Rediscovering Your Discarded Self

Children of Trauma
by Jane Middelton-Moz, Ph.D.

Imagine what it would be like to become the healthiest person you could be ...

This is the inherent right of each individual but when lingering emotional trauma from our childhood blocks the normal developmental process, we get struck. As each of us strives to become the healthiest person we possibly can, we will have to come face-to-face with emotional fears that may be the result of traumatic childhoods. Although that journey may be paved with the paid of unresolved grief and unrecognized loss, this book will serve as the map to guide you and help you rediscover your discarded self ...

... the best self you were always meant to be.

Chapter 1

Later In 1984
by Brook

this safe place i call
home of my mother:
what does it offer?
calamity was its fuel for heat.
sorrow fed our mouths for dinner.
and you, mother, i fear you still.

this place i call
home of my mother:
i say i no longer live here
but i find pieces of my heart
in each room.
must i claim them?
they are half eaten, half rotten.
i walk through the rooms.
step by step. piece by piece.
i place the pieces in a sack.
and you, mother, i fear you still.

this safe place i called
home of my mother:
i have my own home.
you have your sorrows. i have my pieces.
and you, mother, i fear you less.

Sandy

Standing still in the same spot for the past five minutes, the little girl remained perfectly erect. Her small-boned hands were clutched behind her. Her tiny leotard covered legs were crossed at the ankles and held tightly together. The pressed white pinafore was without a wrinkle.

She spoke a little louder, "Mommy please, I need to go to the bathroom." Four, perhaps five years old, the little girl appeared much older. As she stood near her engrossed parents in Chicago's O'Hare airport, Sandy was too patient, too sedate for a normal child of her age.

Fighting in strained intense tones, her parents seemed oblivious to the child's persistent yet patient requests. Another few minutes passed. Slowly she reached up and touched her mother's arm. "Mommy, please!" The mother grabbed the little girl by her shoulders, "Well go then. Sandy, will you grow up? Can't you see I'm busy talking to your father? Go!"

While her parents resumed muffled retaliations above the noise of the airport hubbub, Sandy backed away. Pulling herself even more erect, she started walking hesitantly down the crowded hall. A curious marionette in a well-starched pinafore, Sandy paused now and again. Trying her best to look grown up, she mostly appeared frightened, confused, alone.

Jimmy

Months and miles away, another child was playing quietly under the chairs of his mother's table in an airport cafeteria. Jimmy appeared to be about four. His very young mother painted and repainted her face, sipping cocktails with abrupt anxious movements. Every few minutes she would jump up and run to the door, nervously checking for the arrival of the plane for which she was so impatiently waiting.

Jimmy darted after her, "Wait, Mommy, wait!" She would turn, put one hand on her hip and point a threatening finger in his direction.

"Get back there! Do you want to ruin this relationship, too? Damn it, Jimmy, leave me alone!" Glaring at his mother, he retreated to the table and began taking sugar packets out of a bowl and tossing them one by one on the floor. For this behavior, Jimmy would get soundly shaken, slapped on the backside and banished to his stainless steel shelter. "Get back under there, you brat. You're just like your drunken old man! Stay out of the way!"

During one such interaction, the mother pushed her drink at him, trying to be careful that no one witnessed the offering. He drank some and made a face. She force fed him some more, "Look at you, you like it, don't you? You're going to be a drunk just like that no good dad of yours!"

Dragging him out from under the table, his mom combed his hair with abrupt rough motions. Finished with his grooming, she stared at Jimmy with blank harshness and shoved him back under the table prison. He gazed up at his mom while she retouched her lipstick one more time.

Danny

In another place and time four-year-old Danny stood, eyes opened wide, marvelled by the abundance of a department store toy section. The Yupik Eskimo child was running his hand gently across the face of a blond, white-skinned doll. His parents stood close by, silent, stoic, glancing at him frequently, nervously. Their eyes seemed to suggest, perhaps urge Danny to remember that gentle touches were enough.

Across the aisle from Danny, a little white boy sat cross-legged on the floor. Zooming a truck in circles around himself, the boy filled the air with imitations of diesel engines and airhorns.

After a time, the little boy's father, obviously frustrated from looking for his child, appeared at the end of the aisle, "Damn it, son!" he yelled, "Get up off that floor; you look like a drunk, squattin' Indian!"

Danny's parents looked away immediately. Their eyes fell to the floor as they moved slowly toward their boy. There was a sense of urgency in still downcast glances. With hushed briskness, Danny's parents whisked him out of the store. Not a word was spoken.

© 1996 Health Communications, Inc.

About the Author

Jane Middelton-Moz is a therapist who speaks internationally on the topics of multigenerational grief and trauma, and cultural and ethnic self-hate. She has over 20 years experience in community mental health work, including a position as clinical director of the largest mental health organization in western Washington. Jane Middleton-Moz has appeared on national radio and television shows, including Oprah. She is the author of After the Tears, Growing in the Shadows, Children of Trauma and Shame and Guilt.