The reality of generational trauma. My daughter writes me this letter. Each parent should give this space to their child. They deserve to be heard and our own pain disables that ability.
She writes:
It’s always so interesting to hear our lives from your perspective. How you perceived things in our home and how you perceived yourself. You write that you remember each detail of our bedrooms, everything was accounted for so to speak. But just the other day at dinner you had forgotten that sis and I even shared a room for part of our childhood. You see, you were not as present as you remember yourself to be. A vessel giving only when you could or lashing out because we were too much for your nervous system to handle. You ponder why you couldn’t see what was happening right underneath you, but you were too entrenched in your own pain to see what was happening. Dissociation. It crippled you. Do I doubt your love for us, no I don’t. I see it for what it is, the painful reality of generational trauma. But the fact of the matter is, that house was gut wrenchingly lonely. Love was not freely given. It was cold and dark. It was years waiting to be seen and heard, only to find out it would never come. That I would be the one to save myself. Our blueprint was laid out for us from the moment of conception. What we hold onto today is that that blueprint can be re-written. Day by day laying a new piece of the foundation and reconstructing what was taken.
With love,
B
