One reason I’m sharing my memoir is because I have realized as a health coach, often, when we are struggling, like when trying to be healthier, our childhood may be holding us back. Until we address our past, our present and future may be affected.

Another reason is, when I shared it with friends, many said, “I feel the same. Can we talk?” (The answer is yes. Please contact me if compelled to. I welcome it.)

And, the most important reason; Right now, somewhere, an adult is harming a child. They may not know they’re doing it.

If what you read affects you, please reach out to me via email or phone, or leave a comment. My hope is to connect authentically with you, so we can support each other.

Caution, Dear Reader - Some of the content is graphic, and I have been told, disturbing at times. My goal is not to upset, but to share honestly. Only reflection and honesty have helped me glimpse what has eluded me for 50 years-happiness. Please read at your discretion. 

*Most names have been changed.

Click here to read my memoir from the beginning.

Click here to read installment 10.

Excerpt:

I know when someone talks about an abusive parent or caregiver, then justifies, “It wasn’t that bad,” or, “I deserved the beatings,” that’s a denial strategy. I know because I used to say it… 

Installment 11

Eventually, I have to let it all go and live my life, the one I want to live. The people who know me best, including my children, tell me I’m kind and understanding, qualities I have come to learn my father saw as weaknesses, according to my mother. Asking her and my brother about my father’s upbringing, I learned his beliefs were instilled by his father, who beat them into him. Having experienced what that feels like, I can feel empathy for the little boy my father once was. When Frank, my therapist, read this, he wrote, “Have you read Carl Jung’s writing about the Shadow? It’s about projection, seeing the disavowed parts of yourself in others and overreacting to them. Never understanding this dynamic is your unconscious anger or fear of your shadow self.” Unfortunately, I’ll never know, but he suggested my father may have seen, “…a kind, gentle, sensitive kid, in you,” maybe like the one inside him many years before, that someone beat the shit out of, making him hate those qualities in himself. That leads me to another layer of the onion I’ll need to peel back. For now, I tell my mother, “Ma, I think I’m more like you.” She agrees, and says, “Your father’s family killed each other with beatings.” That’s how it translates from her Greek. “But you took after my side,” she says.

I try not  to react emotionally by getting defensive when some well meaning people, and one therapist, tell me, “It sucks, but your childhood was not much different than typical childhoods. We all had things happen to us in the past.” They say I shouldn’t let it affect me too much; basically saying, Get over it. Irritated, on the inside, I want to grab and shake them into reality, reminding them, it’s never okay to harm a child. And, I have tried to get over it. Believing them would harm me, and my children. Accepting my childhood was “typical” would cause me to pass down to my children the harmful beliefs and behaviors that were passed down to me. My children are innocent. They don’t deserve this generational pain placed on their branch of the family tree.

I know when someone talks about an abusive parent or caregiver, then justifies, “It wasn’t that bad,” or, “I deserved the beatings,” that’s a denial strategy. I know because I used to say it. Denial is one way to survive a dysfunctional childhood, in addition to repression and addiction. With denial, emotions can be avoided, including anger that can be directed toward parents or caregivers who harmed them; the people who were supposed to protect them when they were vulnerable children. That’s what happened to me; I came to the conclusion that there was something wrong with me, because believing my father willfully hurt me didn’t make sense to my young mind; What parent would purposefully harm their child? 

It can be taboo for an adult child to admit a parent or caregiver harmed them, (“Adult child” is a term used for an adult who was raised in a dysfunctional or alcoholic/addicted home, and is now suffering because of it). Denying it allows families to continue hurting each other for generations, like my mother’s and father’s did. That’s not fair to children. It robs them of their childhood. Then, one day, they wake up in midlife, like me, thinking, Why do I hate myself so much? The problem is, much of this is subconscious. (I didn’t realize I hated myself. Jung’s Shadow?). That’s why I couldn’t do it alone. I needed the support and guidance of my program, therapist, and friends, clients, and patients willing to show me their scars, which they slowly, bravely did. For the first time in my life, I have authentic relationships, largely due to scar sharing.

As a result of denial, (when harmful memories are suppressed because it’s painful to think about them), some try to escape using sex, drugs, alcohol, shopping, gambling, work, negative thinking, and so on. When I learned one could be addicted to negative thinking, I thought, That’s a thing, that I suffer from? Some get so numb (I was), they don’t even know they dislike themselves (like me), leaving them sabotaging relationships, subconsciously carrying out dysfunctional self preservation- I’ll hurt you before you have a chance to hurt me. In the past, if someone got too close to me, that person might see my imperfections or wounds, the wounds I didn’t know I carried, the imperfections I masked behind unhealthy ego (self importance, indifference, criticism). I’m tired of living that way and don’t want to lie to myself anymore. That keeps me from living my life and having authentic relationships, something I crave more than anything else, especially with my children.

