Tag: Trauma

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And the Sins of the Father Are Born Upon the Children…

A quote from Ellen Waterston’s book Then There Was No Mountain: A Parallel Odyssey of a Mother and Daughter Through Addiction:

“…maintaining facades to protect us from our own truth, prevents us from healing, distorts our sense of our own reality. Whatever the secret is, it should be told. As soon as it is, it loses its power, becomes a story, even a song. If we protect the enemy, individually or as a family, we cannot heal, can’t help others heal.

The secrets we keep stake their claim, keep part of us hostage, prevent that part of us from being in life, in love. Once the boulder is rolled away from the entrance to the cave, light can shine in. Resurrection truly takes place. Our children’s task is to survive their parents, but they have to know all they can about them in order to survive them. It is about claiming a right to life. If we don’t as parents tell our truth, and if, as Fay says, “children express what we suppress”…fill in the blank. We reap what we don’t sow.”

First, the word sin. I’m not comfortable with classifying behavior, as I believe that behavior is a form of communication. I also believe that language evolves and the same word can hold different meaning throughout time. That said, from age 8 to 18, I grew up in a very religious house. I could not help but absorb many of the teachings, some which instilled fear, but many that provided some food for thought through the years. I have come back to this phrase from the 2nd Commandment, ‘The sins of the father shall be born upon the children to the third and fourth generation…’ (Deuteronomy 5:9) To me, this verse speaks to traumas suffered by parents and how those traumas impact the generations that come after.

Renowned addiction and trauma expert, Dr. Gabor Mate, draws correlations between childhood trauma and addiction which point to addiction being a temporary relief from emotional pain that is repeated over and over without regard to negative consequences. Research has shown that we can suffer trauma through the traumas that those before us suffered. The results of this are evident among various groups who have been marginalized, oppressed, and victims of violence throughout history and today. This is not my opinion. This is proven through the study of epigenetics. I am not going to provide links to resources in this blog, as my purpose today is not to write a research paper, but to add words to my story, my family’s story.

I read the book containing the above quote eight years ago. Throughout Blake’s addiction, I constantly sought information through reading and Internet research. Nearly every mother who has a child who is sick becomes very educated about the disease that afflicts their child. This quote about secrets may not initially bring addiction to mind, but it is a huge part of our story.

I am a secret, although I have become less and less of a secret throughout my life. This has forced my children to also be secrets. I didn’t ask for this, and neither did they. If/when my youngest son, Lucas, has children, they will also be secrets, although I imagine the impact will begin to soften to the third and fourth generation. I have lived in defiance of this burden since Blake was born, but my defiance never was and cannot be an eraser. Real work remains.

As the secret, I am also the secret keeper. I came to be the secret through the choices of my biological mother. Her choices came from her experiences, which shaped her perspective. I know that she understood that her choice, in regard to me, would hurt me; however, she believed that the sacrifice was necessary. Over the years, I have gone through an array of feelings in regard to this, from sadness, anger, and apathy, to acceptance of what is.

And then this quote came up in my Facebook memories the other day. Combined with the recent passing of my youngest brother from my biological mother, and knowing that my nephew was struggling, a nephew that I’ve never met or talked with, I felt compelled to reach out to him. Thursday night, I sent him a DM:

Hey Christopher ~ I know Curtis talked to you about me. My family has always been super important to me, especially family that I have little access to because of decisions that were made about my life before I had any say. Unfortunately, the adults in my toddler life didn’t consider the loss that I would feel and how their decisions would affect so many. I held you when I met your mom. You were about 5 months old. I never spoke to her again after that day. I don’t know why. I’m your mom’s younger sister and your aunt, and for some reason I’ll likely never understand, I don’t exist. But believe me, that stops with your mom and grandma. I live life on my terms. I don’t hold any grudges, but I’m tired of being a secret. This is about me showing up after my little brother’s passing, knowing you’re hurting, and saying, “Hey Christopher!”

Thank you, Ellen Waterston, for the encouragement. That’s the power of the story, to encourage others. This is also why I tell my story.

In the story of me becoming or being a secret, I had to maintain a facade that I didn’t belong to my family. I had to toss aside my birthright, as if that is even possible. And then I had to put that expectation on my children, that they too should toss aside their birthright. I had to stay away from, and deny my children, experiences of family celebration and mourning and accept the void of absence in our own celebrations and times of mourning. I existed as authentically as possible, while simultaneously existing in a vacuum, being held hostage. I can hope that my resilience acted to nourish the souls of my children, but the realist in me knows that my strength could also be interpreted as a facade, a denial of what has been.

