MUSINGS OF A MODERN MYSTIC: Generational Trauma and the Outcast

Water 5

“After all, when a stone is dropped into a pond, the water continues quivering even after the stone has sunk to the bottom.”

Arthur Golden

I saw a meme recently that hit the deepest recesses of my being, and I have searched high and low and cannot seem to find it again; I know I didn’t dream it, either. I searched on FB, IG, Pinterest and Google, so if anyone knows what I am talking about, PLEASE, share it!

The meme said (loosely quoting, there was a great caption, too): “In order to heal generational trauma, you must begin by understanding the black sheep of the family; they are wounds embodied.” Note: Black sheep is one of those terms that has tones of subtle racism, and so I am choosing to use the word outcast instead.

It stopped me in my tracks.

I dropped my phone.

I sobbed.

I sobbed until no noise came out of my mouth.

I sobbed until my tears ran dry.

I sobbed until my Soul was tired.

I have always been the outcast; my family seems to believe that because they love me, that means they accept me, or that they understand me.

They hardly know me, so how can those other things be true?

I have no ill will towards my family, I love them, but I am the product of what happens when parents’ divorce and one of three children is moved away from *everyone*.

Separation happens.

I have written about my Father Wound before so many of you know what happened there, and how that affected me (how his absence and abandonment molded me, and my views of Men)—I plan to share an epiphany I had on the subject later in this blog.

Much of my family didn’t try to have a relationship with me, a child, and they blamed me, a child.

I type this and worry one may see and get offended.

But I don’t care.

Keep reading.

Trauma

I was 12 at the time, and quickly learned that my new home environment was abusive, and I remained there for 10 years; that is where a lot of my CPTSD comes from.

Having a connection with my family wasn’t at the forefront of my mind: surviving was.

Truths need to be brought to light, and hard truths even more so.

This is about more than the divorce, what happened after, and the dynamic of relationships within my family; this is about what it means to be the outcast.

I scoff, roll my eyes, and bite my tongue every time I see someone claim to be an outcast (really black sheep, but again, a tad racist) like it’s a badge of honor; same as people who claim to be “weirdos”.

This shit isn’t a trend.

Being an outcast is isolating, painful, lonely, and traumatic as fuck. As a child you wonder, why am I not good enough, what did I do wrong, why can’t I be normal? Am I not worthy of love?

And, as an adult not much changes, except maybe having the strength to draw hard lines in the sand, or the compassion to forgive and move forward; other times it’s cutting them off completely.

Being a weirdo usually means we’re bullied in our younger years (which may even transfer to adult life, too). It means not being accepted, being ostracized and ridiculed.

I had no choice in being weird, or an outcast—both are very much who I am, but they were not easy roles to play, or paths to walk; they still aren’t.

I am proud to be both but I won’t sit here and make either look pretty.

As far as my family goes, on one hand I want to be understood and accepted, on the other hand I know they won’t “get it” so why even bother?

I am loud, opinionated, wise, in tune, defiant (also respectful when I need to be).

I take up space, my presence is undeniably powerful (Jupiter on my Ascendant can be thanked for that, among other things).

I say what I mean and mean what I say; I don’t let racism, sexism, classism, or any “ism” happen in my presence, and that has made for some very interesting family gatherings.

Last Easter (a Holiday I don’t celebrate, but it coincides with my Grandfather’s birthday) I cleared the table when I said that my brother’s fiancé was wrong for wanting to get “a Native card” so that her daughter could get a discount on college tuition.

That’s the whitest, most privileged shit I ever heard.

Eye roll

I had to call that out.

How can I sit here and tell all of you to burn in your truth if I won’t burn in mine?

I also called us (white people) colonizers, because we are; regardless if we (my family) have Native blood in us (we do) or not.

