Scars

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” — Maya Angelou

As I walked through the front door there was a familiarity about the house and the old women who opened the door. I could not remember many details, just simply the feeling of having been there before. It had been 16 years since I last entered her home.

My last memory before that night of my grandmother was actually clear in my mind – she was younger and slightly plump. Walking in the door and greeting the frail, emaciated version of my grandmother caught me slightly off guard. I was mentally prepared for this moment – I was strong. As I walked up the pathway to her home I was prepared to simply as a question “why” – “how do you leave a 3-year-old and vow to never see them again” – I was going to ask – get my answer and turn my back and leave.

But when the door opened, and the women stood before me with tears in her eyes – my focus changed from my strength to her weakness and sadness, and I knew I was in trouble.

I did ask my questions and her answer “If I knew then what I know now, I would have told your father no – I was not going to walk away from you”. I believed her. Maybe wanted to believe her but nevertheless believed her. She took out her wallet and showed me a picture she carried of me when I was a toddler – she told me she told people I was someone she once knew. She cried.

I felt nothing.

She brought my grandfather into the room. I looked like him. He sat next to my grandmother and smiled. He nodded his head. I don’t recall that he spoke.

I suddenly felt guilty – my other grandmother, maternal grandmother was home waiting to hear the outcome of my meeting with “this” grandmother my paternal grandmother, my father – my daddy who adopted me after my biological father decided that it would be best if he and his family did not speak with me again, he too was home waiting to hearing the outcome of my visit with my paternal grandparents.

Guilt

I should have been satisfied with the wonderful life my family provided for me – why did I need to get the questions answered by my paternal grandparents. I should have been stronger; I should have been satisfied with the wonderful life I had …but the questions needed answers. I just could not put it to bed without answers.

What if they had died, I would not have had my answers. I now think that would have been a much better answer for me.

I was haunted by these questions – why, how – and more important what I had done wrong that my biological father and grandparents simply wrote me off. They lived in the same town, yet no calls, no interaction and even ignored me if I walked into the same venue. My mother, as any protective mother would do, did her best to try to try to heal the wounds. If we saw my father or my grandparents and they ignored me – she would try to distract me. But I always knew. As time went by, I stopped asking for them, stopped crying for them and eventually stopped allowing myself to “feel”. I went to therapy; I wrote letters that I never mailed. I tried every creative therapy approach to forget, to ignore the questions swirling in my head – why?!

When you are young you never ask what is wrong with them – you only think what is wrong with me. As time goes by you no longer ask what is wrong with me, you just accept that something must be wrong with me.

But as I sit in front of them my focus shifts. I am ok – I have learned how to deal with the loss. I no longer feel emotion or pain. I am strong. They are now weak – they are now sad. It is no longer about me; it is about their sadness.

I had my answers, it was them. They were not strong enough to stand up to their son, my father. They wish they had made a different decision.

Like me, they too were an injured party, injured by the divorce of my parents. It wasn’t only me it was them.

I had my answers, I could have walked out and continued with my life. I was content . But then they asked me the question – can they come back into my life. Can they come see me in college?

I wanted to say no.

But I said yes.

Then they asked me to keep it between us. They did not want my biological father to know.

I should have said no. But I didn’t.

The next year at college went by with calls and visits from my biological grandparents. True to form, I felt nothing. I had my questions answered I didn’t need this relationship. They did.

I met them for dinners and listened to their stories. They told me about my step siblings, about my cousins and the entire family that I had not known.

I finally told my daddy and my maternal grandmother of my relationship and visits. They understood. Sadly, I did not.

The months rolled by. The meetings continued. Like an adulterous affair, I kept the frequency of our visits secret. One Friday night, I drove to my hometown with one of my college friends, where we were meeting Grandma jane, my maternal grandmother, and her sister for dinner. We went to a local restaurant in our hometown. As I sat down, I glanced around the restaurant to see who I may know. It was a relatively small town –

Across the restaurant sat my paternal grandmother – with the cousins and family that she had introduced me to through her stories. How incredible was this timing. We were all here together.

I was excited about meeting the rest of my family – my cousins. I remember standing up from my table, I vaguely remember walking across the restaurant, but I very clearly remember her reaction. My biological grandmother ‘s hand raised – she didn’t look at me – just raised her hand. As if to say stop – I do not know you. Do not approach me. She continued to talk to my cousins, her eyes never shifting from them. But the hand was clearly pointed towards me – do not approach.

