80) Ripples

Ripples- Trauma Has a Long Reach

I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you hanging in there when this story goes all over the place.

I want it to be in order. I want the pieces to fit neatly together. It’s like working on a 5,000 piece puzzle and only being thrown ten or so pieces at a time. The pieces make sense when they make sense, and a lot of things just don’t make sense until there are enough pieces on the table.

There are pieces that people have never had a capacity for, so I kept those stories to myself.

There are pieces that were used against me, and I learned that sharing them is a liability. I stopped telling those stories.

There are pieces that hurt other people who also deserve to heal. I stopped telling those stories.

There were pieces that I was punished for sharing, or needing support over. I stopped sharing these stories.

There are pieces that are just to horrifying to live in, and I didn’t tell those stories.

This meant a lot of listening to others, and not contributing my stories.

Most people don’t notice that you don’t share. Most people are happy to have things be about them. Learning to stop trying to relate through my stories made me much more palatable. People liked me more, and it isolated my authenticity.

It meant I could survive workplaces, and change situations. It meant I could disappear when I needed to. It meant I didn’t have to deal with any of those memories out loud. I could just lock them away and move on.

It also means that I’ve lost myself, over and over again. It was lonely, but there was something that felt right about it.

Life kept lifing.

Capitalism kept capitalizing.

Bills kept billing.

Somehow, I end up with a two-year old who is deeply traumatized, and didn’t trust me. I’ve worked really hard in the time since to earn their trust. (For those who are in our pronoun circle, they’ve announced that they are using they/them again. If this differs from previous posts about the same kiddo, it’s because they were using she/her pronouns at the time the post was written).

I went to therapy. I learned about trauma informed parenting. I took on toxic patterns, and adopted gentle approaches. I heard how I was talking to my child, and changed it. I taught them that we were on the same team, and that I’m always here to have their back. I’ve taught skills and worked on deficits.I’ve worked to be consistent, and approachable.

I couldn’t figure out why there was still such a distance between my child and I. I was trying so hard, and will continue to, but I just couldn’t connect and it was like my child was responding to someone who was nothing like me.

They didn’t know me. What a nightmare!

A few years ago they started asking me questions about my life, and I took a very “let’s not worry about Mommy’s stories. Let’s focus on you,” approach.

It didn’t make things better.

For anyone who hasn’t met my kiddo, they are pretty persistent. They are not especially likely to take a crap answer like that and just accept it. They pressed. They kept asking things. They got increasingly irritated with me, frustrated and distrustful.

They wanted to know where they came from, where their people had come from.That’s not unreasonable.

At first, when deflecting had failed, I tried to give light answers, but my answers are loaded.I had a loaded life. It’s hard to give answers that make sense without all of the backstory, and she’d never heard any of it.

It was so painful to open up.So painful to think about or put into words. Even the little, innocuous details hurt, and this kid asks the hard hitting questions.

They’d be a brilliant journalist.

I was so intensely triggered each time. So completely torn open. So afraid of saying the wrong thing, and upsetting the wrong people. My stories aren’t safe, inside or out, and as much as I needed to keep them in, they needed to know me.

No wonder they didn’t trust me. How could they?

I didn’t even know me.

I was so confused about being triggered. Me? Triggered? No way. I am resilient. I can take anything. How could I be so triggered?

This was nowhere near the parent I wanted to be. I want to be able to guide my children through the things that scare them, not show them that our pain is too scary to share. I want to hold them during the storms of their life, not create the storms of their life.

So, I realized I needed to deal with my trauma. I needed to pull out my stories, and sit in the discomfort, and the pain, so that when I needed to say them, it wouldn’t be so sharp that it’s unbearable to tell them.

In doing so, I have been able to share more of myself with my little one, and those who matter to me. They trust me infinitely more now, and that continues to grow.

They’ve also seen my commitment to healing, to transforming our trauma and pain, to building a different future. I can’t imagine anything more important. I’ve also found reconnection with my eldest, and a renewed capacity for safety and peace shared between us.

This is so hard, but it’s worth it. Even if the story goes all over the place, it’s worth it. Even if it takes thousands of pieces for parts of the big picture to make sense, it’s worth it.

There’s also a little light at the end of the tunnel (AND I’M ACTUALLY PRETTY SURE IT’S NOT ACTUALLY A TRAIN OR MY IMPENDING DEATH).

The more you lean into the discomfort, the less it hurts, the less it stings, the more it makes sense. The more you put words to the hardest of memories, the less impossible they become.

There are pieces I couldn’t even put words to before, and now in sharing this journey, some things are finally starting to make sense.

Happy Healing Everyone