ROOT STORIES (1978)
Root stories from the traumas of childhood. To illuminate the trials and tribulations of adulthood
I was told I had a baby sister… less than 6 months after my mother moved us off the hippie compound my father seemed to be president of (called Peacegate), a town over, towards down island, Martha’s Vineyard. I was just 8 so it took a few moments to dawn on me that my initial elation was a sad miscalculation. But the truth was left for me to unveil, like poor Alice in Wonderland, on my own. And as those silent facts began to parade in, they swiftly toppled the house of cards that had been balancing on my forehead.
A. My mother hadn’t been pregnant.
B. We weren’t living together as a family anymore,
C. My father had a girlfriend, who had attached to him as if worshipping a guru, after she moved onto the Peacegate compound the year prior. (It had become painfully apparent that my father, with no humility or remorse, was endorsing this woman’s fawning behavior, even in our presence, so I can relate to my mother’s swift decision to leave that place.).
As that unwelcome dawning took hold of my psyche, my smiling amazement shrank into a restrained devastation… while I tried to feign unfettered approval, as I was also painfully aware that this expression would be my quickest exit out of this nightmarish theater.
They didn’t once attempt to explain or quantify the situation. They told me like you would tell your child he/she was getting a baby sister, plain and simple; so my initial impression that it was my mother’s baby was not outlandish. For a moment I had the hopeful gratification that our broken family would now be unified once more! Alas, I soon enough understood how wrong I was.
They EXPECTED me to act happy and grateful. They did not expect me to ask questions. And it was clear to me there was no room for apprehension or pause. I was left to my own devices to piece together what was really happening, at an age where such devices aren’t adequately honed for such advanced application.
Why could they not do that for me? Were they trying to protect me? Or protect themselves from the deep shame they were trying to dodge inside themselves? In retrospect I can see this as the first clear indication that I was destined to fill a role as the family scapegoat.
By not asking me about my feelings… if I had any mixed emotions or whatever, they were basically commanding me NOT TO HAVE THEM. Demanding my full, unfettered acceptance, gratitude, and elation.
This was the first time I can recall LYING. By pretending I was happy to be a big sister (she was already a month old when I was informed I had a sister), I was essentially lying to them and denying myself any access to emotional support of any kind.
I felt more alone and abandoned that day than ever before. It had nothing to do with my little half-sister, whom I adored from first holding her, and doted on like any smitten big sister would; no it was feeling betrayed by my parents. Their inability to consider the trauma this could and WOULD CERTAINLY bring upon me, guaranteed that trauma would change me in profound ways. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like were that single occasion altered to where it ACCOMODATED MY NEEDS. As an innocent child. The only thing that was made clear to me in that moment was that there would be absolutely no room for apprehension, nor any sort of disappointment, nor sadness… nor would I be allowed to explore my own emotional response; instead that emotional response was pre-determined and commandeered by these “bearers of good news”. Looking back, if either of them had considered, even for a moment, that this “good news” may also inflict something bad as they must’ve understood I would still be harboring secret hopes for their reconciliation that our family be whole again, and as such, this news would dash those hopes. It had been less than 6 months since the familial split and my mother+my departure from “Peacegate”, the hippy compound.
This is where parents should hold themselves accountable… and consider the impact they will have on their child. And to certainly NOT try to pretend there is nothing unusual or scandalous going on.
This is one of the few occasions that impacted my life in profound ways which I do wholly put on my parents, as a fault, their fault - inflicting a devastating trauma upon me, which could’ve so easily been avoided were they more willing to consider MY EXPERIENCE. This one very small misstep on their part, I suspect, affected my ability to trust, to love, to feel love, in profound ways. And is perhaps component to much of my struggles… addictions, financial/career success, lack of confidence, alienation, isolation. Not to mention the destructive nature of the trauma-bonded relationships I’ve had with men over the years.
But I cannot expect any kind of vocalized accountability or apologies. Neither of my parents, now all but estranged, seem to be the kind of people capable of profound inner reflection or emotional growth, unfortunately. My only salvation from these kinds of cop out maneuverings is to accept them as my parents shortcomings, and refuse to allow them to become my own.
With my own son I have a relationship that would never allow for such poor judgment… it is a matter of respect. And to realize that often when you want to believe narrative control is a kind of gentle protective response, it’s in fact a cop out… where it’s easier for YOU, and ultimately worse for them; even as children we have vast internal insight. Especially when it comes to the truth of things. Children are perhaps the least likely to conform to shadowy vacillating around the harder colder facts. Trying to pretend a scenario is gold to a child when by any and all adult standard it stinks of scandal is a profound misstep of bad parenting. Sugar-coating is never a good idea.