When The Bough Breaks: A Look at Generational Trauma

I originally decided to write this post to discuss the often overlooked maternal wound perpetuated from mother to daughter. As no surprise to me, nobody wanted me to tell this story because it’s filled with shame. Let’s be real, nobody wants to take accountability for hurting a child.

As you’ve probably already gathered from my disclaimer—my mom did the best she could. Both of them did.

I’m writing this from my ‘now’ perspective. If I had written and published this at the age of eighteen, I would’ve told you that she was evil, and I would never go to her funeral, and that I hated her for everything she ever did to me. I would tell you that finding my biological mother was disappointing to say the least.

We have a long running family history of mental illness, and trauma, (both in my adoptive and biological lineages, that’s why nature vs. nurture has always been a special interest of mine).

My (adoptive) mom never got what she needed from her mom, which meant she didn’t know how to be a mom. She was busy reparenting herself. She helped raise her 5 younger siblings.

I feel like if I was born a boy, my mom could have loved me better. Broken mother-daughter bonds beget more broken mother-daughter bonds.

It makes me sad.

In the tender year of 2018, I went and saw the movie Ladybird with my then husband. I cried through the whole movie, and continued for 2 hours after. I was wrecked. Something about that movie touched every open “mom” wound I had and I had never confronted it.

I felt every guilt and remorse I had ever had about my mother’s misguided love. My ex reassured me that my own maternal relationship was not nearly as benevolent as Ladybird’s and her mom’s–thus, I didn’t need to feel how she felt.
I had spent many years after high school, after I had ran away from home, toying with the idea of “getting help”.

I sought after it the same way people who “fixed themselves” did, which ultimately amounted to absolutely nothing. Self help books, ‘self care’ (aka bath bombs and face masks, or worse–TREAT YOURSELF), rant sessions, internal monologues, guided journals. None of these were the tools I needed. I just kept reopening old wounds, and salting them and saying that they were fixed, acting like I had some new understanding when I kept looking at things from the same angle but maybe with a new philosophical quote attached.

I would bargain with myself and make excuses and all around just, really hurt myself, and everyone else. Growing up abused makes it so you don’t comprehend anger like a normal person. When I grew up (as in, freshly grown up), I was pissed off all the time, about anything. It felt great and justifying even though it was exhausting. I would tell myself how I earned my anger. I used to describe myself as PB&J: petty, bitter and jealous. I used to find so much beauty in being a piece of shit. The entire “this is just how I am” vibe. Which by the way, as a fully formed adult with my big juicy brain all developed–let me tell you how fucking gross living like that is. (You aren’t entitled to the world’s compassion just because your life was hard. You have the choice to do better). 

There is a REASON I struggled to maintain and create healthy relationships in my early twenties. (See: my entire life as well, but at least a few of those survived and are actually FANTASTIC.)

Nobody wants to be friends with a negative piece of shit. Example: go watch BoJack Horseman on Netflix. BoJack as a ‘person’ and old me are two very similar beasts. The relationship he has with his mom also has a common denominator with my own.

You hear the term “walking on eggshells”. That was my entire childhood. (That phrase also ironically is used in describing navigating a relationship with someone who has BPD).

When I would share painful events from my childhood with my therapist, I’d usually do so with a smile on my face. And then she’d have me sit in it. She’d mention how I wasn’t having the proper reaction: how it’s okay to process sadness, anger, guilt, disgust. Guys, it was hard. That meant I had to take ownership for these stories. That means I had to accept the pain that came with these memories. I couldn’t detach myself from it and act like it was okay.

She told me after our first session, when I came in with a list, and vomited it all over her: your life is so sad. How do you cope with all of these terrible things? And that’s when I felt the validation that my life IS sad. That’s when I had to learn how to properly deal with these things, because smiling through the pain and burying it wasn’t cutting it. I was poisoning myself.

I went through half a year of VERY intensive therapy and she told me each session what good work I was doing, and I strive for praise, so I worked hard because I wanted to get better. And I did, until I didn’t. Healing isn’t linear, and that’s ok.