, to harm others. Olivia showed me that authority should be used for the benefit of those who don’t have any, and that true leaders put themselves last exactly because that’s what powerful people do; they look after everyone else.
Direct, straightforward, honest communication.
Dysfunctional families do not know how to communicate honestly. In fact, they punish members who do communicate directly. Olivia showed me that clear, straightforward communication isn’t just a luxury…it’s a vital life skill. Those who don’t have it, or who don’t want others to have it, should be regarded with suspicion and caution.
A strong sense of justice.
As an enneagram 8, I was born with an incredibly powerful sense of justice that was conveniently buried by my family of origin. Olivia unearthed it, and it will never be discarded again.
The desire and ability to nurture others.
Most healthy humans have this; it’s biologically wired into us as social animals. My belief that I was doomed to become my mother made me believe I couldn’t nurture other people. Olivia showed me that I am my own person, and to her credit (and mine), I am not one fucking thing like my mother.
A passion for protecting children.
The desire to protect children from harm is a trait that I possess at the soul level. Seeing so many episodes where Olivia displays her deep tenderness toward children and her righteous rage at those who abuse them, helped validate and foster my own.
Tirelessness when it comes to doing what I feel is right.
This trait can be both helpful and harmful, because it’s so easy to take it to unhealthy proportions. In the same way that Olivia could be considered somewhat of a workaholic when she sets her mind to something, I can often be the same.
Other patterns that I just innately understand, because they are my patterns too:
The way she tried to build a family, when she never had one.
God, this one hurts. So much of the interactions Olivia has with her co-workers and her romantic partners are underscored by her search for belonging, her innate desire to be loved by a family. It’s one of her primary motivations, and a source of deep emotional wounding and yearning.
She keeps her pain private, even when she has the opportunity to express it.
There aren’t always clear reasons for this, but yet, I understand all the possible reasons. In some cases it’s fear of being vulnerable without some reason to believe that it won’t be used against her later, since that’s happened before. In some cases it’s a desire to center the other person (e.g. a survivor) and not call attention away from them by talking about herself. In some cases it’s out of respect for someone’s perception of reality; she sees no reason to disclose something private that might upset their equilibrium without a compelling reason. (But mostly… it’s fear of vulnerability. We have this in common, in spades.)
She does not trust other people easily, but is still intensely loyal.
When Olivia bonds with people — co-workers, partners, children — it’s deep and intense. She may be afraid to make herself vulnerable with others without a lot of time spent vetting the relationship…but she’s loyal.
Sees that she has invested huge amounts of time and energy into becoming captain, but her real hope in doing so was to find meaning, belonging, and fulfillment… and she’s not sure if it has been worth it or not.
The social and career status of being captain is nice and everything, but what she really wanted was to fill the void left by childhood trauma and her abusive mother. While many people certainly focus on their career for this same exact purpose, Olivia isn’t sure whether it has been successful or not, and as she gets older, uncertainty and regret hover like a question mark in the background.
Tries to impart things to others that she doesn’t necessarily fully embody yet (e.g. self-love); she wants others to have it even if she’s still not convinced, deep down, that she deserves it herself.
This one is horrendously relatable because it’s a fairly easy thing to believe that others deserve good things in life. It’s a totally different thing to believe it for yourself, especially when your childhood has been irreversibly marked by a mother who wished you were dead. Olivia, even as captain, is not fully convinced she deserves the success and esteem she has earned over the years, despite having put in all the energy and time earning it. She’s not quite sure if will ever be enough, and this one of the eternal dilemmas that childhood trauma creates for its victims.
She doesn’t lose touch with her humanity but displays it; sometimes making a decision that may be questionable, but is ultimately extremely relatable.
No one could blame Olivia for beating William Lewis with an iron bar after he tortured and kidnapped her with intent to rape and kill her. No one. Was it a morally questionable choice, especially as a seasoned law enforcement officer? Well, yeah. But this is why Olivia is also relatable; she’s fucking human. She’d have been justified in killing him, but she didn’t. Tell me you wouldn’t take the opportunity to do the same, to someone who has not only victimized you in this way, but many, many others — including children.
She gives other people their freedom even when they use it to hurt her or make choices she doesn’t like.
This is one of the true litmus tests of someone who has power and authority over others — noticing when they don’t use it is just as important as noticing when they do. Olivia still allows other people their free will, even when they use that free will to make choices that hurt her. Sometimes she is surprised and hurt by it, but she knows that any other choice on her part — to manipulate them — would be wrong. And she wants honesty from people, so she won’t try to coerce them into doing what she wants.
She leads by example and doesn’t ask others to do things she isn’t willing to do.
It’s really easy — especially when you’ve gained a position of power and authority — to insulate yourself from those beneath you. It’s easy to require and expect things from people below you that you can conveniently opt out of, justifying yourself in all kinds of ways. Olivia doesn’t do this. She doesn’t ask others to be vulnerable without being willing, herself, to be vulnerable. In a recent episode, footage of herself in a state of undress in a hotel room, which was obviously taken illegally (via hidden cameras), was recovered. In order to protect her dignity, the officer offers to bury the footage — but Olivia declines the offer in order to move the case forward in litigation. Her reasoning is that she asks sexual assault survivors to bare the most vulnerable aspects of themselves and their experiences…so why should she be any different? And so, I have learned to lead by example, as well.
The Difficult Reality: Olivia Benson is a Fictional Character
The fictional character of Olivia Benson isn’t actually old enough to be my mom, although technically, Mariska Hargitay is if she was a young mother (she was eighteen when I was born).
Although I love Mariska Hargitay and I can’t imagine anyone else playing Olivia Benson because she is the perfect person to do so, truthfully, the woman I truly love as a mother figure is a fictional character. The fact that this character doesn’t exist in 3D reality hurts like a sonofabitch. I need Olivia Benson to exist. (And isn’t that the same with so many other things humans cling to.)
The truth is, my love for her goes beyond simply fangirling. She changed the trajectory of my life.
And yet, she isn’t real.
So the best I could do, the best I have come up with, is to try to embody Olivia Benson in my own specific-to-me ways. I can’t have her, as a mom, but I can (hopefully, in some small way) be her.
I am not a law enforcement officer, though if I’d found myself sooner, and before I had my own kids, maybe I would have been. And I like to think I would — like Benson — have been a kickass cop.
Despite not being a cop, I do don my metaphorical bullet proof vest as a peer support worker and wade into deep, deep trauma with my clients. We fight perpetrators — not on the streets, but in my clients’ minds. I slap cuffs on abusers’ hands in the minds of my clients with my words, my presence, my attunement to my clients. I put a blanket around their shoulders and walk them out of dark rooms with my validation, my compassion, my belief in their goodness that no amount of trauma can ever take away from them.
Occasionally when it seems appropriate I offer my clients my own vulnerability — that of a child who also grew up in an abusive and dysfunctional family. I have been sexually assaulted. I have been emotionally abused. I have been physically threatened. I relate with them. I am them.
And so, I can embody Captain Olivia Benson — to the best of my ability, in my own way — and through my emulation, offer her to the world.
One of my deepest desires is that in this small way…I have made her real.
And to that end, I know she would be proud of me.
