No matter how many years I’ve lived, or books I’ve read, or personal development classes I’ve taken, it seems that those family-of-origin issues never stay resolved for long. Yes, I’ve forgiven everyone I need to forgive … a few times over. Yes, I understand that my parents did the absolute best they could have done with the tools they had available to them at the time. So why, then, do the deep hurts and false beliefs about my unworthiness always seem to re-emerge, strong as ever, after their brief vacations?
Maybe they never go away for good, but I just had to share with you an exercise that shrunk them to such infinitesimally small particles that I feel as light as a feather – and this time, I doubt they’ll ever grow back to their former strength.
Before I share this with you, I want to digress for a moment about the cyclical nature of family experiences. When we think about how we have come to be who we are, much depends on how we were raised by our parents. That, in turn, depends on how our parents were raised, and how our parents’ parents were raised, and so on. If there is abuse in a family, you’ll often discover generations of abuse. Most of the time, inherited beliefs and patterns are much more subtle than that. Feelings of unworthiness are almost universally passed down in this culture, with our long-standing emphasis on independence and self-sufficiency at the expense of nurturing and community.
Each generation has the opportunity to break the cycle and approach parenting in a new way. But if we don’t fully release our parents from the resentment or blame that we may hold surrounding needs we had that were never met, then we’ll continue to subconsciously perpetuate the cycle in one way or another with our own children.
I feel compelled to mention that it is tempting for me to disregard and minimize my discontent about my own childhood, because, quite frankly, there wasn’t much to complain about. I was loved, cared for, and encouraged to pursue my dreams. I lived in nice homes and traveled the world. Yes, there was divorce, and yes, it was painful. No, I wasn’t ever understood, and that was perhaps more painful. But really, my childhood wounds seem so petty when I compare myself to those who suffered horrible childhoods.
The reason I mention this is that I’m sure there are those of you reading this blog who feel the same way. I’ve come to realize that it doesn’t matter how grievous or minor the perceived injuries. To our fragile childhood psyches, it mattered, that’s all. And if we want to free ourselves from having it matter to us decades later in our adulthood, we have some inner work to do, and the core of that work seems to be forgiveness.
While I have attempted forgiveness many times over, I always had the sense I was doing it wrong. I wanted to feel it deeply, but managed only to intellectualize it. I knew I should forgive. I knew why it was important. I knew all of the reasons why my parents deserved my compassion and understanding.
“I forgive you.” I said it out loud, in writing, to them, to myself, and still … I didn’t really get it. A conversation or memory would trigger a reaction, and I’d be right back again where I started – feeling resentment and anger about the childhood I wished I had had. I would see the effects of my inner sense of unworthiness stamped on every aspect of my life: career, finances, relationships, creative pursuits, you name it.
So when my dear friend and mentor suggested I do a writing exercise to release and forgive my parents, I thought, “But I’ve done that already. It didn’t work.”
Regardless, I decided to play along and give it a go.
Well … this time it worked.
The exercise was simple and didn’t take me very long at all to complete. I also did it right after my meditation, which may have contributed to the healing. Who knows? Anyway, here is what I did:
- For each parent, I simply jotted down what I knew of how they were parented, and any important things that may have impacted their young lives. (Again, I already knew this stuff. I was so tempted to skip the whole thing because it was nothing new to me. I’m so glad I did it anyway!)
- Then, for each one, I answered the question: Did he/she have the tools to give me what I needed as a child? (Uh … no. See? Simple answer.)
- Here’s the kicker, though … for each parent, I wrote a couple of sentences from me as an adult, addressing them as if they were still young children, releasing and forgiving them, and showing them the love I would show my own son if he were in their shoes. Just so you’ll understand what I mean, here’s what I wrote for my father, who lost his mother when he was four years old, and was never allowed to grieve for her: “I have compassion for you, dear motherless boy. I hold you and let you cry. I tell you stories of your lovely mother to comfort you. I release you from any guilt you may have over how you raised me – or didn’t – and I forgive you.” I mean, how can I continue to feel anything but compassion for the man after looking at him in this way? It was really powerful.
The final step I took was to show my own little self that same compassion and forgiveness, since after all, I’ve been the one bludgeoning myself with these childhood hurts for all these years. After writing about a particularly painful time in my very young life when we lived in Australia and my brother was a tiny, attention-hogging infant, this is what I wrote to myself:
“Sweet little Lexi, with your ballet shoes and sunhat, your heat rash and sunburns, your darling smile and exuberance, I hug you and laugh with you. I listen to your stories and dreams with rapt attention, and I show you how much you are loved and special and amazing. I forgive you for the unkindness you have shown yourself, and I congratulate you on your strength and willingness to do this work at all costs. You never gave up, and here we are now … ready to shine.”
This time, I felt the forgiveness and the healing – for all three of us – in my heart. It’s as if there’s been a locked door barring my way all these years, and the key to unlocking it has been hanging there right in front of me, but covered in cobwebs and dust, barely visible, and too icky to touch.
I hope that my sharing here will encourage you to reach into the cobwebs to dust off your own key, and see what doors open up for you.
Namaste’,
Alexis
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