Family Shadows

Two of my sisters and I have purchased an online course that proposes to "release" us from "family karma" and it is composed of several lessons. The main idea is that families generally confront one (or more) of seven "shadows" that taint their lives and infiltrates the family tree for generations. The seven shadows are abuse, addiction, violence, poverty, illness, abandonment, and betrayal.

Only two lessons into this course, my sisters and I chatted on messenger about what we've concluded thus far about our family shadows, agreeing that, for our family, we are overshadowed by abuse, abandonment, and betrayal and that those shadows have been the root cause of the other shadows present in our family: addiction, violence, poverty, and illness.

Examining the generational patterns, it has become profoundly clear just how insidious family shadows can be, as each generation spontaneously re-enacts the same dramas, not realizing that history is repeating itself until it is too late and the damage is done. Initially, we simply take comfort in the familiarity of our interactions, not recognizing the perpetuation of abuse and despair. If we happen to have moments where we find ourselves unhappy and asking "why, oh why is this happening to me," we even then do not usually recognize the repetition of inherited dysfunction, but rather, the source remains subconsciously submerged.

We (my sisters and I) noted that the traumas we experienced as we lived our childhoods with these various clouds has made each of us particularly fond of Pink Floyd's "The Wall," but I do not believe that my family is unique. Instead, I believe all of the concepts presented so eloquently in The Wall are experienced by most, if not all, human beings, to one degree or another.

I also thought it is important to be sure to conceptualize our family history from both a micro- and macro- perspective because while we experienced our lives as a family, our family was part of the culture in which we lived. For example, as my sisters and I spoke about my maternal grandfather - his behaviors and ideologies that magnified and perpetuated our shadows of betrayal, abandonment, and (emotional) abuse, I could not help but to remind myself that as he embarked upon his role as a husband and father, he had just returned from serving his country during WWII and I'm sure those experiences fueled his self-indulgent inability to remain a loyal husband. His betrayal of his wedding vows had an horrific impact on my grandmother who had already been abandoned during her childhood when her mother died in a tragic car accident. It is no wonder my grandmother was emotionally distraught (possibly suffering from bipolar disorder) and was emotionally unavailable or alternately, emotionally abusive toward her children. I repeated that story when my own husband had a relationship outside of our marriage; I became emotionally unstable and was alternately distant or harsh with my own children.

The lesson asks us to consider where the family shadow begins, but this seems an impossible task; I can go back only so far (to my grandparents, since I know almost nothing of my great-grandparents). I know for sure that the shadows were likely already in place for my maternal grandparents - who likely inherited their dramas from their own parents, who received it from their parents, and so on. While I am certain that the shadows may morph, darken, or recede with each generation, overall, families all must contend, to one degree or another, the clouds that are a seemingly natural part of the family climate.

We are also asked to consider how the family shadow(s) affected different family members and ponder over who was most hurt by it. I see how my maternal uncles were abandoned by their father and in turn, walked away from him as well. I see how my mom continued to walk a fine line between her mother and her father all throughout her life. I see how my grandmother lived a life in a state of post-trauma and continued emotional pain. I see how each of my sisters and I have learned to construct a wall so that we can each live in a very solitary way - and find comfort in our bubble.

I see how my own sense of abandonment and betrayal resulted in anger, violence, and abuse. I see the results of who I became in each of my now-grown children, and in them, I see the shadow morph, strengthen, and weaken, as each of my children confront the shadows in their own way.

My sisters and I will continue to embark upon this exploration of family shadows and family karma in an effort to better understand each other and even ourselves and to learn how to take what we need from this karmic lesson, for certainly there must be a reason we have all converged together, incarnating as a family since I do believe we choose the family we are born into for the lessons we will gain. This is, after all, soul work.

Pain and Suffering

Earlier this week, there was, in a nearby community, as horribly, tragic car collision. A car was hit - and hit hard - when another vehicle missed a stop sign at a four-way intersection on a rural road. The car he hit contained a young mom (29) and her three sons, ages 7, 4, and 18 months. The mom and the 18-month old son died instantly. The two older boys were taken to the hospital in critical condition. The following day, one of the older boys died; the next day, his brother died as well. This tragedy has left a husband/father to cope with the loss of his entire family, and I can't seem to stop thinking about this incident.

