Emotional Maturity, Generational Trauma, and the Best Days of Our Lives

 I worry that I've ruined her life by being so young when I gave birth. If I had given birth now, I would have been much better equipped to be there for her emotionally. What if I ruined everything? What if she struggles her entire life because I was not emotionally mature enough? I feel like a terrible parent. She has inherited everything about myself that I loathe, everything I am afraid she will eventually see in herself and hate because it reminds her of me. I wish I could send her to specialized therapy every week. I wish I could heal myself better and, in turn, help her heal. I don't want to negate my progress. I am a completely different person. My perspective has been transformed and widened and opened. I want her to get there, to get to that point. I want her to see life as it is, but I want her to see the GOODNESS and the HOPE. I want her to form healthy relationships with people who want her exactly as she is, people who inspire her to be kind to herself and take care of herself. I'm afraid I am not doing a good enough job at this. I'm afraid she will wake up one day and hate me, if she doesn't already. You work so hard your entire life for companies that can replace you the next day. I wish we were taught to work harder at our relationships with our families and friends than to work hard at our jobs. Maybe the entire world would be better if that were the case. Maybe we wouldn't throw our hands in disbelief when our children grow up to be exactly the same as we did. Maybe we wouldn't hate looking in the mirror if we knew the small choices we made differently from our parents helped to chip away at the generational trauma cycle. Maybe the best days of our lives haven't happened yet. Maybe we are in the thick of it for longer than we ever expected. Maybe tomorrow will be the day. Maybe tomorrow will be one of the best days. We won't know unless we go to sleep tonight and get out of bed in the morning. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

It Means Freedom

I wiped tears from my cheeks as I walked into the grocery store. It had been an extraordinarily difficult day at work. I was working the weekend at my second job, a way to make ends meet and feign hope in getting ahead financially. I passed several patrons in the grocery aisles on my way to find oat milk. I saw the shredded cheese and remembered my daughter asked for kielbasa sausage. My mind was in a fog. I was there, purse hanging from my shoulder, cradling the milk in the crevice of my elbow like a newborn baby, a bag of pre-shredded cheddar cheese pinched between my thumb and index finger. How do you decide which way to go when you're too tired to figure out dinner? I did the next thing. I found the kielbasa. Then I did the next thing. I walked to the cash register. The man at the register glowed with kindness. He was child-like—a sparkle of wonder flashed in his eyes. "Do you like oat milk?" he asked as he scanned the barcode. "Yes, I like to drink it in my coff...
Read more

When I Was A Kid

I had a friend who lived a couple houses down. Her name was Jules, and we would make mud pies and play in my parents' back yard. One day she came to the front door and knocked, holding a black trash bag in her left hand. I was excited to see her and wanted to know what was in the bag. She wouldn't answer—only asked me to get my dad. I was disappointed that she wouldn't show me. My dad told me later that our cat died. Got run over. Jules saw it and scooped it into the trash bag. She gave it to my father so I would never see it. Jules never had a mom around. As she grew older, she got into drugs. I can't remember if she had a kid of her own. She was smart and kind and thoughtful, and I really hope she's okay out there.
Read more

Medication and Mood Disorders

 Patients who suffer with mental health conditions are notorious for not taking their medications as prescribed. As a person with a diagnosed mental health condition, AND as a person who has worked in pharmacy for 18 years, I can tell you this is a very nuanced subject.  When I was 18 years old, I became unexpectedly pregnant with my daughter. At the time, I struggled with religious trauma. Looking back, I now realize I have dealt with anxiety, in one shape or another, my entire life. This anxiety, this generational trauma passed down in my genetic code, eventually came to a head. In combination of pregnancy hormones, feelings of guilt and failure as an unwed mother, and the realization that my life was heading in this one, seemingly permanent direction, part of myself shattered. I became severely depressed and suicidal. The only thing that kept me alive at the time was knowing my daughter was a part of me.  After giving birth and moving forward in life, my mental health ...
Read more