We are white passing; we have never been oppressed because of our Indigenous heritage, we don’t know what it’s like to live on a Rez in 2019 and not have running water, and electricity. We don’t face the addiction rates (a direct result of, you guessed it, Generational Trauma and colonization) that Indigenous people do, nor do we have to worry about our girls in the way Indigenous people do ; their girls and Women go missing and/or are killed in staggering numbers.

Don’t get me started on the sexual assault statistics. It’s mind-blowing.

For reference and education, click here.

So, no, you don’t get a “Native card” for higher education.

I was not about sit there in silence……in compliance, while some privileged shit went unchecked.

I checked it.

LOUDLY.

For clarification, I do have supportive, progressive and amazing family members whom I love more than anything in this world; they are my anchor to my humanity.

This leads me to the Mother Wound and Generational Trauma.

Generational Trauma is the idea that trauma is passed on through not only DNA but as a psychic imprint.

You can read more about it, here.

I faced my Father Wound with rage the likes of which can’t aptly be described.

I held onto so much fucking hate, and utter disdain for my sperm donor that I removed the concept of having a Father altogether.

I handled my Mother Wound with complete understanding, and compassion; anger at times, too, when she would project her pain onto me, but it didn’t linger because I took her pain on as my own, and together we sifted through it.

Unity

As we began to heal our traumas and our bond, we noticed the Women in my family waking up, and they started to ride the frequency of their intuition; my one Aunt even has begun to build her first Altar.

She also buys all my books and supports me like no other. My cousins are into spirituality, Feminism, crystals, etc. and a few are even anti-religion like me (which makes me so proud!)

My Mom is an outcast, too so teaming up, and attacking our pain (most of which was experienced together and is why our bond is so strong) has allowed the Generational Wounds to show themselves and be healed.

We called on the Ancestors for help, as well, and filled any missing pieces by asking the elders.

My (step) Sister has recently come out as a Witch.

One of my Brother’s has completely opened himself up to the otherworld (he doesn’t quite know it yet, though) and he and his wife even birthed into creation a beautiful baby Witch who is now 4.

These awakenings brought me back to my Father Wound after I heard a story about what happened to him when he was a child. Apparently, he was caught playing with his Sister’s dolls and the punishment was severe.

Hell, my brothers played with my dolls with me, just like I played with their G.I Joe, matchbox cars and Wrestling figures.

Punished for playing with dolls?

But, back in the early 60’s it was unacceptable in his home (still is in some homes today) and he was forced to wear one of his sister’s dresses and stand out on the front lawn from morning until evening “to teach him a lesson”.

And, this is only one example of the expectations put on him as a child to be hyper-masculine, that he has carried all through his life.

The patriarchy hurts us all, and this is a prime example—toxic masculinity at its most vile.

Water 4

Last time I saw my Father, he was so….old and fragile.

I could see life had taken its toll on him, I could see the pain in his eyes—the pain he tries to cover so hard. I could sense the unhappiness that he hides with new shiny toys and home renovations. And, suddenly I didn’t feel hate anymore, I felt pity at first, then I felt nothing but compassion and empathy for him. I wanted to take him in my arms and swallow him up with Divine Mother energy.

After that encounter I sat down and readdressed the Father Wound; I know he will never be what I need or want him to be, he will never love me the way he should, the way I need, or want, but I understand him on a deeper level now, and for some reason that makes things, not okay, but easier for me to swallow.

The same goes for the rest of my family.

I am not excusing actions, but I am refusing to allow them to continue.

It ends with me.

There is something profound seeing the work you have done individually, then teamed up with your Crone Mother manifest into real healing for the ones you love most.

Trauma is complex, love is complex, family is complex.

Generational Trauma takes years to fully comprehend, but it can be understood, and to some degree overcome; healing can happen on some level, and cycles can be broken.

CYCLES CAN BE BROKEN.

CYCLES WILL BE BROKEN.

I had to stop running, face the truth, no matter how hard or ugly it was; then I Alchemized that shit and watched how things shifted.