I do not know if my emotion was sadness or anger. Most likely it was both.

Why, why did I allow them back in my life? Why did I believe them. I did not need a relationship with them. I once again made it about them and not me.

It seemed like hours that I stood there in shock not knowing what to do or how to react. I remember Grandma Jane walking over and gently guiding me back to the table. My ladylike, kind grandmother whispered into my ear “Do not let them see you cry”.

I do not remember the rest of my meal. I do not remember eating. I do not remember crying nor do I remember any of us leaving the restaurant.

I simply remember the feeling when the hand was raised – I was numb, I was angry, I was embarrassed and I was sad.

These are the moments that shape us. We learn to hide our feelings, we learn not to trust, and we learn to be so strong that no one can get through the shield. I knew at that moment that I would never allow myself to trust nor feel vulnerable like that again.

A scar on the outside of your body can be seen and understood by many who see it. People expect a story related to the scar – A scar from a dog bite clearly explains your fear of dogs. A scar from a burn clearly explains a fear of fire.

But a scar on the inside is not visible to any untrained eye. So, when you react distrustfully to a new love, or you lash out at a misspoken word – it is not clearly understood. In fact, it is not understood at all.

Scars do fade over time, but they are never completely gone. We wear them as a badge that dictates our behavior. Good or bad. But it is the scars on the inside that can cause the greatest damage in life. Scars.

So many fortunate people just do not understand. They could not possibly understand – they just have not lived it. They can hear what we say, they can understand logically the experience we share. These are the people who say, “just get over it”, “move on, and let it go”. In theory they are right. If only it were that easy.

Logically you can just “get over it”. But this is not logical, it is emotional. An encounter, a memory or any instance that remotely touches that scar, brings the emotion full throttle. As time goes by, if we learn and we fight it, we learn how to manage, how to control the reaction. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t occur – somewhere deep down –that instantaneous response – it occurs. The question is does it show?

I recently watched the movie “Antoine Fisher”. I understood his pain, his fight against anyone who said something against him, tried to hold him back – I just truly understood the anger and fight that quickly comes to the surface. After years of fantasizing about meeting his mother, imagining her looking for him, her love and adoration of him – when he finally met her – barely an outward response from her. He said everything he had wanted to share – how proud she should be of all that he accomplished – he talked – she sat, emotional but quiet. He rose to leave – no response from her just tears. No apology, no remorse from her – he just left.

Like many children whose parents are absentee in their lives, we make our absentee parents larger than life. They are always just perfect, Hollywood style. They are missing us, they are wonderful people and parents – it just had to be us that are why they left.

I truly believe that most children in this scenario automatically believe it is them. They had to have done something to make the parent leave. They were not lovable enough, not perfect enough.

So, when we finally meet the “parent” who we have imagined as larger than life for so many years – it is difficult to comprehend they are simply human. They are not perfect and, in many cases, not worthy of the time, energy and dreams that we have shown in their favor.

For the first time we realize, it may not have been us that made them leave. It may have been them. This very shrift in the foundation of our soul is a difficult realization at best. It changes the fabric of our core – which we are, why they are, why things happened the way they did.

So, when I watch a movie such as “Antoine Fisher” and others watching are sad of the story, I am jealous. I too am sad but sadness deep within my core, a sadness that touches that deeply buried scar. One that they would never understand is too close to the story line just viewed.

They are the lucky soles who cannot understand that the movie can be any more than that – a movie. A Hollywood story embellished for the audience. They watch the movie, feel sad but then move on with their lives. I on the other hand feel a stinging in my body after watching the move– one of denial, one of sadness and one of anger. I bury them deep every day – but there are instances when I am caught off guard and they emerge. These are the days when you realize they are always still there. Much as you try to bury them deep in your soul, they are there, they will always be there. How they impact your life is up to you.

Scars

We have choices in life – sometimes when the pain is too great or when we think the outcome is no better than the current situation, we choose not to make a choice. We learn how to live with who we are – like a broken limb, we adapt and learn how to favor other parts – we learn to survive.

But then something, once again, catches us off guard and we pause – even if only briefly.