I think it has put grief and suffering into a different perspective for me. I realize grieve is subjective and can't be measured. We can't say, "My grief is greater than yours" because grief is so personal. Yet, to lose one's entire family, especially at that stage of life, must surely rank high if grief could be measured. How will this man process the loss of his wife (who was pregnant), AND the loss of Owen, AND the loss of Weston, AND the loss of Kaleb?? His entire life appears to have been obliterated!

I remember when Christina died. In those first few days following her death, I wondered how the world could still continue to go on, as if nothing happened. I had to go to the store for the usual household stuff: milk, toilet paper, bread. I felt like I was in a fog (and I was); I was at the store wondering how everything around me could just continue forward. I wanted the world to stop, even if just for a moment, to acknowledge that my daughter had died; but it did not. Life moved forward.

Today it was me who was part of the moving-forward-world, in spite of this man's tragic loss. Today it was me who continued with my life as if nothing tragic had happened; but then I would remember and it would bring me to a halt, even if just for a moment: a family died.

It seems pain and suffering is just part of the human condition. Nothing new about that; books have been written, songs have been composed, stories have been told - all about human suffering. Turn on the news and we see that it happens daily, everywhere, since the beginning of time. The only time we really, REALLY notice it is when it hits us directly or when it hits us near-by; otherwise, it is easier to simply dismiss it, minimize it as a fact or statistic, and silently shudder with relief that, at least this time, it wasn't us who was hit by tragedy.

And yes, along with my empathy and sympathy for this man and for his entire family, I also shuddered with relief knowing that in this moment, all of my loved ones are safe and sound.

Life is not fair.

A Mother's Pain...and Frustration

I know it is my fault. And his father's fault as well. I get that. I've accepted that and asked for forgiveness, but also know I will carry the guilt and pain for as long as I live. Still, days like today are difficult for me. I find myself thinking, "he's doing so well lately" and "it seems like he's conquered a lot of his mental health issues" and then, almost without warning, I do or say something that sets him off and he turns on me. And it hurts.

I try to set boundaries, but I guess I've never been good at that. I try to remind myself that he loves me, that son of mine; but there are times like tonight when it feels like he does not.

Parenting truly is the most difficult job ever. It is difficult because it is so routine; most of us are parents. Biologically, we are driven to reproduce. Yet, most of us are not qualified to take on the job of raising another human being. As a species, we know so much about what makes a quality parent, but we apply so little of that cumulative knowledge. In fact, we don't even ensure that what we know about good parenting is disseminated among all of us - especially those of us who need it the most. If I were younger, knowing what I know now, not only would I parent differently, but I would spend my life promoting healthy parenting. It would be my Life Mission. But now? Now it's just too late for me to do much of anything. Somehow, I've missed the damn boat.

So tonight, I am both hurt and frustrated. I wish it could be different. I carry so much fucking regret that it weighs me down. I can't undo the past. "It's done," "it is finished," and "it is what it is" - and all that crap. Yeah. Motherhood. It has evolved into endless pain and frustration so much of the time.

'Til Death Do Us Part

I spoke to David yesterday about my decision to file for divorce. We are approaching our 34th wedding anniversary. The conversation went as expected, for the most part, David agreed that, all things considered, it is in my best interest to divorce him and marry Jim. We both agreed that the legalities do not change feelings of the heart; we still love each other and always will. But, the way life has unfolded, living together as a married couple is not an option. We did not get along, living together, because we both triggered in each other unresolved childhood issues that resulted in both of us always acting as the hurt, wounded children. I played the victim and David played the victimizer. While we may have matured since then, there are now additional factors to consider. It would be wrong to hurt Leah and Jim; they are both undeserving of the heartache it would cause if we left them. But most importantly, it is vital that I stay here with Damien and Ada. I do that for them and I do that for Christina. It is not so much an obligation as it is a commitment of the heart. It is what I MUST do.

And so, somewhat tearfully, we agreed that although I do not want to divorce him, and he does not want to divorce me, divorce appears to be the most logical option. I need to think of my future since it is statistically likely that I will out-live both David and Jim. By marrying Jim, I will be entitled to Survivor Benefits from him, but having been married for more than 10 years to David, I will be entitled to HIS survivor benefits as well.

