I had given up on my other blog, Reintegrating, because it didn’t seem to be helping me or anyone else. I also didn’t keep up with it. It keeps haunting me though, especially since my father died. I feel like he branded me when I was still a child, set me on a course that would take me in an endless downward spiral. I was an overly sensitive child, and this brand felt as obvious as Hester’s scarlet “A.”. My son’s diagnosis was further proof that I was bad, without redemption. I would always be a source of suffering and pain to anyone who crossed my path.
I do not condemn my Dad. I have four siblings and we are all very different people. Same parents, different psychological make-up and it’s anyone’s guess how words and actions become a part of you. My Father was actually the only other adult with me when my son was officially diagnosed. I think we were both in shock as the doctors listed the limitations that would emerge in his life as he grew. It breaks my heart to remember how helpless he felt to make this better. A physician himself, he lived to heal people. Now, his own daughter was in the deepest psychological pain he’d ever seen her face, and he couldn’t fix it. Not that he didn’t do his best to try to ease my sorrow. Away from my Mother, who had always handled the emotional issues in the family and was his soul mate, he was courageous and noble, cooing and rocking his six month old grand-daughter so I could be with her brother during needle sticks, neurological tests, and exhausting days of evaluations and dire predictions.
It was my brain that connected the pieces, deep in the dark foundation I had always feared was my true self. How had he known? All the times he’d pointed out my flaws, shown his disgust for me, listed every mistake I’d ever made, he’d been seeing the real me. This was the beginning of the unraveling of my sanity. The line from point A to point B was drawn, and it was my son who would have to bear the consequences – irrationality became rational. My mind, my soul, was on the edge of a black hole whose overwhelming pull would inevitably suck me in, and spit me out forever changed in a universe that was completely foreign to me. Branded, an alien in an unfamiliar world. There would be no return trip, but a path has begun emerging to acceptance or something like it. Those of us shattered by trauma can find a way to get a piece of our self back here, another shard there, and try to build something resembling a whole person. It’s a long journey, and each day feels like I’m starting all over again. The alternative would be to stay shattered, and that is not an acceptable solution for me.
May you feel peace, and may blessings pour forth to you from places you could never have imagined. Namaste’.