A Broken Record 📀

And the B-side of Abandonment

I felt like I was violently catapulted into my psychic awakening. An initiation of emotional flashbacks that seemed to unfold chronologically from childhood through adulthood, like my whole life flashing before my eyes and I wasn’t even dead. Witnessing violence at a young age, having an absent father, being a target for bullies in the schoolyard, and all the moments that showed me when the seeds of shame had been planted.

One experience that stood out in particular was my 8th birthday. My mother and stepfather dropped me off with my dad and grandparents so that I could celebrate with them while we were in town visiting for the weekend. I had been desperately wanting a new bike since mine, a second-hand jalopy my mother found for me, had been stolen. 

I felt elated when my grandfather rolled out a shiny two-wheeler, banana seat, high-rise handlebars—bike! It was marvelous, and it was all mine. I rode it up and down the street with the neighborhood kids feeling special and like I owned the road. I couldn’t wait to show my friends when I got home. This meant I didn’t have to ride on their handlebars anymore. I could now ride beside them.

When my mother and stepfather came to pick me up, there was an argument. My grandmother wouldn’t let me have the bike. The rule was the bike had to stay at her house in New Hampshire and I wasn’t allowed to take it home with me to New York. As I climbed into the backseat of my parents' Volkswagen, I knew I must have done something wrong. I didn’t deserve the bike after all. I watched the tears roll down my stepfather’s cheek and the three of us cried as we drove away.  

Maybe this was just one moment in time I lost trust in the adults around me. Perhaps a few seeds of shame were dropped into my foundation of Self when I learned that I wasn’t truly worthy of receiving a gift. Years later, my mother was so generous to throw me a surprise sweet 16. When I walked in the house and saw dozens of my classmates and friends yell, “Surprise!” I felt mortified! I ran to my bedroom and cried. 

There was a divine reason for the way I was introduced to my healing journey. Seeing my life’s story unfold in that way allowed me to identify the pattern that guided me to the medicine. The patterns of shame, abandonment and conditional love showed me where my worth wasn’t. Instead of developing a secure attachment with my Self, I outsourced it. 

I never would have been able to uncover this if I hadn’t stumbled upon the practice of awareness. When I first sat down to meditate, it was frustrating to always succumb to the constant noise cycling through my brain. I craved quiet time. So I created my own way of releasing the thoughts and returning to conscious presence. 

My practice has evolved over the years and it continues to develop as I go. The lesson is that this practice has become a crucial skill for healing my complex trauma, which was built upon patterns of abandonment and shame and has been playing in the background of my life, like a broken record. I cannot buff out a skip I can’t see. 

A word of warning: there is a B-side. When I saw the roles play out, I felt the impact on myself as a child and also recognized the one I had on my own children. Once I could see the patterns through my lineage, I saw all the ways I had abandoned them too. 

The devastation I felt when I saw the moments knowing abuse was present and choosing to stay. Every time I punished them for normal mistakes instead of displaying emotional support and validation. The moments when I wasn’t able to provide them with true unconditional love and belonging. I never showed them where shame couldn’t live, and where their dignity and worth do.

I felt deprived of motherhood. I immediately felt the shame, heartbreak and regret I had for abandoning them too, and I’m still working on holding that truth. The only way forward from this has been moving to a place of acceptance each time the pain tries to consume me. 

I’m grateful for being able to have a spiritual relationship with my grandmother who passed away decades ago. As much as this journey has felt heavy and challenging, a blessing has been having the ability to connect with her and my other ancestors. She highlighted the pattern, and when I began choosing my dignity over the same dysfunction and abuse, I watched her spirit transform. It felt like I had her permission to choose Me. And each time I do, we both heal a little more.

I’ve never liked celebrating my birthday, and I still feel awkward at times receiving gifts. I’ve had to practice accepting them and reminding myself that I am deserving. This year, for my 55th, I bought myself a cake. I decided that it’s time for me to begin to celebrate my own life again. A self-baptism of sorts, to celebrate my own humanity.

When I look back at that little girl, I tell her she is loved unconditionally, worthy of achieving her dreams and belongs wholeheartedly to herself. 

She tells me that it was never about the bike or that I wasn’t special enough to have it. 

That I still have time to keep healing and take the opportunities to show up differently for my kids and those I love. 

It’s never too late to fix a broken record.

Stay true to your heart.

With Love,

Rev. Jane