Seeing The Broken Children Behind My Broken Parents

Photo by Yaoqi on Unsplash

When the night was black and the air became still — generational trauma walked into the homes of my ancestors, quietly sat down on the couch, and acknowledged, it was never going to leave.

When the sun came up and everyone awoke they would all be silently greeted with the sorrow, suddenly instilled inside of them.

They would have no idea, generational trauma decided — they would be its next victim. It would destroy everyone, inside of our family, for eternity.

My mother and father both being born into their own separate families — both of their families, already swallowed whole and consumed by generational trauma.

That generational trauma, sat next to them holding their hands, from the day they were born.

My parents were not broken when they took their first breath of air into this world, their brokenness would happen slowly over time. Generational trauma slowly chipping away at them, through the despair inside of their parents, seeping into my mother and father. It would slowly replace the innocence inside of their minds as children, and leave them broken children…

When I lay in bed at night after the day is over — I am left with only my thoughts. Often closing my eyes and seeing myself as a little girl laying in her bed. Tears always in her eyes, as she asks the God everyone told her to believe in, why her parents did not love her enough to stop hurting her and stay.

That little girl wanted to be loved and accepted by her parents so badly. Instead she was often hurt, hit, slapped, yelled at and told to go away, while being cast away for being too loud and dramatic.

Slowly that little girl’s love for life and curiosity for the unknown of the world became replaced by the overwhelming feeling of hopelessness. Always overtaking her thoughts — telling her to hate herself for the love and acceptance she never received from her mother and father.

I have spent what heartbreakingly feels like an eternity stuck inside the anger of my parents emotional and physical abandonment of me.

My anger would always be interweaved inside their lack of love, explosive emotions, and coldness to me, as they always made sure that I never felt protected by them.

For so long that anger stayed trapped inside of me, as I became cold and bitter, in the same ways that I hated my mother and father for being.

Inside my sense of justice never leaving me, I have somehow become the only one able to push that very anger out of my heart, and instead fill it with love, hope, compassion, and empathy for even the ones I know have hurt me.

When I awake in the mornings, I will sit on my couch, my coffee in hand. My children continuing to sleep, secure in knowing my love for them.

My happiness always coming from knowing — they do not carry the broken pieces of generational trauma inside of their tiny innocent hearts.

As my thoughts continue to ponder in my silence of that early morning, I will suddenly become sad and heartbroken.

That sadness always coming from my acceptance and acknowledgment in knowing — my mother and father, were first the broken and empty child just wanting to be loved by their mother and father as I was, far before they became my parents.

While drinking my coffee, I will think of my father, and want so badly to grab his hand, and give him the ability to see himself through the lens of my eyes.

Wishing so badly, for him to see the small glimpses of his happiness in the rareness of the moments, I saw him smile and laugh.

In those moments, his pure happiness always allowed us to see the pureness of his heart. Inside the moments his mind would mistakenly let us in, it would always allow him to give us the comfort, he was so afraid to give anyone.

His unconscious fear to be abandoned, would always steal his ability to give or accept unconditional love to anyone.

I will want to tell the little boy who was first my father that he did not deserve the abandonment of his mother and father.

That he was and is worth so much more, than the silent nights he spent wishing he was loved by his mother and father — never knowing where to find comfort, as he never felt good enough for the parents he knew.

I would wish that my father knew the little boy inside of him deserved to be celebrated, loved unconditionally, met with comfort, nurtured, and protected. That he deserved to be shown love instead of being forced to survive as only a small little boy.

I would wish that my father knew he was and always is enough. That he was never too flawed to be loved by his mother or father. That it was never his fault, and that no matter what the circumstances were, his parents failed him.

I would wish my father knew that he did not fail his parents, and that his parents did not love him because they were broken — not him.

I would wish that my father loved himself as much as I love him.

Instead, the unspoken effects of the generational trauma that stole the souls of his parents were passed down on to him.