Throughout Friday and Saturday, much truth has been shared. I recognize that this is hard. I understand that I have had 50 years to comprehend and accept this bucket of truths. This truth was shared with Blake and Lucas throughout their lives. My niece also knows this truth, and has also been burdened with the weight of keeping the secret, living within the confines of the expectation that the secret is kept. There is no real padlock on this cage, only the padlock of fear of pain, when really, the pain is remaining in the cage and not walking wholeheartedly into the storm, because I expect there will be some storms.

I am only responsible for myself. I am a lover and a believer that the Universe reflects back to me what I project into the world. In hiding, the Universe keeps things hidden. In revealing myself, in loving, I get to know another, and to receive love. I get to live and love more fully. I get to heal. Others get to heal when they may not have even understood the wound. If I don’t kick open the cage door, I am not claiming what belongs to me – my life. My why? Of course, it’s for all of this, but it’s also for my children, and for my siblings’ children. As Ellen says when quoting a teacher in her memoir, “children express what we suppress…”

With each layer of the secret exposed, each person involved is terrified no more. The storms will not be without damage to repair, to rebuild. The work will be hard, but just like communities that come together and rebuild after a hurricane or wildfire, the efforts of those willing to do the heavy lifting will be rewarded. The next generation will reap the reward of today’s courage instead of the weight of the trauma.

Finally, I can’t know what would have been had I found the strength to go down this road before Blake passed. I believe that there is a time for everything, and I will not be burdened by the what ifs. They come, surely, and I let them go, like the tide. Blake wouldn’t want me to be bogged down. After yesterday’s FaceTime call with my nephew, Blake’s piano composition started playing on my computer, an ‘I love you’ from the Otherside. I love you too Blake, to infinity and beyond.

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“What Happens When You Die?”

I was driving back home after dropping our nephew off for a visit with his parents at a rundown motel in the middle of Reno. Blake, who was eleven years old at the time, was sitting in the backseat right behind me. He was really quiet, so I peered into the rear view mirror to see if he was sleeping. Tears were silently streaming down his face. “What’s wrong, Blake?” I asked. “Mom, what happens when you die?”

The question would have stopped me in my tracks if I was not driving on the highway. I didn’t know where the question came from. I only assumed that Blake was deeply impacted by the living conditions that his cousin would be staying in overnight with his parents. I tried my best to answer the question to the satisfaction of an eleven-year-old, trying to remember if I asked or even considered such profound questions at his age.

I think Blake was always aware of my half-brother Steve’s drug use, or at least he was aware of the outcomes. When Blake was an infant, Steve lived with us for awhile. I’m sure Blake didn’t have a conscious memory of that. Steve fell from the roof of a two-story apartment building, which resulted in his being helicoptered from Incline Village to Reno when Blake was two or three years old. I took Blake with me to visit my brother at the hospital. I’m pretty sure that image was stored in his conscious memory. We saw Steve from time to time after that, but never on a regular basis. Blake likely heard whispers of Steve’s stays in jail and other unsavory situations. In 2000, Steve’s girlfriend was pregnant. In mid-October, I took a gift for our new nephew and cousin to the hospital, but before that, there were reports made to Child Protective Services about the mother’s drug abuse.

Much of the chattering that happens in a home falls on unintended ears. I remember. When I was a kid, hushed voices meant ‘listen harder.’

Our nephew/cousin, Derek (name changed to protect his identity), came to live with us when he was 15-months-old. He hardly knew us and had never been to our home. At the time, we lived in an 1100-square foot home just north of Reno. Blake and Lucas were sharing a bedroom, so we converted the office into a bedroom for Derek. This began an almost 2 year period of transporting Derek to visitations with his grandma every weekend, coordinating visitation with his parents when they were not in active addiction, hearings at court, doctor appointments, finding affordable daycare, and periodically showing up at the welfare office to certify that we were still Derek’s legal guardians.

And then one day, I received a letter from the State of Nevada informing me that I needed to prove our family’s income at our next recertification meeting. I called the welfare office immediately to question why I needed to show our income, as we were Derek’s legal guardians, not his parents. It was explained that the State of Nevada decided to determine dependent benefits based on the income of the guardians, regardless of parenthood. With that decision, we could not continue with the guardianship. The monthly benefit only provided childcare for Derek, and we could not afford to pay for his childcare out of our pockets.

