I’m balancing writing about the fond and good memories I have as a childhood with some real trauma I experienced. I’m trying to hold space for love for both sides of those responsible for my trauma, for they were also responsible for some nice moments. However, as I just said, moments. Moments were with my mother – we had moments of love, laughter, freedom to just be with. But there were extended amounts of time where it was hell in our house – she was verbally and emotionally abusive and neglectful.
My brother, who confessed to me about abuse he endured at the hands of someone I hold very dear to my heart, may have experienced moments of happiness as well when we were visiting my grandparents. I remember him as a fun child, I was a little jealous because it felt like he was the favorite in the family. All along, there was a reason for the excessive admiration of him.
This same family member who abused my brother loved me like no man ever has – except my husband of course. He showed me I was valuable in his words and actions. He taught me lessons like, “A good laugh is good for anybody.” And, “Don’t put off to tomorrow what you can do today.” He also would always talk about how much he loved Mam-ma – I remember thinking, just like it was yesterday, “I want to marry a man who loves me as much as Pap-pa loves Mam-ma.” And…I was lucky to find him. (Shout out Mr. P)
But this same loving man, my great-grandfather, was not loving to my brother. How do I honor the love I have for my brother with the love I still have for my great-grandfather, after I heard the worst string of words I’d ever, and still have ever, heard in my entire life.
I’m taking a four-week non-fiction/memoir workshop with an author I just adore. I adore her as a writer, but I really adore her as a woman. I think I have so much to learn from her, and I’m hoping there is a budding friendship in the making. Well one of her workshop prompts was to write about a family tradition. My mind went straight to Mam-ma and Pap-pa and holiday meals at their house.
Every meal with Mam-ma and Pap-pa was special. We’d always pray first – sometimes I got to say the prayer which was just the bee’s knees as a child. Mam-ma made dinner while Pap-pa was the breakfast connoisseur. But holidays, there was just something extra special in the air. This workshop prompt had me dive into a funny memory as a child – a carefree, loving memory in which I was affirmed as a valuable and beloved family member. I will share that writing after the next workshop.
For now, I’m going to end with life is feeling really good. It’s like FINALLY after all of these decades of therapy and medication are paying off. I’ve recently been spending time with the Lord, reading Our Daily Bread – just like I would with Mam-ma and Pap-pa every morning before breakfast. I love them. I miss them.
Holding space with joy,
K
Photo by Marcos Paulo Prado on Unsplash
