I’ve written how it is hard for me to connect the trauma that happened to me as a child, happened to me, as a child. The “me” that was once a child doesn’t feel like an accurate description that ever existed. It feels more like an idea, a concept, and less like a reality that I had lived.
I believe a large part of this was due to the fact that my mother never allowed me to be a child, and my mother was never allowed to be the adult.
Any deviation from a subordinate position of endless gratitude was met with a reminder of how bad things could have, or could, be. If I had so much as spoken an authentic lapse of hurt caused, rather than a dissociated stare at the ground, I was also reminded of the others who had it worse than me. I was quite early exposed to the images of my mother’s child self, bouncing from foster homes, and the treatment she received by her father that altered her brain permanently. Her mother, ironically the woman who saved our lives, also failed her on many levels. By the time my mom could speak, she had learned that the world had nobody there to protect her. With no siblings to stand alongside her to mask moments of peace as safety, her brain had to adapt to danger and regular disruption. Her survival depended on her ability to protect herself from constant mental stress and trauma, physical traumas, and lack of stability.
She was also devastatingly early educated on the implications of being a brown girl with a white mom, in a white-dominant community. My mom spoke openly about her infrequent tenancies at schools, and the inability of the constant school changes to enable her to make friends. My mom, quite literally, was alone from the start. With only herself being a source of predictability and safety, she had to quickly learn the skills of independence.
I am not going to pretend to know the psychology of her brain or how it processes relationships and events. I don’t have a letter next to my name to give credibility there, and I remain her daughter, rather than a trained professional. What I can assert is that by the time my sister and I came along, the damage to my mom had been done. She had lived her life to that point learning what she needed to do to go on, what she needed to not feel to make it worth it all. My sister and I were collateral damage in our very conception.
My mom was both young and uneducated on a healthy family dynamic. She had not been taught love of her identity, her potential as a literate and curious human, and her worth as a person. How was she supposed to teach lessons to two children that she had not experienced?
I do not say this to give my mom a pass. Quite honestly, I don’t even say it as a burdened need to showcase empathy. I say it simply as understanding as another hurt human, another ailed daughter, and another participant in generational family trauma.
I am not going to continue the narrative that I experienced a normal childhood, nor an acceptable one. While I still struggle to connect myself as a child that deserved better, I can at least acknowledge that I went through things that were not acceptable for any child. Therapy is an active, ongoing activity that is helping me eradicate the innate feeling of being defective. I do hold space for the fact that I had people my mom did not. My twin sister not only occupied the same time and space I have from the start, but she had experienced every blow I had. While we have always been separate beings, our experiences aligned from every ugly corner. While unsafe adults invaded the space we never chose, we could at least count on each other to be a friend and advocate. My grandmother had also turned her life around from when she was also a young mother. She became our anchor to hope. While love and safety weren’t things we felt often, her presence reminded us that such a feeling could exist from a person. She made me feel that I was more than an obligation or nuisance. She spoke kind words to us, took us on adventures, and made us feel that we were humans worthy of being recognized. In a universe where I had felt like simply an observer, my sister and grandmother made me feel like I was part of something.
My lack of belonging had always been the consistency that led me to what my part was in the lives of others. Taking up space was only an act of selfishness, only the whims of the ego-driven and greedy. The taunts of other children are easier to recollect for me than the kindness. Before nuance had meaning, I was familiar with how the words of some people had different meaning based on their tone. A compliment with a sly grin from peers looking from a distance meant you were being made fun of. A group of three or more of the pretty, “popular” girls meant you were going to be asked how many days you were going to wear that same shirt. A teacher twitching before taking your extended hand meant you definitely smelled, and when was the last time you bathed? Social interactions eventually became an avoidance, and nothing became more painful than recess when you had to find the hidden space that wouldn’t broadcast your utter loneliness.
Having even two people make me feel that I wasn’t a source of disgust made me find meaning.
Because life with my mom was never predictable, because I never knew when I would see her next and what her mood would be, I developed an early obsession with seeking approval from elders. I had strived to earn compliments from any human resembling authority. While I had never achieved student of the month the way my sister did (three, four times?), I had found elation in dialogue with any adult that was tasked with my care. Adults in schools and church had maybe hidden their judgment easier, but there was a feeling of being able to breathe when I was around someone who had treated me as a person who was doing more than wasting space. After living an entire life of making myself incredibly small, being able to be seen despite attempts at disappearance made me feel like maybe, one day, I would be loved unconditionally by someone else. Maybe someone would think of me. Maybe someone would hug me. Maybe they would let me hug them without questions of what I wanted. The flip side of seeking approval was that I had also become easily triggered by the opposite. Teachers asking me to quiet down during instruction brought fiery and fierce tears to my face instantly. I overanalyzed their tone for days after, abusing myself mentally for messing up yet again. I would then read their every expression, convinced every passing gaze was an intentional avoidance of meeting my eyes.
Because I had been bred with so much guilt in my very existence, I had also very quickly learned that I could use space to comfort others. My mom’s pain and reluctant implications toward not being a perfect mother was a well-versed skill in what words to say to make her feel like the most perfect. Every hurtful word, action, and habit was scapegoated as the fundamental right of being human. My flippant take on deep hurts she caused had earned accolades; sometimes a hug, sometimes an “I love you.” Warm words and affirmations were always granted when I had allowed her abuse to be met with empathy.
Connecting my childhood to me, as a child, is difficult.
Maybe this is because I had never been allowed to be the child. Because I never gave permission to see my mom as an adult. She was perpetually the child victim; me, the enabler to my own neglect and abuse.
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