We talked, David and I, about the potential our relationship had. We agonized over the mistakes we made, wishing with all of our heart and soul that we could go back in time, knowing what we now know, so that we could make better decisions. We were so young. And so many times, we settled. And we failed to put the kids' needs ahead of our own.

If only I had been back then who I am today. If only. And now, because of the mistakes we made, I must file for divorce. Because it doesn't look like I'm going to get my Master's degree as planned, I must formulate a Survival Plan B. I'm not getting any younger. Truly, my life has fallen apart (perhaps that happened a long, long time ago); and now I must live among the shattered and tattered pieces...the remnants of a life.

What Jim does for me - the extent of his provisions - is more than I've ever had and I don't want to dare minimize what he has done for me and mine. I love him enough to be his wife. But there is no head-over-heels feeling of "I can't live without him." There is no sparkle in my eyes because of him. I love him more as a companion than as a lover. But I DO love him. And he treats me and mine better than I have ever been treated in terms of provisions and in terms of emotional and intellectual respect. He doesn't degrade me. We don't fight or argue. And if I want or need something, I get it. For all of that, I am truly grateful.

I hold two rather large grudges against Jim, but because they go back to when we were first together, I remind myself that he was in a different place. I try to forgive and I will certainly never forget. The first grudge involves the date rape that he orchestrated. I believe I was drugged in addition to being intoxicated. I believe his friend stole my turquoise ring. But even worse, I know I was raped - and Jim orchestrated it and he watched. Christina never forgave him for that. Nor have I. The other grudge involves the car accident; it nearly killed me. Christina never forgave him for that either - and neither have I. But it brought that whole lifestyle to a halt. And it gave me leverage. It put us in a better place, in my opinion, because sitting in bars is no longer an option. It just won't ever happen again.

Anyway, David and I resolved to move ahead with the divorce, knowing that it will not change matters of the heart. I will always love him and he will always love me. And we both agreed that I need to be here for Damien and Ada. And, therefore, this is how it will be. But we agreed that our love will survive, til death do we part.

I Do, Again

It's been eleven  years since I walked out on my marriage and then subsequently became involved with Jim. Eleven years. And still, I am Mrs. Stone.

I've often been questioned why I've not filed for a divorce, especially recently. My rationale has not been fully accepted by those who have questioned me.

First of all, I tell them, I am divorced from the marriage emotionally and have been for a very long time. I do not need a legal decree to tell me the marriage is over. You can be married long before you ever say "I Do" and you can be divorced long before you ever even consult with a divorce lawyer.

But, then in a somewhat contradictory rationale, I explain that I do not want to divorce David simply because I believe it is my right to remain Mrs. Stone. I put my heart and soul into that marriage. It's mine. Four of my kids were brought into this world through that marriage. And at first, there was love. I loved David with my whole heart and I believe he loved me too. And yet, even from the very start of our relationship, our personalities - our hurt, wounded, traumatized Children Within - mixed and mingled to create the Perfect Storm: his warm front and my cold front. Two opposing forces doomed to catastrophe.

Together, we did so much damage: to each other and to our children. I'm trying so hard to forgive. Most of the time, I am able to say that I have forgiven David; but sometimes, when I think back to some of the shit he did, I still get really pissed off and realize I still hold a grudge. I have not forgiven him completely for "those things he did." I understand them intellectually - that he was just the sum of his parts and could do or be nothing different that who he was. I get that. But the effect it had on me and the kids - I guess I have not completely forgiven him.

I also explain that I cannot divorce David because I still love him and believe I always will. But then I quickly point out that my love for him is not romantic; instead, I think of him as family - like a sibling, perhaps. We spent so many years together and there is no one on this planet that I feel more comfortable with. He is the only other person around whom I can let my hair down, show my true colors, and simply be me.

And in spite of that, we've been apart for eleven years now.

And in spite of that or perhaps because of all that, I am now looking for a divorce lawyer and have told Jim that yes, I will marry him.

