A Letter to My Mother: How to Use Creative Writing to Empathize with Others
By: Pythia Y
Tags: Forgiveness, Compassion, Trauma, Love, Better Humans

Note: Trigger Warning — A trauma trigger is a psychological stimulus that may prompt recall of a previous traumatic experience.

For the past decade, I had been struggling to communicate to the part of me that comes from my mother. In an effort to inwardly forgive and find peace and surrender from what I have found unacceptable about my upbringing, I turned to daily readings about the effects of abuse and the people who perpetuate it. What I have learned is that, “hurting people, hurt people.”

Complete rejection and nonacceptance of the woman who raised me is in essence, I have learned, a rejection of myself. My body cannot process what it keeps avoiding or running from, now that I am in a better place, to heal. Finding a way to empathize and have boundaries now that I’m adult, has proven to be a more effective way to interact within my family dynamic, instead of placing blame. Even then, I can lapse.

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Inter-generational trauma and abuse has played a large part in the history of my family; and while growing up, my siblings and I were not exempt. While I will not go into detail about that (there is much denial), I will share that I have learned that abuse is not just physical. Dysfunctional families lack the communication skills and healthy boundaries in which to properly empower their children and be supportive.

Oftentimes, this is done subconsciously when parents themselves are unaware of how their language effects those around them, particularly their children. The result are adults who have to deal with the negativity in their head, voices that were essentially their adult role models. In actuality, it’s the subconscious thoughts that cause us to interact with, talk to others and view the world in a certain way.

Photo by Rainier Ridao on Unsplash

In a moment of insight this past summer, I had been discovering more about these issues and grappling with them. My mother is a wonderful woman, bright, brilliant and has overcome many adversities in her life by pushing through. Her tale is one of rags to riches and she outshines many in her career. The following is an exercise I wrote, after writing a small gratitude list, and visualizing what her life must have been like as a small child and her ingrained thought processes.

Photo by Ayo Ogunseinde on Unsplash

I am not a licensed counselor, this article is meant to share insight about how I have been reconstructing myself through my own healing journey.

1.

Compassion Visualization and Prose: My Mother

I saw my mom as a child, growing up, not knowing what was going on. My grandmother was depressed, so her older brother took care of her.

She was confused, didn’t know what was going on around her, knew that something was missing, almost felt ashamed… Maybe she did, even though it wasn’t her fault.

Felt guilty when looking at her mother, my grandmother, who would come home, trying to control and please her, to let her know that it wasn’t her fault [her father had left before she was born]. She felt guilty, still.

I saw her looking in the kitchen as an adolescent, trying to make her mom happy. Saw her stare enviously at her younger half-sister and resentfully frightened at her step-dad. She cried as a baby, not knowing what she was missing, a loving hand of a man, a dad.

Her brother took care of her, looked out for her, treated her well. He knew. Her outer smile, inner sob. Wanting, wishing for something more. Daydreamed about finding my dad, the man and the life she wanted. Inwardly crying as she cut fabric to sew her own clothes at night. Focused. Determined.

She kept smiling on. [not unlike me] Resilience.

I saw her picking fruit in her backyard, playing with neighborhood friends, embarrassed, she was an adult at the age of 6.

Ashamed of something, frightened by someone. Book smart and social. Never giving in. Always working. Feelings can’t resurface when you push ahead, working so, so much.

Brave. Saw my dad, felt nervous and afraid, as he picked her up at her place thinking, “Please don’t leave.” Abandonment wounds so painful. “Please don’t leave; Please don’t leave.”

“Please, stay…”

Knew the risks, gave her love,

Took the chances.

How could I ever blame her,

Her love,

The fear and control?

She never knew another way.

—

My parents have been married for decades now.

Everyone has their baggage.