I keep secrets. It is the basis of my trauma bond, the root of which all my anxiety was born and bred, or so I am told. I used to have a therapist named Barb. She helped me greatly as I negotiated my mother’s health decline and attempted to come to terms with some things I’d been carrying for quite some time. Barb said my function as my mother’s only child, and the only child living at home, was to be the secret keeper. It goes like this. A parent who carries a load heavier than they can manage tells a child the bulk of their troubles, thereby shifting load weight onto the child, like a job that parent can’t handle. But, the load is full of secrets that mustn’t see the light of day. So, the child is given another job, mainly never to tell anyone about the things gifted to them in this heavy load. Children weren’t meant to hold down a job, much less two. One day, a child will grow up, God willing. As this former child moves through adulthood, they begin accumulating the normal loads that we carry in this world. Except, they still have that secret load gifted to them all those years ago. There’s only so much they can balance. When they look around one random afternoon, buckling under a heavy load, they might spot their own child in the room. The temptation to lighten that load onto this child is both instinct, from how their parents handled this same dilemma, and survival based. It is hard to break such a trauma bond. My children still don’t know some of the load I was gifted with as a child, so I think I mostly broke the generational curse. That’s what Barb said, anyway. I loved chatting with Barb via Zoom, but the nonexistent internet situation in Forney, coupled with a whole bunch of dogs and cats, made our appointments yet another load of anxiety I began carrying. But one day, Barb, perhaps we shall meet again.
Let me say this here, loud and clear. We all have trauma. We are so very lucky to have trauma because it means we are still here in this world. Bad things happening to us is the human experience. Suffering in a broken world is the name of the game. Jesus was not immune to suffering, nor are we. My issues are no easier nor more difficult than anyone else’s. But, specific to my trauma is the manifestation of my love of anonymity. That was part of my childhood. It was crucial not to draw attention to myself, not to invite anyone from outside of the circle to examine things too closely. I had amazing parents. They loved me and cared for me well. I honestly don’t think the details matter beyond that point. Yet, my life took this weird turn when my daughter passed away. I became the talk of the town. Everyone knew my story. It was difficult to go to the newly opened local Walmart. I would see people I knew, and they would want me to show intense emotion. They would expect me to cry or to collapse over my buggy or just talk a lot. Sometimes grief produces these responses. Sometimes grief causes you to freeze. Sometimes you hide in clothing racks to maintain anonymity. My clothing rack Hide ‘n Go Seek proficiency is master level. I will not olly olly oxen free.
Recently, a new friend came into a group that I frequent. It has taken me years to fully embrace having a group of friends. It feels – breakable? I’m asking myself that question. Other words I almost used: tentative, fragile, newborn, gossamer. It’s a gut reaction. My friends seem like a litter of malnourished feral kittens I just discovered. I must nurture, must defend, must protect, otherwise they could just evaporate.
Mainly, I discovered that I have to let them study me. The wall I so carefully constructed has to come down. I must genuinely emote. Alternatively, I have to be so very careful. One false move, one errant statement, and we’re off to the races. That’s where the new friend comes into play. I have been very careful not to speak of my daughter in her presence. Once that veil is lifted, all other talking points are over. The topic of a child who died monopolizes conversations. How can anyone else complain about life’s maladies – perhaps a broken washing machine, a breakup, or even financial distress – when there’s someone sitting there thinking, “Geez, I’d give anything to have all of your problems today, if I had my daughter here with me?”
It was Saturday morning. My new friend sent me a text message. “I heard about your daughter. I don’t know what to say, but I want to know all about her.” Two hours later, I was sitting in my bathroom, ugly crying on the phone with said friend, answering all of her questions like the pediatric cardiac information expert I have become. I am no longer anonymous. My friend group is intact. Turns out, they are so much stronger and so much more interested in what makes me tick than I realized. In the words of Ronald Reagan in 1987, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall.” Secrets that lie in shadows become menacing. Secrets that are delivered to the light become beautiful lessons. It is time to lay down this heavy load. I don’t have to carry it anymore. I never did. Barb would be so proud.
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