There were so many reasons why I did not want to marry Jim. Yes, I love him, but I did not want to marry him. First of all, he has always pushed me to marry him so that, when he dies, I will get his social security survivor benefits. Well, that is not a reason to marry. Or is it? It's practical, for sure. But I did not want to marry him on those terms or it could be forever held over my head that I married him just for the financial benefits. And besides, I did not earn his money; I earned  David's money and want those survivor benefits. Yet, both David and Jim say that is not practical and that I would get more from Jim than David simply because Jim's earnings were greater. But, as I understand it, that is not quite how Social Security works these days. That's a gripe for another day.

I did not want to marry Jim because I always believed that he belongs first and foremost to Cheryl. Therefore, as a decision of respect for Cheryl, I believed that she should be the only Mrs. James Grutzius. But Jim says they discussed that long before she died and they both agreed that, should one of them die, the other should move forward, find happiness, and remarry if they should find love again. Although I did not know Cheryl, I have to trust that she would've said this. She knew Jim. She knew he would need to be married to survive.

I also have hesitated to marry Jim because of his drinking. Yes, alcoholic drinking. Daily drinking. He is a functional alcoholic. That will not change. My tolerance for it is virtually non-existent but I was duly warned from the start. Still, it is because I know the real Jim, the Jim who exists beneath the alcoholism, I know that he is a genuinely good, loving person who always means well and just wants to be loved - and because of knowing that part of him, I love him and I love him enough to marry him.

I guess one other reason I did not want to marry Jim is because I like my name! I like being Ruth Stone better than Ruth Grutzius. People don't know how to pronounce Grutzius and I prefer a simple, easy to read, spell, and pronounce kind of name. I like that my name is the same as four of my kids. And all my records are in the Stone name. I do not want any other name. I want to remain Ruth Stone. I might have to hyphenate...

So I told Jim "yes." I told him I would file for divorce and marry him. It's been eleven years. The marriage will change virtually nothing. My feelings - for David and for Jim - will remain what they are now. I will marry Jim because it is important to him; he will feel a greater sense of security. I get that. And he deserves that. And I love him enough to marry him.  In that regard, saying "I do" changes nothing. Nothing at all.

Isolated Recluse

I was recently told by my therapist that I am too isolated and that I need to be more social. She thinks I need to have friends - not just family - with whom I spend time with. I told her that although I used to be very social and always had one or two close friends and then a myriad of social acquaintances, that I no longer do - and that I'm okay with that. I told her that socializing just doesn't seem to be worth the effort. I told her that I don't ever feel lonely or bored and that spending time, even with people I like, is both physically and emotionally draining.

I like people; I really do. And truth is, when I DO spend time with people, I enjoy it. I always walk away feeling happy, even though, paradoxically, it can also be draining. So while I may welcome an unexpected visit or a social event that I absolutely must attend, I do not make the effort to socialize. Not like when I was younger; and I suspect this change in my social efforts happened after Christina died. Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe it is the result of her death. Either way, I just don't do it any more; and I'm okay with that.

Today was a perfect example of how I have changed, socially. Today I had to take to of my grand children to their gymnastics and ninja classes. While I was sitting in the balcony with all the other parents, a woman came in. A mom of one of the students. She immediately captured my attention because she dressed like me, right down to her jewelry, purse, and shoes. In fact, had it not been for the obvious difference in her dress size, I would say that it looked like she had gone through my closet, jewelry collection, shoes, and purses to put her outfit together. She wore a long black dress with a denim jacket. I wore the exact same outfit just a few days ago. She carried what I call a Boho bag for a purse, as did I.

Now, if I was today who I used to be years ago, I would have approached her, intrigued by our similarities. I would have been certain that because of our outward similarities, that we would likely share many other commonalities. We would likely be birds of a feather, members of the same tribe, on the same wavelength, sisters in spirit. But today, although captivated by our similarities, I declined the inclination to approach her with, "oh I love your purse...I have a few like that" or perhaps with "that necklace you're wearing is pretty and I have one that is similar" all with the hopes of triggering a conversation that would lead to disclosures that would confirm my suspicion that we had things in common. Today, I declined. Why? Why would that be?

I guess I felt like, what's the point? I felt like the effort would take more energy than I wanted to expend. I thought it could end with an inevitable request to share phone numbers which I do not want to do because then that involves commitment. It means it could lead to the kind of relationship that requires meeting for coffee, going shopping together, telling each other our life stories, and I just don't want to do all that. I'm content in my bubble with just me.

