It has been over a year now since my paternal grandfather left this world. We had not spoken in over ten years – but that was his choice, not mine. Well, to be more honest, I gave him the choice of either being in my life, or not: but if he wanted to be in my life, then he would need to tell my father (who was dying) what he had done to me as a child.
I was in graduate school, and on my way to becoming a therapist – a lifelong dream that I almost didn’t attempt for fear of failure. I was studying the work of Cloe Madanes – a most courageous and brilliant family interventionist who spent many years helping families with histories of sexual abuse truly heal. Madanes was guided by the principles of restorative justice, which in a nutshell says that when one being causes harm to another being, both people carry the burden of that pain until it has been mended. Madanes also believed that the restorative action should not be punitive, but should benefit the victim AND invite healing for the entire family.
During my first year of college, my father cut me off from my entire family because he did not like who I was sleeping with. In hindsight, I see now that I was a perpetual thorn in my father’s side – reminding him of a past he would just as soon forget. What I desperately wanted and needed was for my father to own the truth of his part in my brother’s death, so that our family could heal. He had placed every shred of the blame squarely onto my mother’s shoulders, and didn’t blink an eye as she was sentenced to ten years in a state penitentiary. Within a year and a half, my father was remarried, and had regained custody of myself and my little brother. It was many years later before I heard my mother’s side of the story: how my father had been cheating and lying about it for years, all the while making my mother believe that she was the crazy, reactive, raging mother of his children, whom he had to beat in order to “save them from her.”
But that is a different story. During the year-and-a-half while my father lied his way out of the mess he had helped to create, my little brother and I went to live with my father’s parents. And though they provided for our basic food and shelter needs, they simply had no clue how to provide for our emotional needs. To add to the problem, my grandfather took the opportunity to act out his own sexual needs with me. All I can say is that living with my father’s parents for a year-and-a-half gave me insight into how my father became the ruthless, closed down, sexually promiscuous man that he was. They say the apple rarely falls far from the tree. I have always hated that expression. Mostly because it has made me feel like I was destined to make the same bad mistakes as my family. I am so thankful for the rebel within me that said “fuck you” to every therapist and self-help book out there that espoused the belief that children with a history like mine were destined to a life of sickness and mental health disorders. I did not know how I was going to change my destiny, or even if I could, but I vowed to never give up and never give in, and to fight for a better life for myself.
It took my grandmother’s death before my grandfather reached out to me as an adult. I knew he eventually would – for his needs, of course, not mine. But this time I was ready for him.
“So here’s the deal Grandpa,” I say after a bit of small talk. “I am happy to be in your life, but we need to talk about what happened between us. Do you know what I am talking about?”
There was a long pause, followed by a “yup.”
“Okay then,” I say, surprised that he acknowledged it so readily. I thought for sure he would deny it. “So, uh, can you tell me what the hell you were thinking, doing that to me after all that I had been through?”
“Well, at least I didn’t go too far.” My grandfather said matter-of-factly.
Too far? What the hell does that mean? Just because he didn’t put his penis inside makes it okay to be constantly fondling my private parts, and showing me his? I kept my cool, though internally his words ignited a deep burning rage within me. “Then you shouldn’t have any problem telling your son what you did to me, right?”
My grandfather paused, and I knew I had ensnared him in his own trap. I waited on the edge of my seat for his response. I finally caught you, you son-of-a-bitch, I goaded under my breath. Just try and get out of this one!
“I can’t.” My grandfather said flatly.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because he’ll never forgive me. And I can’t bear that.”
“I won’t let that happen Grandpa. I want this family to heal. And this is the first step.”
“Nope. I can’t do.” My Grandpa replied, this time with more conviction.
“Well, if you want me in your life Grandpa, then this is what I am asking of you.”
“Well, I can’t.”
I had hit a dead-end – something I had not anticipated. I silently cursed Madanes for not writing about what to do when the perpetrator refuses to participate in the restorative justice action. In all of her stories, the perpetrator’s always broke down and willingly agreed.
