Let’s go ahead and get this out of the way. The place where my memory begins. I don’t want to camp out here for long because God knows it’s not a rare story. It’s actually, definitely, a cliché (purchased my first ticket on the struggle bus with that realization), but my therapist told me ‘things’ become cliché because they’re true. So, well, ok then.
The backdrop of the first decade of my life laid the foundation for the contradictory beliefs I would carry for the next 30 years. These beliefs would etch errant neural pathways so deep in my brain it would take numerous professionals (with my willingness to trust and do the work) to even begin to set those ruinous thoughts straight. It’s where the shadows of grief began and were allowed to grow undetected beneath the undiscerning eyes of my caregivers. So instead of, as in the past, shutting this story down before I tell it, I press forward knowing there is nothing new under the sun, that I’m not actually a magical unicorn, and I just might have some light to shed on someone’s dark recovery path.
I grew up in small-town Tennessee where both of my parents were educators and had been active in church since before I was in utero. There were legions of churches in town but only a handful of denominations, and you knew where someone ranked within the social system by knowing which church they attended. At least that was the way my family saw it. As I recall, Baptists, Methodists, and the Churches of Christ were the biggest contenders for souls. I was of the Baptist variety.
In the most literal sense, I grew up in church. From crying in the nursery cribs, to learning songs in Mission Friends, to receiving inscribed Bibles with the other graduating seniors, if the doors were open, I was there. I explored every inch of that church in my first 18 years. My dad was a deacon and my mom taught Sunday school, so whether playing handbells or narrating the special holiday programs, you could count on at least one of them to be involved. Entrenched in the church, my family was.
If I wasn’t at church or a participant in a church-related activity (car wash for Jesus, anyone?), then I could probably be found at school. Both parents taught and both parents were in administrative roles over a span of 30 years. I risk stating the obvious here, but that’s a long time. I even had the pleasure of having my mom as principal my freshman year. And on top of that, my maternal grandmother was a cafeteria monitor for many of those years. Talk about eyes everywhere! Entrenched in the school system, my family was.
I existed within tight knit communities. . .whether at church or school. And, with it being a small town, there was a lot of overlap between those two worlds. Sunday School teacher was your history teacher down the hall from your principal mom’s office? Cool.
It’s possible this could’ve been a safe experience for many, but for me, it wasn’t. At least not after my 9th year of life; the year my parents divorced. The year everything fell apart and crystallized into its new way of being. This year set the tone for what was to come.
Living out of a suitcase? Not the most fun but manageable. And probably the reason I can’t keep a matching pair of socks to this day.
Keeping track of whose house I was going to be at at any given time? A cause for neuroses, but again, manageable.
But being in a constant state of heartsickness? Terrible. And the Sunday Sads? The WORST. Being told that I had no reason to be sad? UNBEARABLE! The sadness I felt when my dad dropped me (and my younger sister) off at my mom’s (aka my house...I never called my dad’s place mine) on Sundays at 4pm after the ‘every other weekend’ custody agreement overwhelmed my young body. Add to that the assumed burden of shielding my younger sister of four and ½ years from the death of our parents’ union and you’ve got a recipe for one overcooked little girl (no wonder baking has never been my thing). But even all of that would’ve been bearable had I had a place to go with my grief.
After the divorce, both parents stayed at the same church. In their defense, it was to try and make things easier for my sister and me. Maybe it did. But I also know it didn’t. What I know it did do was create a system of claimed allegiance to one side or the other. Same thing at school. And what that system of allegiance did was put me right in the middle. I understand divorce is exponentially complicated but, while the adults were busy duking it out and taking sides, I was left alone with nowhere to go with my sorrow. So I buried it. Alive.
Life is complicated and decisions are hard but my nine year old brain didn’t have room for nuance. It was on a Sunday morning getting ready for church when I was informed of their plans to divorce and asked not to tell anyone. That was the beginning of the secrets and the expectation of maintaining false appearances. I was informed a few years ago during a family dispute (dealing with a different matter) that no one had ever asked me to keep secrets. An untruth if I’ve ever heard one. How quickly we can be deceived by our own lies and false narratives.
In Elizabeth A. Stanley’s book, Widen the Window, she writes, “Trauma can occur if, during a stressful experience, we also perceive ourselves to be powerless, helpless, or lacking control.” That pretty much sums it up for me. I was powerless. I had no agency in the situation. And I felt guilty for being sad because I knew my parents were also sad, and I certainly didn’t want to compound their misery. Right or wrong, I didn’t feel that I could trust any adult because I was afraid word would get back to my parents that I had been talking about them.
I grew up in a faith tradition that emphasized being a ‘witness’ to others by sharing our personal testimony of salvation. Maybe what should have been of more focus was learning how to be a witness FOR others and not just TO others. See people, learn to understand their backgrounds and why they behave the way they do, hold a safe space for someone to share their story without feeling the need to give an answer or solve the problem. To have had someone come alongside me and non judgmentally witness what I was experiencing. . .To have had someone give me tools to deal with my situation and not try to spiritually bypass the madness happening all around me. . . Maybe then could I have metabolized my anguish and moved on. Instead, the despair remained inside festering while I figured out what my own personal testimony was to share with others.
Again, life is complicated and I am for sure not a perfect parent (just ask my offspring, they won’t hesitate to tell you) (i’ve also told them I’ll gladly contribute to their therapy funds). BUT what we’ve tried to establish in our family is the act of seeing each other. Witnessing each others’ difficulties and lived experiences. Do others have it harder? For sure they do! Does that make our struggles feel any lighter? Not at all. In fact, they feel heavier if we insist that they’re not worth examining. It’s paradoxical in that way. So be the witness your people need. Help them find agency and access choice in every situation they face. Because, in the words of Elizabeth Stanley, “The less agency we perceive we have, the more traumatic the experience will likely be for our mind-body system.” And that, my friends, is a FACT.