His mother and father stealing the innocence inside of my father as a little boy, every time they left him. Always causing the love he had for himself to wither away, and be replaced by the hate he had for himself.

That hate always buried into his heart, as it became layered with generational trauma.

Leaving my father broken and cold — left to survive the world, and always too afraid to truly love or be loved by anyone.

I will want so badly to wrap my arms around my mother.

I will wish so badly, that she could have access to the small memories I hold of her happiness shining so bright, as her face lit up with pure joy.

I will wish so badly that she could see the times, I was able to feel her love for me. Wanting her to know the happiness she gave me, in the small amount of comfort she gave me.

That comfort would always remind me — my mother is beautiful, worthy, enough, and worth so much more than what she has always seen inside of her self.

I will want to tell the little girl that was once my mother that she did not deserve to be cast away into her room, stuck inside of her dreams for safety, love, and comfort.

I will want to tell my mother that she deserved all of the love, safety, and comfort she found in her dreams — from her mother and father.

I will wish my mother knew she deserved to be held by her mother and protected by her father.

I will wish my mother knew, she was never too much. That the emotions inside of the little girl she once was, were the emotions of having to beg for love and acceptance as a child.

I will wish my mother knew her emotions were never too much, she was never too much for anyone.

I will wish my mother loved herself as much as I love her.

Instead the generational trauma, living in her home; would always make sure to stand next to my mother, as the constant chaos ensuing beside her, left her broken and to afraid to be anything more than an invisible little girl.

The fear would always tell her to sneak away into the darkness of her dreams for no one to see or hear, so that she was not the next victim of the explosive emotions coming from her mother.

The little girl inside of my mother would have the fear of being hurt and rejected by her mother, firmly planted into her once innocent heart.

That fear would always tell her to never love herself, always reminding her that she was the reason her mother was explosive.

That fear would always, quietly nudge her into believing, she needed to become — invisible and quiet to all, in order to be accepted.

Slowly, the little girl inside of my mother would become shattered into emptiness.

That emptiness would take the love inside of her heart and replace it with only her anger, laced with fear.

The fear of the little girl inside my mother would be held so tightly, it always keep the anger in her heart tucked away.

The tucked away anger of the little girl inside my mother would always be, unspokenly quiet, slowly becoming coated in the generational trauma given to her by her mother.

That generational trauma would always tell her, she would be abandoned by everyone. It would tell her, she never deserved for anyone to stay, so she should leave everyone before they left her. Those words would forever leave her broken and filled with despair — left to survive a world she never felt accepted to be apart of…

My parents hurt me, the parents of my parents hurt them, and the parents of those parents hurt the parents of my parents — that is how generational trauma continues to live inside families forever. Always continuing to destroy, every child it comes in contact with, never leaving a single one out.

Generational trauma is silent and invisible. It lives inside the minds of the ones affected by it, never allowing them to know what happiness inside of themselves could feel like.

It tells them that they are never safe, and never loved. It tells them that they are nothing.

Generational trauma is always there to remind them, that love is not safe but only hurt.

It guarantees, they will break their own children — the moment their children show them the love they have for them.

Though I choose to live a life without the presence of my mother and father, my anger for their inability to love me no longer lives beside me.

I now hold on to hope, one day they will decide, they are worth more than the trauma their own parents cast down on them.

I decide every day, to always hold on to compassion and empathy for them in knowing — they were broken children far before they were broken adults becoming broken parents.

I decide at every moment of my day, every angry thought I have, and every sad memory of my childhood, to let go of my anger for my mother and father.

Instead I continue to silently love them and always hope, one day they will love themselves enough, to feel safe enough to accept the love of other people.

My heart is no longer coated in the generational trauma given to me by my broken parents.

My heart is now layered with the hope I hold onto.

That hope will always tell me — there will come a day, my mother and father will no longer be trapped inside the coating of their generational trauma, given to them from their own mother and father, as it becomes unstuck from the outside of their heart.

Seeing the broken children behind my broken parents — gave me hope, one day they will no longer be broken…