“I’ll give you a few months to tell him,” I said, buying myself (and him) a little time to think about what to do next. “But if you won’t tell him, I will.”
“Okay then,” my Grandfather replied meekly. “Take care.”
“You too Grandpa.”
I hung up the phone, and the old familiar heaviness of my youth wrapped itself around my heart. I realized in that moment that my grandfather was never going to be telling my father anything. Which meant that my family was never going to heal. And if they couldn’t heal, how could I? Trying to engage with a dysfunctional family who doesn’t want to change is a lot like trying to “piss in the wind,” as my Grandpa used to say. You wind up wet and cold and lonely.
The next time my father pushed on me about talking with Grandpa, I told him that I had asked his father to come clean about some things from the past that he had done to me, and that if he wanted to know what this was about, he needed to talk to his father about it. A few weeks later, my father called me to say that he had indeed asked his father, and though my Grandpa didn’t come clean, my dad could tell something was amiss. My dad wanted to know the truth, so I told him.
To give my father credit, he believed me. And what transpired next, though definitely not what I had hoped for, was a small bit of family healing. My father had always believed that he was the black sheep of the family. The “bad” one. Armed with this new truth, he slowly began to realize that he had unconsciously carried his father’s shame for his entire life. I watched my father, as he was dying, begin to unravel and deconstruct all of the false stories about himself and his father. It was no doubt a painful awakening. But it was also much needed. My truth had freed up my father, so that he could begin to find his own truth.
Of course, the rest of my grandfather’s family did not see it this way at all. I heard through the family grapevine that they “couldn’t believe that I did that” to my father and Grandfather
“Really? What about what he did to me?” I wanted to scream at them. “Why is it always about protecting the men in this family? And what exactly are you protecting them from? The pain of the truth? Their fragile egos? It hurt me deeply that they were more concerned about the welfare of these men than me. Not one single family member contacted me to see how I was doing, except my brother, who was caught in the middle of yet another betrayal bind.
It wasn’t until many years later that I began to understand the power of shame, and how its sole purpose is to suppress and protect at all costs. Even if that means cutting off parts of ourselves, or other family members. My family felt hugely threatened by the truth, and I was the messenger.
I had thought that sharing the truth would be the catalyst for the healing that my family, and myself, so desperately needed. It wasn’t until many years later that I began to understand the power of shame, and how its sole purpose is to suppress and protect at all costs. Even if that means cutting off parts of ourselves, or other family members. My family felt hugely threatened by the truth, and I was the messenger.
Over time, I came to realize that we cannot force people to heal. Healing is a choice. And so is the mending of damaged relationships. We can heal without mending, but we cannot truly reclaim damaged relationships until mending has occurred. And without the mending, the best we can do is to try and forgive and let it go – for our own peace of mind and heart.
But forgiveness is not the same as mending. These are two very different constructs – yet our culture lumps them together into one big fat messy expectation: We need to just put the past behind us and keep moving forward. And if the past tries to catch up with us, well, we had better run faster then, or get a big shovel so that we can bury it once and for all.
But our hearts are just not built this way. And the net result of this primitive form of avoidance and coping is that nothing ever gets resolved. As my friend Michelle says, “It’s like shit on a hula-hoop. It just keeps coming around and around and around.”
Our culture’s beliefs about mending damaged relationships would be equivalent to breaking a leg, and allowing it to heal on its own, without intervention. Our bodies will find a way to stabilize the broken bone in whatever position it is in. And with time, we will be able to hobble around, albeit not very functionally, and most likely with chronic pain. True mending of the broken bone requires that it be reset in its proper place first. Which is a very painful process. Especially if it fused together in a misaligned direction.
The same is true with mending hearts. The damage must be assessed and set right. Only then can true healing occur. When we come together with the intention and actions of mending the damage between us, our hearts naturally open up as understanding and compassion replace fear and judgment. Often – especially for the one who has caused the harm – this process requires that we must first pass through our shame. And shame can be a very formidable opponent.
