Compassion & Trauma: Honoring Trauma Anniversaries
Trauma Anniversary: April 28, 1995
I was six years old, almost seven. It was a Friday, and my mom had a date which meant my sister was babysitting. She had just turned thirteen, and we were all still adjusting to our new life. After my parents divorced when I was five, my parents sold our house, and my mom, my sister, and I moved into the house next door to my grandmother. I don't remember a lot since I was so young, but the memories I do have are vivid and not the type of memories you wish for any child. I remember being sad and confused. The excitement I had for starting first grade quickly faded as my life grew increasingly chaotic, tumultuous, and traumatic.
As we settled into our new life, I became increasingly aware, despite my young age, of how different our family was from the others in the neighborhood and at my school. It wasn't just because I was one of two non-Catholics attending a Catholic school. It wasn't just because my parents were divorced. There was something else I was feeling and experiencing that I just knew was different.
And on April 28, 1995, that difference came front and center. It was no longer a secret. It was no longer something our family could hide.
While my mom was on her date, my sister and I got into a fight. To this day, I still remember the exact words she said to me. Years later, I realize that she most likely never intended to hurt me that night, nor could she comprehend the ramifications of her words. At just six years old, her words cut right through me. I can still feel a tenderness where the thought of her words once stung. At thirty-two years old, that tenderness is still there; however, I can also feel a quivering in my heart. That quivering is compassion; compassion for the pain my sister must have been feeling when she felt the need to release some of it onto me.
"There is no Santa Clause. There is no Easter Bunny. And the only reason why our parents got divorced was because of you. "- These are the words that have repeated in my head since that day.
We all have a story about when we learned the truth about our beloved childhood fairytales. However, most of them didn't require the involvement of the police or child services. I did what most six years would do when their older sibling said something hurtful, and I told my mom when she got home.
This was one of those pivotal moments that changed my life. The next thing I remember is hiding on the staircase, listening to my mom and sister fight. My mom had a kitchen knife in her hand and stabbed the sofa bed my sister was sitting on. My sister called the police, and child services were called. The whole incident resulted in my mother being charged with endangering the welfare of a child.
When I look back, it's easy to see all the missed opportunities for care and compassion. It's easy to see where the system failed me, my sister, even my mom. It's easy to blame the adults in my life for the choices they made and their mistakes. I spent most of my childhood and twenties trying to make sense of it and asking myself, "why me?" However, as I've continued to work through my trauma, process it, and heal it, I've noticed a shift in how I relate to my past trauma. There are times it still makes me cry; I still feel grief, sadness, and loss; however, there is less blame, fear, and feeling alone in my experience. Also, there is more compassion for others. I can sense the fear, sadness, grief, loneliness, and uncertainty present at the time for my mother, my sister, my father, and even the police. In recognizing what they were possibly experiencing, I can relate and have compassion. With this wisdom and understanding, it becomes more and more difficult to hold on to blame. In its place, there is a deep sense of care for all that were involved. It's important to note that caring for others who have hurt me is only possible because I first learned how to care for myself. I have to have compassion for the parts of me they didn't have the capacity for on April 28, 1995.
If this were a movie, I would have gotten a fairytale ending that day with the police and child services swooping in to save the day. Yet, that was not the case; April 28 marked the beginning of a very traumatic childhood with many visits from the police. Through years of trauma work, mindfulness, and self-compassion practice, I feel like I finally received my answer to the question of "why me?" Because of the pain I experienced during childhood, I realized that beneath all the anger, fear, sadness, and unpleasant emotions is an innate sense of caring within us all.