Often, I looked forward to the work because it helped me make sense of why I felt the way I did, and did the things I did. But sometimes, the writing didn’t feel right. Slowly, through many edits, I removed superfluous language and dramatic renditions because I realized, often, I was writing for you, the reader, to try and impress you by magnifying my trauma to justify my problems. When I did, it interfered with the healing. I would go back and replace words like “devastated” with “sad”, to tell my story honestly. I learned it was self harming to continue to be a “people pleaser,” a phrase I had never heard before, but identified with immediately. 

With self honesty, I’d uncover some upsetting traits about myself, like my fear of authority figures, and how I’d manipulate people to get what I wanted, then learn how to be gentle with their dismantling. For example, I’d read, when someone craves attention and gets it, then doesn’t want it, that’s one form of narcissism mixed in with low self worth. I didn’t want to accept that, and by resisting it, I’d confirm my narcissistic tendencies. 

Eventually, I’ll figure out why when I got the attention I craved, I’d be unable to accept it, especially when it was a compliment. A physical therapy patient who read my memoir excerpts said, “I’m impressed that you’re able to put into your blog your deepest, darkest fears, and then share them with us. It’s helped me look at my own childhood. Thanks for doing that.” I recognized the moment for what it was; my patient was giving me what I wanted in sharing my writing; authentic connection. So why was everything in me saying run, hide, change the subject, redirect the focus back onto her. I realized, it was like I was sitting back at that kitchen table with my father, trying to hide in plain sight, fearful of being seen, because I didn’t feel “good enough”. This is hard to explain; It’s like my patient was looking right at me, seeing me without my superman perfect filter on. I fought every instinct to say something to impress her, but knew there were only two words that must come out of my mouth, “Thank you.” Understanding what happened, she said, “Well done, taking the compliment.” “I’m trying.” I replied, “Honestly, it’s still tough to accept a compliment.” “I get it,” she said.

Because of my new, authentic relationships, I can be vulnerable with safe people by revealing my insecurities, making them have less power over me. That’s helped me to eventually admit more of my faults, with some kicking and screaming. Now, the work left was to slowly shift my faults into strengths.

When I shared my writing, some friends would say, “You’re being too hard on yourself.” That stopped me in my tracks, because it made me second guess myself, another chronic fault of mine. Later, turning my laptop, phone, and all social media off, sitting alone in a quiet room, because my program recommended it, I'd think, No, I don’t think I’m being too hard on myself. I think I’m just being honest. Although it’s painful, self honesty has been essential for my recovery. 

A caring friend caught me off guard when she pointedly asked, “Are you having any fun?” I felt wrong when she did, because I can’t say I was, then judged myself for not having fun. The self judgement lessened when I realized it wasn’t fun I needed, rather than self love. Any fun I forced myself to experience before feeling self love would be inauthentic. When she recommended I go “drunk dancing” and leave my cares behind, if only for a night, I thought only having fun when I was drinking was not a sustainable way for me to live. It would also break a vow I made to myself long ago; I will not drink when I’m sad to feel happy. Thankfully, when I felt the beginnings of self love as a result of the work, I’d see the fun in my life that was already there; watching movies and having sleepovers with Kara, Bella, and Nicholas, teaching them to play sports, and cooking for family and friends. Even doing what seemed like a toil, writing, started to feel like fun, fueled by purpose.

Thinking about purpose made me think of my life, because my therapist, Frank, kept encouraging me to explore the connection. Viktor Frankl, a holocaust survivor, indicated in his book, “Man’s Search for Meaning,” many that survived the concentration camps did so because they came up with a meaning, and later purpose, for their suffering. Frank gently nudged me in the same direction. When I’d throw a tantrum at my pity party, saying something like, “Why the fuck do I have to clean up the mess my father left?” without judgement, he’d say, “Huh. That’s one way to look at it. What’s another way?” He was asking me to come up with a better meaning for my suffering, even suggesting I consider replacing the word, “suffering,” with, “path.” Because I was tired of beating the shit out of myself, Frank’s suggestions compelled me to search deeper, to come up with a better internal dialogue, one that would ultimately benefit me, and my children, connecting me to my true self and life’s purpose.  I don’t know if he said it, but what I heard was, If we’re making up shit in our minds anyway, why not make up better shit?

More to come…

Read installment 10

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