Healing from Childhood Trauma — a Bodhisattva’s Take
A Letter to My Biological Mother.
I’ve pondered whether or not to respond to your message on social media, and I’ve concluded that a direct response is not needed from me. Writing an open letter feels right to me, and maybe it will help another person who might be facing a similar situation.
You were the first person to teach me abandonment — the person given the natural responsibility of keeping me safe and healthy and preparing me for life. Instead, you put your needs above mine, and in doing so, you threatened my safety; my physical, mental, and spiritual health were all negatively impacted.
When I look back at my first nearly ten years of life, memories come back like an old movie projector, showing images on the screen to tell a story. There are only a few of them, and they are all layered with a dark, grainy filter, shadows covering any light that might have existed.
- Image 1: Being forced to eat jalapenos while a group of adults laughed at me.
- Image 2: Sitting on a picnic table, eating a sandwich, and looking over my shoulder in fear.
- Image 3: A tabletop Christmas tree.
- Image 4: A Party with many adults and loud music, then blue and red flashing lights. Scared. Fear. Everyone is running out of the house through windows or back doors. Is it around Christmas? A policeman with a big gun runs past me in the hallway. I try to hide like the adults, but I am found — flash to being in the backseat of a police car.
The film goes blank for years.
- A short stay at a foster home.
- Another foster home, this one on a farm, forces me to eat food that tastes horrible. I learned to milk a goat and then was forced to drink warm goat milk — the glass is clear with three bands on it, red at the top, then yellow and blue. I sit at the table for what feels like hours, not allowed to move until the milk goes below the blue line.
- I am in another foster home. I am fed hard-boiled eggs daily. I hate eggs. I am forced to sit at a table until the eggs are done (was this an 80s thing, a foster kid thing, or what?), so I would hide them throughout the dining room: squished under the chair, behind a stack of books on a side table, behind the curtain.
- A social worker visit. A Rorschach test. Feeling defiant and in control by repeating the same word for every image, a goat.
- A black plastic trash bag with everything I own.
Finally, my last foster home. I was here for the longest, maybe three years. There are more memories here — where I learned that biological kids and foster kids are not treated equally at Christmas time. They made a photo album of those three years and gave it to me when I was adopted, along with an engagement plaque that said, “ Jennifer, You are special because you were chosen.” As though the Suffering and Trauma season had come to an end, and I had won my participation trophy. I also started hearing (feeling) music during this time, thanks to a much older foster brother offering a truly safe space where he would let me listen to music while he did homework.
- “Oooh, heaven is a place on earth…”(and thinking what a terrible place).
- “Take me down to Paradise City where the grass is green, and the girls are pretty” (this feels like a beautiful, sunny, happy place I would like to visit one day).
- The Cure’s Disintegration album, “…and I feel like I’m being eaten alive, by a thousand million shivering furry holes, And I know that in the morning I will wake up, in the shivering cold”.. (trauma)
So, now you are caught up on years 3–9. I spent the next 30 years seeking peace and happiness and often finding it. I was an incredibly anxious adult and suffered tremendously from panic disorder. I attached myself to many lovers. The life of the party, I laughed a lot. I found Jesus, but then I lost him. I did a lot of drugs and made decisions I am not proud of making. I got married and had kids. I refused to be defined as the weird kid without a family. I was athletic and had a lot of friends, but I struggled in school so much that I knew I would have been given a learning disability diagnosis. Strange juxtaposition. To be so happy and feel so incredibly broken at the same time.
Then, one day, when I was unassumingly ready, and the world had slowed down enough to let me sit with it all, I decided that those scars were mine; I honored them, then I healed. It came through a strong meditation practice and a discovery of Self that allowed me to understand forgiveness, compassion, letting go, and an awareness I had never understood before.
I offer you compassion on your journey. May you find peace, contentment, and forgiveness along the way.
Jen
Listen to Jen and Andrew discuss Spiritual Development, self-reflection, and maybe clearing a path for parental forgiveness in our latest episode, “Is Your Spiritual Journey Moving Backwards or Forwards?” at No Expectations The Podcast.
