Journeyers,
it’s been a whirlwind couple of weeks.
Family in
the hospital.
Family
coming and going.
Skeletons leaping
from closets.
Gatherings
and celebrations have collided with worry and heartache and painful memories.
The flurry
of activity kept me from writing yesterday.
The
emotional drain of last night’s and the previous evening’s events leaves me
exhausted.
Limbs
seemingly drained of life.
Eyes
throbbing from the wellsprings they delivered.
Heart heavy.
I own some
of this.
The
conflict between my children, one which goes deeper than the breaking away
phase, deeper than that dysfunction that has existed outside of me.
I. Own. It.
My part.
Things from
my distant past that I kept locked away, hidden even from myself.
Patterns
repeated with my own children.
Pain.
Suffering. Regret. Fear. Hate.
And love. I
know there is love locked away, overshadowed by years of paradox and
contradiction.
If you love
me, then why didn’t you protect me, they ask?
These
things I’ve been thinking about in the past year, little deliverances of
awareness that spoke to me.
I’ve been
working on a letter to my children, much like the letter I
wrote to Warren for our anniversary.
A
communication that I hoped would open doors for them, an invitation to both forgive
and to encourage questions.
I’ve been
pondering this for more than six months, and yet, I seem to keep getting stuck
on, “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel afraid.”
Of me.
Your
mother.
The person
charged with loving and protecting you from hurt and pain.
A mother
who one day many years ago woke up and realized that somewhere along the way
she’d crossed that line between swatting a behind to get her child’s attention
and spanking them in a fit of anger.
A woman who
realized those boundaries were easily blurred.
A female
brought up in a universal silence that spanned generations of countless
families across all races and religions, decades of switches and paddles and
belts and frying pans and confusion.
Someone who
never learned that abuse can be present, even in the absence of bruises, welts,
and marks.
I’m
struggling to turn off Justification’s chatter, to turn off The Story that my
generation and those before me told us: “You want to know what a beating is?
You’ve no idea what some children go through. Black eyes and bruises and broken
bones!”
And two
nights ago now, through grace and courage and compassion and caring and fear it
all came tumbling forth at our dining room table.
I am in awe
of the power of communication, encouraged by the knowledge that this child, my
child, felt just enough trust somewhere deep inside, that he could acknowledge
those truths and give them a voice.
“How could
you do that to me? That’s not supposed to happen. You’re supposed to protect me
and you did that?”
I felt his
fear.
And my own.
And now I
am scared for very different reasons.
Frightened
by the fact that I cannot take it back, that I can never, ever change what
happened, that I can only move forward.
Frightened that
the power of forgiveness lies only in their hearts.
“Thank you
for your courage to tell me how you feel,” I said, “I’m sorry, so, so very
sorry that I intimidated and hurt you so badly.”
I wanted to
ask for forgiveness, and yet, it is not my place.
“Dad and I
have been seeing a therapist,” I said, “I wonder if we should all go. Would you
be interested in doing family counseling?”
“Yes.” He said.
Hope.
“Maybe now
we can begin to heal,” I said, my eyes boring into the depths of hurt reflected
in his eyes.
Awareness
is half the battle, Journeyers.
I’m not
sure, but somehow I think the very hardest work has already been done.
But there
is a long, long road ahead…
Hugs and
healing, Journeyers…
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