healing childhood trauma pt4

Experiencing the Pain

The first task of healing childhood trauma is acceptance—accepting the fact of your abuse, accepting the meaning of those facts and lastly, accepting the irreversibility of the abuse. The first task occurs in the head—the second occurs in the heart. My family system was run like a cult so accepting the truth took a long time. It was like trying to untangle a gigantic ball of knots. As I read, researched and listened, the mess that was my family system began to come into focus. But that was only the first task of healing. It’s difficult enough to accept what has happened. It’s another kettle of fish to allow yourself to experience the pain. And that is the second task of healing childhood trauma—experiencing the pain.

Why Childhood Trauma is a Unique Kind of Loss

When a loved one dies, the loss has a beginning and an end. The emotional task of healing  certainly takes time, but the actual event is a one and done. Childhood trauma is a series of never ending losses. My abusers never stopped. Never took responsibility, and never had the slightest amount of self-awareness. When I grew too old to be physically abused, the emotional and psychological abuse continued. This type of chronic childhood abuse occurs over an entire lifetime. Even after the abuser has died or is no longer in the life of a victim, the impact is felt.

The Stages of Emotional Pain When Healing Childhood Trauma

Experiencing the pain of childhood trauma requires processing three stages of emotion;  denial, confusion, depression. These are not accomplished in a linear fashion but must be done in layers, sometimes passing through each stage again and again until all the pain has been processed. Just as acceptance takes time, so does experiencing the pain. But avoiding pain is one of the main reasons I stayed stuck for so long. Not because I was weak, or because I was lazy or because I liked to avoid things. I did not want to experience the pain because I thought it would kill me. 

Denial 

For those of us struggling to come to terms with childhood trauma, denial is a coping mechanism that makes it possible to survive. I came from a large extended family whose approval I longed to receive. In my thirties, I remember a cousin describing the way he happened upon my mother’s latest automobile accident. Seeing her mangled car, he slowed down and watched as my mother twisted her hands through her hair. A wild-eyed look on her face, she suddenly, began running up and down the road, dodging traffic and waving for help. I blushed with shame when he described her behavior. 

“She was just standing there, her mouth flopping open like a fish out of water, but she didn’t say nothin’. It was hilarious.” He let out a big belly laugh. I looked at the ground. “Then she started telling the police what to do and screaming at the rescue squad.” He shook his head. “I went ahead and left. I couldn’t do nothing. Your mother is out of her mind.” He laughed. 

I could just imagine what my mother looked like to him, to the police, the rescue squad and the rest of the community that day. She rarely washed and her clothes were chosen from a bag of rags. Hair flat to her head, I’m sure she did look out of her mind gesturing to on-coming traffic. 

My mother. The brunt of the family joke. Her behavior at the automobile accident didn’t hold a candle to my early childhood years. I never knew when I was going to be tortured, sexually abused, shamed or some combination of the three. Looking back at my cousin, I smiled, pretending right along with the best of them. 

This cousin had witnessed my situation for years and thought it...funny. Derision or indifference was the only response I ever got from my family. There was no one to help, no one who understood, and no one who cared—even when it was right in front of their face. 

For me, two lives coexisted alongside one another. The first was an outer life that appeared ordered and agreeable. The second, an inner life, was filled with despair and confusion. To be conscious of that inner life was to be destroyed, and I did everything I could to keep it quiet. I was even able to deny the pain of something as obvious as my mother’s car accident. 

Denial is so powerful, so entrenched and so difficult to let go of because it is cultivated in the early years of life. I believed everything my parents said and did. As a little girl, who else was I going to believe? My parents had the cooperation of the school, the principal, the pediatrician, my extended family, everyone my little world bumped up against—denial? I  wouldn’t even call it that. Brain washing is a better term. And brain washing becomes denial as we grow into adulthood.

Breaking the Wall of Denial

When I was first ready to break apart the walls of denial, I decided to take back my power by meeting with every person I could think of that knew my mother and tell them the truth. I found her former boss. I spoke with another cousin, and I drove to the office of our former pastor. Knocking on his door, he welcomed me in. I took a seat in a comfy arm chair and looked him right in the eye.

“You knew my family well, and I need to tell you something.”

He leaned forward in concern. “Please, go right ahead.”

I began to list chapter and verse of everything I could think of that my mother had done. How she had pretended at church, been a monster at home—how she lied about me over and over and over again. He let me speak without interrupting for over an hour. Finally done, I let out a big sigh. Intertwined fingers underneath his chin, the pastor sat back in his chair with a squeak.

“I always knew your mother was mean. I just didn’t know how mean.” My mouth dropped open in shock.

I met with her former boss who replied. “I only hired her out of pity. I knew how unstable she was.” Again...shock.

My cousin sang the same tune. “Everybody knew how mean she was.” Only none of them really knew. The worst of the abuse had been done in secret and I wasn’t ready to tell all of that...yet.

I talked to many people over several days—old family friends, other professionals, as many people as I could find who were still alive. Without fail, none were surprised at what was to me earth-shattering revelations. None. Not one single one. My mother hadn’t fooled anybody but herself. Unknowingly, I just happened to be living in the delusion with her. 

Well I wasn’t living in it another second. I cannot tell you the depth of satisfaction I felt being able to speak up for myself. To look people in the eye and have it confirmed that my mother really was a monster. But I also cannot tell you what a shock it was to learn that so many people knew something was terribly wrong and either did nothing to stop it or never bothered to speak any words of comfort to me as an adult. Coming out of denial is hard. Staying in it is worse. Defy trauma, every chance you get.

-a word of caution. If you choose to tell your story in a similar way, choose only safe people realizing some prefer to protect the family or an institution over you. Take a trusted friend with you if you go.