What can I say about my heritage?

I come from horse whisperers, dowsers and drunks, and narcissists and manic depressives, and geniuses, and Cherokee survivors and a Celtic, warrior queen.

I can say that I’ve, now, heard my own daughter utter to me, the most heartbreaking and empowering words that not only slipped through my own lips, but are stamped in the pages of my memoir as well. Like an echo through time, those words reverberate through my bones, how many times have they been said?

That’s how ancestral trauma is, you repeat the actions, the feelings, the habits, the story- different permutations, same pattern, same underlying pain, same soothing mechanisms, same ways it warps mind, body, emotions, and behaviors.

A vow has been made, by me, the trauma stops here. 

Both my parents have memories of having to hide from a parent or a grandparent, who lost in their cups, or more colloquially, when drunk off their ass, became a living projection of their own pain spewing, violently. Hiding in closets, running to the neighbor’s house- regular occurrences for both of my parents as they were growing up.

Naturally, I gravitated towards drugs, myself. I found speed early and though I didn’t know it then, it perfectly mimicked the biological cocktail I had been steeped in as a child. Before there were drugs, though, there was claustrophobia, OCD, and what I recognize now, as anxiety. There was also my selection in men, and even friends- ruffians, wounded boys and girls, angry, rebellious and destructive. More patterns that perfectly mirrored my own closest relationships, only you don’t pay attention to those things when you’re a kid, under twenty. And I’ll not have you thinking I was some naive victim, I could give as well as I could take, though both hurt me, deeply, honestly.

I was fluent in the language of violence, different dialects between self and others but that tone, oh so familiar. 

When life is unpredictable you learn to pay attention to details that might clue you in on what’s going to happen next. Empaths often develop this heightened sensory perception out of necessity. It is a survival response to trauma and the ongoing low-level threat of its inevitability.

You learn to adapt and adapting is what the majority of us do around our trauma; somehow we learn to function with gaping spaces that should hold the essential nuances of our selfhood. This net worth is not your portfolio, not what you do, or create, or produce-  but the very vital validation of who you are how, much you matter- intrinsically. And this must be mirrored to you. You don’t get it in a vacuum.

There is a bridge that encourages interactions between our internal and external worlds and if it has been damaged or was never completed, it’s difficult to ferry our goodness and creativity from the wells deep within, to the surface world. Maybe the well needs excavating, maybe there is some part, some inner orphan, who is stranded below and she/he needs help. The trouble is- when those around you are, themselves, not capable of mirroring to you a healthy state of positive regard, emotional accountability and other basic skills that you need to thrive in the world, you don’t learn them.

You don’t necessarily know you don’t have them but you sense that “something’s off.” You retain this residue around your self worth, a dim on your shine, which can make it difficult to make your way in the world- to glow up! This residue, these cracks, could be in-dwelling spirit spaces, when they are not interpreted as insufficiencies, these trauma-trances can also make it hard to connect with people or even care for yourself, which all leads to a lower, less satisfying quality of life, troubled relationships and even addiction.

For many, the solution to feeling lost in oneself, in the world, adrift… is to numb, distract and in other ways- fill the spaces in which you long to meet yourself but don’t know how.

It sucks we’re not taught how to meet ourselves! Not in school, or church or any of the clubs we attend.

We need space! To feel, to heal to breathe our lives in.

Take a moment right now and breathe.

Just breathe. 

This is the first step. With any trauma that occurs, the first thing we do is change our breathing patterns. All biochemical processes shift from there. When we pause and breathe, we are immediately taking a step towards self-regulation and that is the cornerstone for building emotional resilience.

Just breathe.

Let whatever sensations stir in your body, move! Let your thoughts drift- noticing but not clinging. This is the beginning of you knowing yourself, intimately.

Intimacy is what trauma steals- our ability to connect with ourself and others. Innocence is what gets buried, our most precious resources are hidden within our most heinous wounds. If we’re not safe with the people we most want, or more accurately, needed to trust, this disrupts our primary connection with the goodness of life, our own goodness and the planet.

This is what I’ve learned:

When I bury my grief before it’s time, when I stifle my pain, or choose to numb instead of feel– my trauma, to greater and lesser degrees- is running the show. That means my survival brains needs are taking priority over my creative or relational needs, running an unresolved loop- seeking relief and temporary pleasure, feeling somewhat better or even lots better; then dealing with the come down, the awkward remembrance of guilt, pain or insufficiency. Then the whole thing begins -again- searching for the euphoria of my own presence, for source, yearning for earth mamma, and human connection.

The emptiness behind this endless striving is at the heart of the the cycle of any addiction and in a world which has forgotten how to mourn, or even properly celebrate, and in absence of the numinous, neuroses reign. This is the realm of what buddhism refers to as hungry ghosts, spirits with ephemeral, insatiable appetites, out of sync with their own hearts and Nature. This is us- too many of us are devoid from our organic sense of wonder.

Wandering. Starving. Lost. Hurt. Abandoned.

It stops with me, I swear it. By all that is holy and by all whom I love.

How do I do this? How do I become the force that ends my ancestral trauma? Not by sheer will alone, no, that would be woefully arrogant. I do it breath by breath, taking accountability for the energy I’m bringing through in this moment. I let my feelings flow, not stagnate. I meet my pain with an equanimity to that of my joy and in the crucible of that embrace- alchemy occurs.

I write. I speak the truth. Sing my song and shake the sludge from the marrow of my bones.

I ask for help. This was a hard one for me to learn, as an oldest child I know what the f*ck I’m doing, always, except when I don’t; when I don’t have a reference for the state I want to embody, when I am lacking in a skillset but not self worth, not innocence, not basic goodness- that distinction has become a life-saver. I can learn new skills and the absence of previous wisdom or viable practice, in no way diminishes my intrinsic value. I’ve had lots of help from friends and support in community. I’ve had lots of help, professionally, from healers and wise-hearted scholars. I study and I practice living well, constantly.

Shame and trauma fester in secrecy.

I don’t hide my mistakes nor engage in self flagellation. My humanity holds room for both grace as well as slips from that benediction.

I do not ask for blessings- I am responsible to be a blessing in a way that brings life’s goodness through me. I dedicate myself to service, to helping others wake from the trauma-trance and recover their innocence, ignite their creativity and live in kindness and courage.

I’m curious when I want to be defensive. I’m protective when I feel the urge to rise with love, honor and responsibility. I’m open- nearly always-  with great discernment, mother-loving, healthily held boundaries and fierce compassion.

The more I feel the more I heal. The more responsibility I claim, the more power I retain.

This is the medicine my daughter needs, not lectures on morality and propriety but a real woman-.her mother-  showing her the way, living the healing journey, not selling it.

People don’t want to buy this but they should. This work is messy, honest, terrifying and liberating-  like nothing else. This is what so many of us need if we weren’t so damn afraid! So afraid of our fear, so conditioned against claiming our shadow, our darkness- our power.

Within every wound is a balm that can heal the world.