Much has been written about intergenerational trauma and how epigenetics plays a role in who we become. Works by Mark Wolynn, Gabor Maté, and others have covered the topic from a neurobiological level, but reading Dr. Jennifer Mullan’s Decolonizing Therapy transformed something I understood intellectually and brought it home in a deeply visceral way, changing everything about how I view myself in relation to CPTSD.
In her book, Dr. Mullan underscores the importance of taking someone’s family history as well as the broader environment and society into account when healing complex trauma: “A mental health practitioner may work on relational issues with a person, focusing on childhood events, abandonment, abuse, attachments, and family dynamics—which are all relevant and can be important. However, if ancestry, homeland, mother tongue, or a disconnect from any of these aspects of culture and current political climate are not discussed, then the therapy is incomplete… We victim-blame by focusing on personal deficiencies and trauma, rather than structural violence.”
Suddenly, my sternly dysfunctional family made more sense. I started doing ancestry research after my mom sent me an article about the history of the town my family settled in in the early 1700s. From what I’ve been able to gather, my mother’s side of the family began to emigrate to North America around the time of the 1695 Penal Laws in Ireland. By this time in Irish history, the brutality of colonization was already centuries old, and there were already laws banning the language. The Statutes of Kilkenny in 1367 banned the language and traditional Irish dress. The Penal Laws of 1695 forbid the practice of Catholicism and further ban Catholics from getting an education, holding a job, owning land, voting, bearing arms, holding public office, or engaging in trade or commerce, among other things.
My family settled in what is now Eastport, Maine, near the border of Canada. It’s a beautiful but challenging area. The town of Eastport became a hotbed of smuggling leading up to the War of 1812, and was occupied by the British for four years, extending two years beyond the end of the war. Multiple surnames from my family showed up in records about smuggling. When my mom and I went to Eastport, we went to the historical society. I asked if it was plausible that our family was heavily involved in smuggling. The curator laughed, “Everyone was involved in smuggling here.”
Today, Washington County has the highest poverty rate in the state. When my great-grandmother was born in Eastport in 1898, the family got by with very little. When I asked my grandmother about what it was like growing up during the Great Depression, her laughter was somewhat bitter. “We already had nothing,” she said.
When I reflect on my experiences of growing up in the 1970s, I realize how much of it was under the shadow of oppression. Forced to flee their homeland, my ancestors came here only to find an arduous life where things remained difficult for generations. They worked long, grinding hours, and struggled to make ends meet. In the 1940s, my grandfather started a welding business that did well. We got by. We knew some family stories, but any sense of heritage was absent. We were never a cuddly family. Emotions and affection were very limited. If something terrible happened, you pushed forward with grim determination. Generations of living in survival mode and functional freeze resulted in a long line of dysregulated nervous systems. As a result, I’m not very good at identifying emotions, either in myself or others. In my therapy sessions, I keep a wheel of emotions available to guide our discussions. But some sections of the wheel are obscured, like the old maps that have areas that say, “here be dragons.” I’m still figuring some of them out.
As a part of the diaspora, I now see how the erasure of culture and language affected us. I’ve struggled with dissociation for many years, but especially in childhood. I never really felt part of this world. In elementary school, I told a story about being kidnapped from the fairy realm—the otherworld. And somehow, I belonged neither here nor there. As I read Dr. Mullan’s words about the concept of Home, it struck me that this untethered feeling about my ancestry had something to do with it. She asks, “Is it a place, a space, or energy within your body? Is Home with a community, or among your beloved friends? Is Home merely an abstract concept, a movement practice, or a land? I would like to think that this concept—a concept of Home—is synonymous with a deep sense of safety on all levels: emotionally, physically, culturally, spiritually, racially, energetically, and internally. A place where you feel safe, guarded, protected, seen, loved, and appreciated. At its core, ‘feeling at home with something’ should feel familiar and safe.”
Further, this passage from Decolonizing Therapy had a powerful impact on me: “After people return to their bodies and feel that they are in their ‘right mind,’ they can make decisions about what they need and how they want to heal—and most importantly, the ROOT of that dis-ease. If we do not examine and honor the root of the suffering, such as colonization and dehumanization, we will continue to experience the same suffering over and over without a map.”
Learning more about my heritage has helped me understand the pain of those who came before me, and shed insight into the quiet state of dissociation that relatives like my grandmother lived in for much of their lives. I’ve only recently felt true embodiment after practicing somatic therapy for several years. As I work to heal from many years of living with CPTSD without any framework of what it is or how to manage it, I dug deep into the history and culture of my ancestors and found stories of healing in Irish lore. I started with a membership to the Irish Pagan School and tuned into dozens of classes about history and mythology. From there, my new research obsession branched out into dozens of resources they recommended along the way, and it’s become a form of art therapy that is essential in my healing journey.
In Sweeney Astray (translated by Seamus Heaney), we meet Suibhne Geilt, also known as Mad Sweeney. Cursed in battle, the pagan king flees to the wilderness where he lives in a state of madness that bears a strong likeness to PTSD. There are descriptions of hypervigilance, flashbacks, avoidance, and a perpetual feeling of a lack of safety. His shapeshifting and allegiance with the animals in the wild serve as a metaphor for isolation. We even have multiple men in my family who, like Suibhne Geilt, lived alone in the wilderness because they rejected contact with people. Suibhne Geilt has become somewhat of a patron saint to me, as have other figures in lore.
Queen Medb (Maeve) taught me about sovereignty: that no man could just claim the land, that sovereignty was gifted by the goddess of the land. She taught me sovereignty of self and how we’re designed to feel pleasure, to enjoy embodiment on our terms. An Cailleach, another goddess of the land who presides over winter and is a trickster and shapeshifter, taught me how to claim my power as an older woman. In ancient lore, the wise woman (bean feasa) was a healer of a variety of types of trauma. As I process my own trauma, I’ve been creating my own program to help others. It started with talks to medical students and healthcare providers about the neurobiology of trauma and the principles of trauma-informed care. A key part of understanding CPTSD is learning about the wide array of chronic medical problems that come with it. This effort became a side business that continues to grow, and not a day goes by where I don’t thank those who taught me this lore—it’s the fuel to this healing fire that I’m sharing.
I found ways to give back to my ancestors: I started to learn the language and donated to help replant trees native to Ireland. Massive deforestation resulted in the loss of most of Ireland’s trees. Once, trees covered 80% of the island, and it was down to 1% in the 1800s. My ancestral land needs healing as well.
It takes a lot of effort to undo all the chronic stress I’m carrying, but I’ve come to love the work itself and the process of discovering who I am and how it feels to be present. Decolonization work has been a key part of that, because now I realize that you cannot remove history from who we are as individuals. It takes its toll whether we acknowledge it or not. Through Dr. Mullan’s work, I gained affirmations that allow me to hold more compassion for my family and grieve for a place I have never been.
Sources
“Since Feathers Have Grown on My Body: Madness, Art, and Healing in Celtic Reconstructionist Spirituality,” Erynn Rowan Laurie. Disability and Religious Diversity, 2011.
Decolonizing Therapy: Oppression, Historical Trauma, and Politicizing Your Practice, Dr. Jennifer Mullan. W. W. Norton & Company, 2023.
Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash
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Lee Frost has worked for nonprofits and marketing agencies focusing on healthcare for the past ten years. She’s a patient advocate and recently launched a blog about menopause and CPTSD called the Sinsemillier. She grew up in the Boston area and has a BA from UMass Boston and a master’s from Harvard Extension School. Lee lives north of Boston with her husband, where they both love to nerd out on sci-fi and fantasy.