Almost immediately, I was making arrangements to transition Derek’s custody to his maternal grandmother. While this decision was not in his best interest, it was a decision I had to make. We continued to be involved in Derek’s life, exercising weekend visitation until we moved from Reno in August of 2005.

On Thanksgiving Day of 2006, I got a phone call from my brother. Derek had been living with his adult sister who was due to give birth to her second child at any moment. Their mother had recently been arrested and was in jail. My brother asked me to drive to Reno to get Derek and bring him to my home to live. If I did not do this, Derek would be placed in the custody of the State of Nevada.

I left my home Saturday morning, arriving in Reno the same afternoon. I picked Derek up, along with two garbage bags filled with his clothing, the same afternoon. After spending the night at a friend’s home, I drove Derek to the jail to see his mother, and to have her grant me written and notarized permission to take him to Oregon, enroll him in school, and obtain medical care for him as necessary. We headed to Bend, Oregon that afternoon.

With Derek’s mom in prison, and his maternal grandmother in Eugene, we were able to settle into a fairly uninterrupted routine. Of course, this routine was peppered with difficult behaviors that were outcomes of Derek’s traumatic history. In first grade, Derek was observed by the school psychologist who believed Derek was exhibiting symptoms of PTSD. We were starting to wrap resources around him when his mother was nearing the end of her prison sentence. Somehow, she was able to call him, and insisted on calling him almost nightly. She was not accepting of my concerns that her call frequency was upsetting our schedule, which was negatively impacting Derek and me and the rest of the house.

While his mother was in prison, we believed that obtaining legal guardianship would not be necessary. The State of Nevada then released her to Oregon for post-prison supervision in 2008 because she had family here. I felt we had come to an agreement about slowly transitioning Derek back into her physical custody. We welcomed her into our home for what was to be her first visitation. Right away, she told me that she was taking Derek back to Springfield with her that day. With no warning, Derek was uprooted, without saying goodbye to his friends, his school, his cousins,… I was absolutely livid, feeling manipulated and taken advantage of. She and her aunt and uncle, wo drove her to our home, took Derek and put him in their vehicle. When I suggested that she at least take Derek’s belongings with her, she came back in the house. She expressed that I seemed awfully stressed with taking care of Derek, and that my stress was not good for him. I think my exact response to her was, “Parenting is often stressful. The only difference between you and me is that I don’t stick a needle in my arm when I get stressed.”

Ouch! I’m not proud of that moment, but in that moment I meant what I said. It was judgmental, meant to shame, and it definitely was not necessary. Regardless of my feelings about the situation, our nephew/cousin’s well-being was at risk. We’ve seen him briefly only a couple of times since then. During winter break of 2011, I was able to go and get him from his sister’s home (she had also moved to Springfield) and bring him to our home for a visit.

In the meantime, my half-brother, Derek’s dad, lost his fight with the monster of addiction. The date was December 27, 2010. Derek was ten years old. Blake was 19.

I can’t say how much this course of events impacted Blake’s life, but I venture to guess that it impacted him deeply. Over the years, he stayed in contact with Derek through Facebook and talked with him on the phone. He tried to mentor Derek when he felt that Derek was making unhealthy choices, even trying to convince him to enter into treatment in Los Angeles.

I think that Blake sensed death was lurking on that day eight years before addiction claimed my brother. I wonder if it was curiosity – wondering what could be so great that you would live in such conditions and not take care of your child – that enticed Blake. Blake’s biological father also did not take care of him. Blake always sought to understand. That curiosity and that understanding possibly cost him his life.

Now he can answer the question he asked me when he was eleven. One thing I remember telling him is that the person lives on in the memories of those who love them. I know that there will not be a day that passes that I don’t feel the loss of him. Some days it will be just the loss, but most days, it will be accompanied by gratefulness for his living. I feel he is at peace. I feel his presence. I’ve met with an intuitive healer/angel guide, and I believe he is in a better place. I know life was hard for him for so long. I know he’s watching out for me. I see orbs often, when I never saw them before he passed. I know it’s him showing me that he is okay. The bravest, most intentional, and most painful act of love that I have ever expressed was letting him go. With faith and with love, I let go of his physical form, knowing that I would hold him in my heart forever. With faith and with love, I have to go on, knowing that I have a guardian angel that is with me for the rest of my days.

Last night’s full moon and one of the pictures I took of Blake dancing in the moonlight.
Cecelia Rodriguez was the photographer of a photo shoot that I recently did. Notice the orb sitting on the sunflower and my left arm.