“Hey, I’m really sorry we had such a big fight yesterday. I never like fighting with you. I didn’t recognize those were your feelings, your experiences. It must have been awful to feel that way. I’m sorry you struggled so much to talk about it. Do you need a hug? Can we talk about it more, safely?”
I’ll never hear this from my family.
Instead, I’ll hear:
- “What are you talking about? You’re not depressed.
- “You always had friends over.”
- “We never did that.”
- “It’s not like we (insert something else). Other people have it worse.
- “You should be happy.”
- “You’re making that up.”
& more invalidating responses, over & over again.
The recent most traumatizing one, “We think you’re making this up to sell books, making it sound worse.”
I’ve podcasted & blogged a lot, sharing my experiences, my truths, & my struggles. I’ve mentioned childhood trauma, mildly, always tiptoeing around being fully honest because I’m a parentified child who was taught my feelings aren’t my feelings. That it was never that bad. & because it feels mean to say things out loud. But as I rot away inside, maybe I should be more honest because I’m trying to heal myself.
& if my honesty challenges your version of events, please take a moment to understand what it feels like to live with all of this.
*now remember, two things can be true at the same time. I could have had great memories. . .you might even be friends with me thinking, what?! but I’ve been here for you. . . yes, but the other truth can be I was/still am depressed.
I’ve considered being unalive. I’ve told myself over & over in my head that I wasn’t good enough, nobody cared, nobody loved me. I’m terrified that one day my kids are going to resent me for being their mom because I’m broken. That’s not what you see right? You see me pushing through all of it as a mom & my kids are happy.
I’ll tell you! My kids & I have struggles. We have fights. & I work so hard to change the narrative. I’m stopping to have the conversation & I give the hug. I swallow my pride & say, “Wow, Mom didn’t react well or handle that well. Let’s talk.”
Again two truths can exist at once. I considered starting this blog with two truths & a lie. . . actually, let’s try it:
- I felt alone in a room full of friends.
- I went to bed crying more times than I can count.
- I was always happy.
What you didn’t see:
I had friends, but I was bullied so badly that I wanted to be unalive rather than go to school. When I wasn’t being bullied, I felt invisible. Sure I had friends, but I knew I was the one inviting myself into our friendship. I was the one driving them places. I was the one offering something. I wasn’t the person they called first, the person they remembered to invite on their own. I was nobody’s best friend. If I didn’t text first, ask first, plan first, I was the “Oh yeah, Kendall too?” & I felt that every day.
I spent lunchtime alone constantly. Nobody saved a seat for me.
At home, if I talked about being sad, nothing was really wrong because I had friends, scratch that, I knew people right?
Add on, at home, two childhoods happened.
I grew up going on trips, adventuring, getting cool toys, & having loving memories.
But I also grew up with family fighting nonstop. With my dad working long hours, avoiding coming home, & constantly telling me he wished he had a different family. That he wished I was better. That he could disappear one day, become a hermit, & not care. Telling me, well I don’t want to relive some direct quotes. I grew up best friends with my brother. & I grew up with my brother saying horrible things to me & not wanting to be a part of my children’s life.
I can remember a wonderful things & remember how badly I wanted to escape.
I can remember laughing & remember crying myself to sleep.
I can appreciate what my parents & friends provided for me & still acknowledge what they put me through.
One truth doesn’t erase the other.
& when you live a life where one truth is never acknowledged, when there is no next day apology, recognition, or healing. . . how can you really say ‘you were fine.”?!
I know writing that will make people uncomfortable.
A few years ago, I had a therapist help me process my pain. I wrote letters & sent them to family & friends I struggled with. I poured my heart out, “here is the pain.”
Here is what rots me away inside & here are my boundaries.
& when the letter became an unspoken, unanswered, dismissed story, I stopped talking to my family & friends.
But filled with self-doubt, self-hatred, & depression, I let them back in, in manageable doses, because cutting them out 100%, while therapeutically healing, always felt too mean. & honestly I always hoped absence would make the heart grow fonder & push an awareness for a healing need.
But when we avoid talking, we don’t rewrite the story. We only let it continue on autopilot.
I keep coming back to that apology at the beginning.
Memories are a fickle thing. Have you ever heard of the research studies where they ask people to witness an event, then at the end summarize the same thing. More often than not, no two stories (memories) are the same.
This is the problem with trauma. Not because I need someone to agree with every memory I have. But because I wish there was room for two experiences to exist without someone immediately trying to explain one away.
One of the hardest parts of navigating my relationships has been realizing that saying the hard thing doesn’t always mean it gets heard.
Sometimes you finally find the courage to explain what hurts, only to wake up the next morning & be expected to carry on as though nothing happened.
Because we’re family.
Because that’s just how it is.
Because apparently loving someone means getting over it.
But I’m learning that moving forward isn’t the same as pretending something never happened. & I don’t want to teach my children that silence is the price of belonging.
I don’t have the relationships where people are saying, “I didn’t realize you felt that way.” I don’t have the honest moments where people say, “Can we talk about our perceptions of two things.” or even minimally, “Can we talk this out?”
Instead, I’ve spent so much of my life questioning whether I’m allowed to be hurt at all. Whether it’s all my own fault. Whether I’m a bad person.
& now, as a mother, I carry the fear that one day my children will have their own painful memories of me. I’m sure yes, we will have some epic fight moments, I won’t get everything right, I already don’t. But I want them to know that when they come to me with those memories, they don’t have to prove their pain to me. I want to listen. I want to apologize. I want to give the hug.
I want them to know that my intentions don’t erase their experiences. & that loving me doesn’t mean they have to pretend I never hurt them.
I’m writing this to be honest.
I often wonder, will I ever really heal. Will I ever really feel understood. Will my happy memories outweigh my negative ones? Who knows.
But I do know, I’m not alone.
& yes, I do share my soul to sell books. But no, it’s not made up or exaggerated. It’s honesty.
I created all of this because I don’t want anyone to feel alone. I no longer want to shrink myself. We shouldn’t be made to be invalidated.
If you’re reading, If you ever felt like you can’t have a conversation about what you’ve experienced, about what you’re feeling, the impact of someone’s words or actions, I’m here.
I promise my thoughts are not my ideations. I am here.