I found out the father I never knew died. I wrote two pieces about the grief, sadness, relief and rage.
One of the things I love about the ACEs community is that all of the individual ACEs are equal and matter.
There are adult survivors of abuse, adult children of alcoholics, people with grief from early loss and those who have suffered abuse and neglect and dysfunction. We share many things. Sometimes the groups divide and support us or make us feel that all our issues are related to one thing and one thing only.
A lost parent.
Sexual abuse.
Neglect.
What being a parent taught me is that the attachment, attunement and feeling seen and fed, with food and love and affection, is critical and not having that makes children vulnerable to abuse.
ACEs give me a wider and bigger lens for the ways all of the issues flow in and out of one another.
Anyhow, from my own perspective below, I wrote two pieces for Elephant about abandonment as a child but from the adult perspective.
I know why abandonment is an ACE.
Forget Me Not Father
http://www.elephantjournal.com...orget-me-not-father/
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I hate the way the truth I didn’t create feels like sandpaper on ears and how if I speak it I feel mean or insensitive or inconsiderate. I hate how the water evaporates in the pan, but the heat of shame is still in my cheeks and face. It’s too hot to touch, but nothing gets cooked, prepared or made that can be savored or shown. Even the handle is too hot to touch. That’s how I feel sometimes.
Until I write.
It’s not what she wants to hear, though, what anyone wants to discuss. Especially when it comes to veterans. I get it. Those coming back from Vietnam, like my father, were treated so badly that now even the truth of my own experience feels inconsiderate, insensitive or critical. It isn’t. The war causes wounds that bleed into generations.
The war of combat, violence, mental illness and addiction—there are fights still raging today.
That truth is a form of remembrance, too.
It doesn’t mean I don’t care or don’t support veterans. Or the homeless.
I, too, wanted to help, and have tried. I worked at a shelter for homeless families while in college.
There, I wrote vouchers for five dollar meals or buses to emergency shelters that would keep people warm when our beds were filled. Our shelter was for the “long-term homeless” who would stay for six weeks at a time.
Homelessness is something I care about. Know about.
Sometimes I feel like I’m related to homelessness. The daughter of homelessness."
What the Obituary Didn't Say
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Did he put sugar in his coffee? Did he like mashed potatoes with some of the peel still baked in? Did he butter them up and consider them the bounty of Thanksgiving as I do with the apples, or was he a turkey lover like my daughter?
I’ll never know.
He’ll never say.
He never shared a meal with us.
Now even hope is gone: For sobriety. A miracle. A shared smile or meal."
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