The sins of the parents are relived in the lives of the children; on and on it goes, and where it stops nobody knows
During my walk this morning I saw, through my ongoing educating eyes of learning about C-PTSD, the horrible childhood my mother had endured. Her real mom died when she was six years old. Her father was an enculturated authoritarian German character raised in the 1920s through 1940s. His new wife, who was chosen for him by his family, was socially phobic. So, in their wisdom, they sent my mother away at the young age of six to a boarding school to raise her. She would sit and watch during summers as the student body would go home for the summer from this Catholic school. She’d be left there with nuns as her friends (and priests?). It was awful for her as any empathic being could see. There is just no doubt of it, traumatic. Talk about abandonment issues!
So, I sit in my adult life, especially now that she is deceased, and find little emotion for her or for my father’s passing some eight years ago now. There is no mourning, just a toxic, frozen lack of feelings. The sins of the parents are relived in the lives of the children; on and on it goes, and where it stops nobody knows.
We are all victims and/or benefactors to the culture in which we live
Within, I feel the deep pangs of shame telling me I must be a callous person. As if I should be scorned for my lack of feelings, and my seeming indifference. As if free will was exercised on my part for being this way, and I should be ashamed of myself. I do feel enormous guilt for feeling uncaring, for being unable to find my feelings, for having to pretend to be caring. Who the hell would want to be, choose to be, shut down like that in life? Not me. The historical ancestors of my family’s past have done this to me. No, more keenly to the point, their culture has done this to me and my mother.
As one begins to develop eyes of understanding, seeing the reality of how human life progresses, rambles on, and works in quite a real sense, we are all victims and/or benefactors to the culture in which we live. Some get the psychological crumbs from a traumatized family’s past; others get a banquet or a feast for a King from the blessings of an emotionally loving and available parent. The crumbs and the banquet, but no one chooses or decides the emotional baggage one inherits.
Do I love my mother and/or my father has been asked of me in therapy and the question I struggle with and pose to myself, most especially since their passing.
The answer is no, perhaps yes, I don’t know.
It twisted me into a human pretzel that left me wondering to this day
The traumas I have suffered in my life, emotional, physical, and psychological have been severe and deeply ingrained in my characterological make-up. The extent the traumas were inflicted, internalized, and repressed left me shut down emotionally, it all being just too much for a child’s innocent mind to manage. It twisted me into a human pretzel that left me wondering to this day, who am I? It forced me to turn away from who I was meant to be as a person and directed me to become someone who managed to avoid and ward off more physical and emotional abuse, real or imagined. The hitting, the screaming, the utter looks of stern contempt for apparent transgressions, and certain traits of mine… I had to become a chameleon to the moment; there was no choice (a life of chameleon-ality). It was not a clear choice of exercising free will in the matter. When I today hear people railing about free will, it makes me, well, it used to confuse me. I didn’t understand the concept of how others vomited it out as if a dictate from a living God or something, an unquestionable reality for us all. Now I see the righteous calls and gut-ugly demands that all behavior is free will. To that, I say simply, nonsense. Not always and not for everybody and not at all times.
Out of ignorance comes the spewing of empty words and seeing others around you singing the same worn-out lyrical tune
Out of ignorance comes the spewing of empty words and seeing others around you singing the same worn-out lyrical tune. It simply creates agreement among others who now believe in the same thoughtless ‘words.’ It does not make the truth out of the matter, just social agreement and the sharing of the agreed upon ‘noise.’ I cannot emphasize this enough; social agreement, on any matter, does NOT make things true. It just comforts us, so we do not have to think any further. Everyone once agreed the earth was flat! Think about that.
Here I am struggling in therapy to awaken to the question of “Do I love my parents?” Perhaps, did I, is more fit for the moment. I love them as much as they were capable of loving me and on and on the backtracking goes into the ancestral tree. We seem to look to our ancestors to see what they did with their lives. How many children did they have, and who did they become… economically? What were their vices and the like? The question I pose now pondering my familial past is, what were they really like? How did they manage the secret unspoken traumas from their past? Were they able to at all awaken to see that something was not right in their inner emotional state of being? Were they truly able to love, truly? I am shut down emotionally and I now know it is not or was not just me. How far back does the passing down of ‘TRANS GENERATIONAL’ trauma go in the family tree? Spare the rod and spoil the child. There are just far too many rods (my being polite) “not” spared and thus spoiling far too many children! That is how that phrase should be ringing out. That is what is written in my book, the now sacred book of Jesse.
“I am so sorry Mom and Dad that this happened to us. I’m so deeply sorry.”
** Copyright notice. All of my writings are copyrighted and registered with the Library of Congress.
- My name is Jesse Donahue. In 2015, at the age of 58, I took up writing, and since then I’ve written two novels, poems, and essays about my journey struggling with CPTSD. The essays, 70+, were an adjunct to journaling in therapy to amplify my learning and self-understanding.
My writings, which include therapy notes, poems, novels, and essays, are all a part of my ongoing personal therapy. Many of my essays are in a stream-of-consciousness style, unleashing, sharing, and delving into energies that continuously process in my subconscious. My writings, initially, geared for me and my therapist’s eyes only, began with my exposing my thoughts, fears, and feelings (or the lack of) onto paper… a journal of therapy notes. Then, with fear overcome and via a personal decision of choice, I shared them here with the readers. My essays, most all, originate from my weekly therapy notes. My intent and desire is to encourage readers to recognize traits in themselves and find a therapist if they are willing and able to do so. If you are in therapy, ask your therapist to read them and discuss what pertains to you. For some, it can be a long and difficult process over extensive periods to awaken to the unconscious issues that have us acting out in life. Our behavior can seem like dancing to a buried, invisible energy that we are not able to directly see or confront. It is my sincere hope that my insights will assist the reader in the process toward reaching a deeper self-understanding. Bringing the unconscious out into the light of self-awareness, understanding, and acceptance fosters self-love and the process of change.
My published writings with the CPTSD foundation: The Hidden Bugaboo (*recommended). The Beganning. Twelve Days Without Coffee. Learned Helplessness. Cast Out of Eden by Toxic Shame. The Crumbs and The Banquet. What an Outside Appearance may Not Show. Obedience to the Light – Bombs or Love. Stepping Into the Shoes of Who You Are. Personal Honor, Integrity, Dignity, Honesty. Inspirational Tugging – Teachers. Codependency – Overriding the Monster of Self Hate. Surfing the Light Through the Darkness. We are but Storytellers. A Writer’s Brain – The Gift. The Highway of Worries. The Emptiness of Yesterday. The Man Who Lives Under the Bridge. Living in the Dis-World. SPECTRUM.
