Maggie mentioned TED's Brene Brown lecture about shame. I have watched it over and over.  I have cried because of it.  I am not whole-hearted.  In fact, I think I am broken-hearted.  I think I have been broken-hearted all of my life.  I think that's what comes of growing up in the midst of chaos and violence.  My sister said she was just grateful that we allowed her to survive among us.  I feel that too.  All of my life I have felt that if people know how terrible I really am, I would be rejected.  And so I stay quiet and hide.

I remember thinking, as a child, that it was like a rule. That your parents have to love you.  It's a given.  The next thought was that if my dad did not love me, there had to be something terribly wrong with me.  I had to have some blackness or slime within that made me unloveable.  Adult logic says my dad was wounded, and because of that he could not show love.  But that little kid deep inside still knows the truth...I am not worthy of love.  My brain wars with my gut a lot, and unfortunately my gut usually wins. Even when my brain is touting logic, I am eating chocolate or engaging in some other addictive, numbing behavior to soothe the child.  The child is so afraid of feeling...

And what's left out of this war is my poor broken heart.  I have been thinking about my heart a lot, trying to find ways to mend it.  But the more I get into my heart, the more I feel, the more I panic, the more I go back and remember. 

I was trying to be heartful (as opposed to mindful) and about a year ago I went through a rough period where I felt I was being haunted by my paternal grandmother.  Early morning sounds took me back to their homestead on the hill.  I remembered my grandfather's vegetable garden, his small flock of chickens.  I remembered my grandmother's rock garden, just outside the back door.  She knew the name of every flower.  I thought maybe someday I would be as cool as her, and know the names of the flowers too.  I dreamed of her.  I found an old letter from her.  One of my dad's cousins sent me an old family photo.  In the picture she was about 13 and looked as invisible as I have always felt.  There was a kinship as I remembered the way she waited on us, then ate when we were finished.  She ran everything quietly but efficiently, waiting for someone to notice her.  I feel like that too, although I am not nearly as organized and neat. I thought about the violence, the sexually inappropriate behaviors, wondering what happened and I realized it happened in her family too. 

I truly believe people are good and kind and intelligent.  Something violent must happen to destroy that innate humanity.  No one is born an abuser.  We abuse because we were abused.  We learn the behaviors, then inflict them on others as we try to numb ourselves.  Neither the inter nor intra generational sexual abuse simply appeared.  It came from the generation before.  Suddenly I saw my whole family in a different light...

-Clare