Heavy
*Trigger warning*
I don’t usually put these kinds of things out here. The purpose isn’t to gain sympathy or support as much as it is to document a moment of realization/growth in my own life that I hope can offer a sense of solidarity to someone else.
Have you ever had a moment in your life when you realized things aren’t as they seem? I had one of those recently that impacted everything I thought I knew. I guess I should start by telling you a bit about myself. I’m that stereotypical child who survived boatloads of every kind of trauma imaginable, got away from the dysfunction, grew up, and got a doctorate in psychology. Oh wait, that’s not stereotypical?
Even though I look like I’m coping better than most, there are times when every day is a struggle. Days when I don’t leave the house because the thought of doing so leaves me paralyzingly anxious and overwhelmed. Days when the self-critical voice in my head (yes, clearly internalized parental criticism) is so loud I can’t see past it. Days of depression, feeling sad for no clearly identifiable reason, and of course, a lifelong habit of questioning my existence. I struggle with maintaining healthy relationships and asserting boundaries appropriately. These things have gotten better over the years, but damn, it’s been hard-won progress.
Here’s the thing — if you ran into me on the street, you’d never know. I easily pass as just another confident, intelligent, athletic, adventurous, and passionate millennial. If you got to know me a little better, the trauma might seep out occasionally. That’s the exception.
I spent about a year going to three different therapists. When I told one that I was depressed, he was adamant that he could see no evidence for that as I arrived to appointments with perfect makeup and hair. He refused to budge even after I explained I was simply trying conforming to my workplace dress code. Then, when I mustered the courage to talk about my persistent body image issues, he responded by telling me he found me attractive and would refrain from saying more lest I felt uncomfortable. LOL. Another therapist suggested wine for my anxiety. By the time I entered treatment with the last one, someone who actually had experience treating people with trauma, I tried for as long as possible to hide my graduate psychology training, thinking it would make a difference. It didn’t. I still looked far too put together to be falling apart.
There are a few people who have expressed their surprise that my siblings and I are relatively successful adults who have integrated into society appropriately, and aren’t prostituting and drug addicted. Whew, glad I exceeded someone’s expectation for once in my life.
When you’re a child, you see your parents as fundamentally good, regardless of the quality of their parenting. This results from a few factors. For one, at a young age, individuation and distinguishing the self from parental figures continues to be an ongoing process. You can’t see someone as bad when that person is experienced as a part of yourself, so you align with the abusive parent and adopt their view of you as your own. Secondly, the emotional cost of viewing someone you depend on for your very survival is high, so abused children with no escape begin to develop sophisticated cognitive defenses. Mine were in the form of intellectualization, denial, and splitting — more on this later.
Parents function as a child’s barometer for what is normal and what constitutes a dangerous situation. A broken barometer in the form of a dysfunctional parent-child relationship provides an inaccurate reading. That child grows up with a skewed understanding of what to expect in their adult relationships, and their relationships with men and women often mirror respective relationships with their father and mother.
For a REALLY long time, I saw my father as the “bad” remorseless abusive parent. I cut him out of my life completely when I was 22. I just couldn’t handle going to grad school full-time and dealing with his continued control and mind games. After that came his calls to my school hoping to gain access to my address, threats to show up at my home and campus, and communication with my professors through my LinkedIn.
Conversely, my mother seemed full of remorse and guilt about the way she’d raised her children. She wrote me several letters full of apologies and emotional baggage that she’d send during important occasions like holidays and birthdays. In hindsight, it was merely another way of taking something that was mine for herself. She’s still got a minor child at home. She’s still married to my father. He’s still abusive. And yes, I have gotten child protective services involved on multiple occasions.
A few weeks ago, I was on the verge of a big move across the country--one that would likely preclude any in-person conversations with my mother for a while. I decided to confront her with a few questions about my childhood. One in particular that I’d been thinking about for a while. “Do you remember the time I told you that I’d just tried to kill myself, and you said ‘okay’ and walked away?” Without missing a beat she responded calmly, coldly even. “No, but I remember that time you tried to kill someone and almost ended up in prison.”
WHAT. THE. ACTUAL.
(Spoiler alert: I’ve never tried to kill anyone other than myself, and I’ve never been arrested.)
I remember the feelings that washed over me. Shock. Disbelief. Frustration with her lack of emotion. A disorienting sense of betrayal. The best way I can describe how it felt physically is those movie scenes where someone’s locked in a soundproof glass box, and they’re banging against the box but no one hears them. It was a sensation of banging my head against thick glass that rippled through my body.
It finally made sense--the reason she was okay with continuing to choose an abusive man over her children. She didn’t even remember my childhood for what it was--for what she had made it. Our stories about the same events were different. She couldn’t remember emotionally abandoning her child at one of the most painful and dark times of my life--but she remembered something horrible about me that never happened. And she was not about to validate a reality--my reality--that she’d help shape.
During that same conversation, I opened up about some of the struggles my siblings and I continue to experience to this day because of the way we grew up. Her response to that? “Well, I guess leaving didn’t help you, then.” I talked about the lifelong effects of trauma (which has long been an academic and clinical interest), only to be blown off again. “I just don’t let it affect me.” I’m so glad that’s a conscious decision for you, Mom. How abuse affects you really isn’t that much of a choice when you’re 5 years old. What hit me the hardest was that as much as my childhood sucked, if she could have done anything to change it, she wouldn’t have. The evidence for this continues with my youngest sibling still at home.
Experiences are not always a choice. Healing is a choice. But let me preface that by saying that coping skills don’t equal true healing. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve got all the coping skills. I’m still in the process of healing, but even that won’t completely erase the impact of what I survived. The body remembers and so does the mind.
Endnote: If you’re a parent reading this and it speaks to you in some way, PLEASE seek out help. If not for yourself, then for the sake of preventing my story from one day being your child’s. If you’re a survivor of childhood trauma, know that it does get better--and it is worth working with a competent trauma-informed therapist--not all are like mine.
Resources: National Suicide Prevention Hotline 1-800-273-8255
National Domestic Violence Hotline 1-800-799-7233
