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” — Maya Angelou

When you really think about it or pay attention there are clues that your mind, your true being, not the one we have created as our cover story, is trying to tell you. I have ignored the numbness and tingling episodes in my right hand for so long that it has become a part of who I am.

A Clue

When your dreams are repetitive and so difficult to understand when you wake that you simply ignore them.

A clue

When you have become so strong and tough that most people have no clue how big your heart is and who you truly are.

A clue

We can choose to go through life, ignoring the clues, adapting so our true areas of strength completely obliterate any areas of weakness. We can have tremendous success in some areas of our life and completely ignore the areas of failure. We can ignore the fleeting thoughts that pop into our minds at the most odd and inopportune times.

Or we can decide that while we cannot envision a different life or a different outcome, we are strong and we still have fight left in us, and we seek help for the possibilities that may exist. “Turn your wounds into wisdom.” — Oprah Winfrey

Finding the right solution and people to help you is a journey and one which may take much trial and error.

For me, it has been a journey of stops and starts, of bite size pieces which I needed to allow to sink in overtime before I could go back to the fight. It was ah ha moments that I realized later down the road were only a piece of the puzzle. So often, in the moment of an “ah ha” we think (or hope) “that is it”, I will be good now, I have finally figured it out. But the reality is you most likely have buried so much so deep that it will take time to uncover all that you have created, explained, and ignored over the years.

Take the time to let the truth sink in, sit with it, live with it and when you are ready, then and only then, go back for the next kernel of knowledge and understanding.

People have asked, “how do you know when you have uncovered something meaningful?” All I can offer is that you feel it, truly feel it, and at times the emotion comes unexpectedly flowing out of you at a pace that even shocks you and at times your therapist….or at least that is how it worked for me. When you find the right person, or people, to work through the issues with you, they are as shocked at times and truly happy for you, you can see it in their reaction and response. They too are part of your life journey.

I found it amazing that we are so adept at keeping secrets from ourselves. There is no denying that when the truth is set free, understood and accepted, it is like a merger of our two beings – our conscious and subconscious become one again and being to heal.

In my twenties, when I was succeeding greatly within my business career and really struggling with the issues that I had buried so deep, I wrote a short book. A children’s book – Flo the Thimble”. I actually convinced myself that it was a creative simple book, that was it.

Now after years of study, working with professionals and gaining and understanding of the issues that haunted me for so many years, I find humor in the fact that I did not correlate Flo the Thimble” with my inner pain. In this children’s book that I attempted to write so many years ago, the main characters were both flawed: one a child with a crooked finger and one a dented Thimble named Flo. Both characters were too broken to function normally in the world and both had given up on ever having a normal life. It was not until they found each other, the perfect fit, that they realized they could move forward, survive, with each other.

Interestingly, I have searched my whole life for that perfect fit – the one person who understand how and where I am damaged. The one who does not need to say out loud that they see the scars, that my reactions to protecting my heart are so exaggerated, in my fantasy, they don’t say it because they understand it. It is not about words, it is actions. Someone who just rolls forward, ignores my protective antics, just loves me and gets it. There have been so many valuable lessons on my journey and nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to help someone other struggling soul to learn these lessons in a faster, less painful journey than mine.

1. In interactions with others, not all of the issues may actually be yours. I was blessed with several great therapists throughout the years who taught me skills to evaluate “whose issue was it” as I was taught to ask myself. Sometimes, it was absolutely mine but others it was clearly not.
2. We are not always accurate in our interpretation of others actions. As a young child, I assumed my biological father left because I was not enough, quite simply he did not love me enough to fight for me and to stay. Never, ever did it dawn on me that he may have had issues himself; in fact, this did not factor into my analysis at all. This self-doubt that it caused was the crux of so many insecurities.
3. In difficult times, learn to separate and understand your emotional from your logical mind.

When emotion kicks in, too often, our logical mind moves out. It is ok to be emotional (that was a very important lesson in life for me) but do not allow your reaction to be your response (another wise mentor once told me). Let the emotion flow, get it out, then think and respond.

I have asked myself why I have written these pages and truly I have no clear answer. I assume, when I started, I just needed to get it out and get it organized. It became cathartic.

Now re-reading my words, my greatest hope is that these words, these lessons help another soul. There would be no greater gift for me.

Amy