Pondering my reluctance to socialize, I also wondered about my inclination to befriend only those women who, on outward appearance, remind me of only myself. Do I do this because I'm looking for common traits between us? Or, am I a conceited narcissist who loves only myself? How healthy is that??

Yes, there was a time when I would've jumped at the opportunity to make a new friend. There was a time when I would have seen our outward similarities as a type of validation - that there really ARE others who are like me. But now, at this point in my life, I simply do not care; I no longer need the validation. I am who I am, like me or not; I care only that I like myself. And that I like my solitary bubble. Why? Why would that be?

Letters I've Written

I unexpectedly had an opportunity for one week of solitude. My 3rd oldest grown child needed to be out of town with her husband and kids and so she asked me to stay at her house to care for her dogs. It gave me the opportunity to compose each of the six letters - one for each of my kids - expressing my regrets and apologies for the mistakes I made as a parent. It was not an easy task. It came with much emotional purging; in other words, I cried.

But the letters are written. My next step, since it has been a few weeks now since they've been prepared, is to revisit them to revise them, if need be, although I doubt there is much I will change. Then, they will be ready to be delivered, by mail. Each letter comes with a first page explaining to them what they've received and asking them to read it only when they have some time alone to reflect on what I've written. I told them it may be emotional and to be prepared for that as well since it may elicit a flood of memories and feelings. My intention, of course, is not to inflict more pain but rather, to generate some healing - for me, but for them too. I believe it is time for all of us - me and my kids - to take that next step toward wholeness and I am hoping these letters will do that.

I've discussed this endeavor with my counselor - and with a few others. Most have responded by telling me that "all parents make mistakes" and "your kids are adults now so it is now up to them to pursue healing" and "it's no longer your responsibility to care for their mental health." They are wrong on all counts.

While it is true that all parents make mistakes, they are usually small and insignificant mistakes like, bottle-feeding instead of breast feeding or allowing their kids to eat too much processed foods, or not sending them to better schools. Those were not the kinds of regrets I carry with me. Mine involve physical abuse, emotional neglect, being self-absorbed, becoming disconnected emotionally from them, not tuning in to their emotional needs, and isolating them socially to such a degree that it left them socially phobic as young adults. I did not prepare them for real life. They instead grew up in a house of chaos and dysfunction. There were the church years - five years of my life (but five years of their lives as well) that I was involved with a toxic faith - a faith that encouraged physical child abuse and the subjugation of women and children. It was a very dark time for all of us, but especially for them. And then there were the years that followed me walking away from all of that religious crap and then putting all of my energies into my faltering marriage to a man whom I allowed to control me; it was my effort to break free, but instead, I spent my days being sucked in to one argument after another, all while learning how to use my voice and assert some authority. More chaos. More dysfunction. In essence, my kids were never put first; they were never the priority and they sensed that. For all of that, I carry regret and made efforts to express it to each of them individually.

Each of my six children experienced traumas - multiple traumas - as a direct result of my poor parenting. Yes, it is true that their father is equally responsible for the damage done, but I cannot act on his behalf. I accept my part - my role - in the errors that were made, and that is all I can do. I cannot apologize on his behalf; that is up to him. But I can and will apologize for my part in it all - for not having a voice when they were young; most of all, for not trusting my gut and listening to my heart because even while in the midst of all that dysfunction, somewhere, deep inside, I knew that it was not right; I just didn't know how to fix it back then. If only I knew then what I know now!

Only my two youngest children have ever expressed outright anger toward me for the way things were. The older four seem more forgiving. I think it is because they saw more of the earlier years of my parenting - the way I was before I completed disappeared, figuratively, as a result of my husband's manipulations and his family's ability to intimidate me. They must've held on to the memory of the more-functional me, and are therefore more forgiving toward me. But that doesn't mean I owe them any less of an apology. That does not lessen my regrets.

So, in just a few more days, those letters will go out and time then will tell what the consequences will be. It is my deepest hope that it will at the very least help them heal just a little bit more. I hope that my words will be music to their ears. I do not expect complete forgiveness; I just ask that they hear what I have to say...and then, we will all go from there.