Most older people can tell you that it can take decades for things to come around full circle; that it takes an entire lifetime in some ways to truly assess the important things.
As human beings, we’re so apt at impatiently pre-judging situations and people and we burn our bridges before we’ve even halfway built them. We are all guilty of this, because we all lack wisdom.
Take this encouraging example.
Recently I wrote about the suicidal brokenness I experienced in marital separation that devastated me. Even though I had the support of my parents, co-workers, and a loving community around me on a daily basis, I inevitably found myself occasionally absolutely gutted in the presence of my children, and my eleven-year-old daughter at times bore the brunt of my anguish.
Do you know that these days—nearly twenty years on—I don’t have memories of many of these times impressed on my consciousness. But for my daughter who was 11 at the time, and who is now nearly 29, it’s completely different.
As trauma is for all of us, it’s etched into her.
On one such occasion she ‘held space’ for me, perhaps for a relatively short period of ten minutes, but it seemed like two hours for her.
I’d have had no idea really other than she’s answered a prayer of mine and invested herself in facing the traumas of those times—everything that starts with family breakdown, and everything that keeps that journey of brokenness going. And it is myriad trauma. This is not something that people who vouch for divorce will openly admit.
My brokenness should not have been witnessed and experienced by my children. That’s the truth of it. But whenever these things happen, later we must deal with them in the hope they may be healed.
I’d prayed for over a decade that my daughters, and particularly my eldest (she was most affected by the separation), would seek to face any trauma they endured and imbibe the healing they could ultimately earn and enjoy.
The event I’m attempting to describe is vague in my memory, but through her own process my daughter has shared with me what it took from her, and I’m so glad there’s open dialogue—that it’s my turn to hold space.
We were in our car parked in a community car park with small shops in a precinct. At the time, I was desperate to put my broken marriage back together—I did everything I could to turn my life around, but there was also someone else involved, so I had to admit I was up against it. Yet, I couldn’t contemplate the marriage was over. For nine months I held out hope and focused on being the model ex-husband.
As I imagine it, I was there completely broken, as the moments of despair would occasionally break over the bow of my listless ship, strewn and battered against the banks of a fearsome bay. We possibly were there all together, myself and my three daughters (my other two daughters aged 8 and 5 at the time).
What do you do when you’re the oldest child and your parent has regressed emotionally? You hold them—not physically, but emotionally. My daughter was placed in a situation where she had to nullify herself to hold space for me. She had to be a saviour.
It was too much to ask of an eleven-year-old. She did everything she could at the time, and as I imagine it, she actually did a great job. She got me through a very tough moment. It wasn’t the only time. There were multiple times and multiple ways, and even though I would have been aware of how inappropriate it was to lean on my child like this, the grieving I was enduring, and the times I’d be triggered did occasionally coincide with times I had my daughters.
My times with my daughters were lifesaving for me, having lost everything else about family and all I cared about. Tuesday and Thursday afternoons and evening meals and every second weekend. And one week each school holidays. My whole life revolved around being as present as I could when I had my girls. And for the most part, especially several months on, I was able to consistently achieve this.
Amid all the positive memories, however, there are times etched into my daughter’s psyche where I needed her too much. And don’t get me wrong, she had a ton of support from my parents as I also did—my parents were often my counsellors, and they were that and so much more for my daughters also.
I don’t feel guilty for having placed my daughter in a burdensome position for a child to bear. I don’t feel ashamed. This is mainly because she has owned her journey and I couldn’t be prouder of that. It’s also because she’s modelled a redemptive way of recovering this trauma—she’s been brave and has had the chat with me. She lovingly gave me the opportunity of facing what is hard for a parent to face—my failure.
My 11-year-old daughter was my hero when she held space for me all those years ago—a hero back then even though I probably didn’t recognise it at the time. She helped to keep me alive—by her presence and the fact of her and my other daughters’ being. She’s a hero to me now, because she’s journeyed back to uncover those places of trauma and shame, and she’s living a life of facing hard truths.
For the fact that she’s actively doing her best of undoing the generational trauma she’s been subjected to—I’m proud of her and I know so many others are, too.
This article has been written with the knowledge and permission of my daughter.
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