The best definition of shame that I have come across is this: Shame is when we believe that who we are is fundamentally bad/wrong, versus making a bad/wrong choice. When we link our choices and behaviors to our identity, we feel ashamed to our core. And if we feel ashamed to our core, then no amount of “right” behaviors will ever make us okay.
It wasn’t until I began doing ego-state work with both my clients and myself, that I started to truly understand the purpose of shame as a protective factor gone awry. Shame is very effective at immediately suppressing desires, behaviors, thoughts, and emotions that our culture (and family) deem inappropriate or unacceptable. Shame protects us by keeping us “in” the herd. But often at the expense of our healing. If you want to see shame in action, just drop by your local middle school. In our efforts to feel safe and included, we exclude those that are different from us. And the saddest part of all is that other people’s projections of us become our identity.
When I was first trying to reclaim my own identity, and to try and figure out what it meant to be “good enough” or “worthy of love,” I struggled greatly. I finally landed on the fact that, either all of us are worthy of love, or nobody is. Because to try and make distinctions about who is more or less worthy, was impossible. Who we are cannot be defined by what we do. If that were the case then we would all be doomed because screwing up is how we learn to grow and love. As Viktor Frankl so aptly stated: We don’t always have control over what happens to us. But we always have a choice about how we will respond. And learning to respond well, especially under duress, is a skill that takes many trial and error iterations to master. Though shame is designed to keep us in the herd, it hinders our ability to learn and grow and heal.
Even if we manage to somehow make peace with our shame, we are then faced with the guilt and pain of realizing that we caused harm to another being. The discomfort of this pain is difficult to tolerate, even for seasoned love warriors. But tolerate it we must. Because it is by acknowledging and sharing the burden of this pain that we all heal.
My grandfather chose to secure his place and reputation in the family by undermining my credibility, because he was terrified that if people really knew what he had done, they would never love or accept or forgive him. I became the scapegoat – the one that gets loaded up with all of the family shame, and then gets sent out into the wilderness alone, to be devoured by the wolves, and thus absolve the family of their shame. The problem is that my family underestimated my ability to tame those wolves. And now I am back.
My grandfather had hoped that by dumping his shame on me (and his eldest son, my father), and sending us out into the wilderness, his shameful secrets would be forever silenced. But in the process, my grandfather robbed himself, and our entire family, of the joy and love and connection we all so desperately craved. Because whenever any one family member is set apart or cut out, the entire family loses. To me, this is the greatest tragedy of most families: The outcast keeper of the shame is also the keeper of the truth. To me, its a lot like the devil being outcast from heaven. Without being able to face and acknowledge and heal our most wounded parts, we are destined to continue to make the same mistakes over and over again.
I spent many dark and lonely nights, curled up in a ball of fear, waiting to be devoured by those hungry wolves. Until one day I got tired of being afraid all of the time. At first, I armed myself fully, and went after those wolves with every ounce of anger and rage that was buried within me. But the wise wolves retreated, and left me standing alone. Eventually, for my own sanity and self-preservation, I decided to make peace with the wolves instead. It was a tenuous relationship initially. But with time and trust, I learned how to mend and heal. And when I was ready, I made the long journey back into the world of people.
I am sad that my grandfather could not/would not/did not walk this journey with me. But it is a free will universe, and each of us has the freedom to choose how we will respond. Or not.
I am also grateful to my grandfather for sharing his wisdom and values around stewardship of the land. Though I do not agree at all with his tactics of power and control over the animals, I did benefit greatly from his tenacity and commitment to never quitting or giving up. And having wrestled with my own inner demons, I get it that “doing the right thing” becomes very difficult to sort out when you don’t have all of the tools. Especially when the shame monster is barreling down behind you. I get it Grandpa. I hope that wherever your spirit is now, you can finally find some peace. And the courage to heal.