Things we haven't talked about

After a lifetime in suppression, the truth has finally risen

Caroline 7 years old

I found the drawings, the ones I made at my father’s office. The architect. I have seen them before, but not like this. Not really seen them. I am not a therapist, and I don’t have any experience with interpreting children’s drawings. My face is red. I have an ugly haircut with a short, short bang. I have learned to understand that the ugly haircut goes with the territory of a neglected child. I have a torso and no lower body. Maybe because there was no space on the sheet. Maybe because of other reasons. The sun is bright and smiling and makes me think about life force. I have a strong life force, and I have needed to have. At the bottom there is something that makes me think of a dead rabbit. I google the meaning of dead rabbit; “It represents fear, trouble, and being lost in life. The dead rabbit connects to witchcraft. It is thought to be a messenger from the underworld.” Of course, nothing less. And most of all, I am drawn to her right eye. It is drooping, the eye looks disconnected. My right eye, the one that suddenly got blind 3 years ago. The reveal of the devastating autoimmune diagnosis - the start of the real healing journey. I have drawn on the back side of a sheet. On the front there is a drawing of a building. The architect’s drawing. I know the building, it was built when I was young, in my hometown. It is still standing.

I let the story begin here, of course it started earlier. How early I’m not sure. Maybe it began when they killed and burned women on bonfires, 500 years ago.

The little girl has so much tension in her throat. Sometimes it is difficult to swallow food when they have dinner. Rice and shredded carrots - got stuck in her throat. In her thirty’s she got an unbelievable stiff jaw. Her dentist had never seen anything like it. She couldn’t open her mouth, couldn’t eat. Her mother died later that year, from ovarian cancer. That is also part of this story. Her mother, her grandmother, her great grandmother - a chain of women.

Her father

She has had this special connection with her father. Adored him. It has been like a karmic bond - whatever that is. Her father says he has a telepathic connection with her. That he can feel her, even when she if far away. I wonder if he can still feel me now.

He was the youngest of three children, much younger than his two beautiful sisters. The unwanted child? The child that did not fit into the perfect nuclear family in the 50s? Probably a sensitive and artistic child. He had a lot of eczema. They had to bandage is hands to prevent him from scratching himself. He was told; “After the sweet itch comes the sour sting”. What a strange thing to tell a toddler. Shaming.

He became an architect, a quite reputable one. His buildings were often modern, not always what the customer wanted. He himself, lived in the old house from my mother’s family - as architects often do. A beautiful traditional house from the 20s.

She calls him “daddy”, and sometimes she describes him as “father”. It is like a shift in her, when she feels close to him, he is daddy. When she sees him from afar, he is her father. Despite everything, he is still her father.

The year I was born, in 1974, they bought a small cottage at the coast. A summer cottage. For several years he rebuilt the cottage, and he transported the materials by hand and a wheelbarrow. My energetic father. He that could do anything. He built my favourite place. My cottage at the coast. A place I was safe as a child. He told me a couple of years ago; “Of all the things I have drawn, I am most satisfied with the cottage. That is my best work”. I know daddy, because you did it with your heart.

The cottage and her father with the wheelbarrow

She writes “she” and then she writes “I”. It’s grammatical incorrect. It is a switch in her, from outside to inside. It has to be this way for now. Maybe it is part of the dissociation, the split in me.

Daddy, there is something we have to talk about. Something that happened when I was little, something that wasn’t good.

I hadn’t prepared for this talk. When he called me, I understood that I had to. There was no way around. He was silent for a while.

What do you mean by not good - your childhood was perfect. Do you mean abuse?

Her brother

She was 8 years old when her brother was born. Later she was told that they had tried for several years to get another child. She loved the idea of being a big sister. She became like an extra mother for her brother. He was a troubled child, his skin was dry and flaky like fish skin when he was born. He was riddled with eczema, later asthma. He cried a lot. Her parents alternated between sleeping in the basement and taking care of her brother during the nights. There were no room for her.

Her father threw himself into activities like remodelling their old house, wind surfing, running the local slalom club, expanding his architectural office. Her mother showered her brother with love and care. It was as if her brother became the man in her mother’s life, filled the empty place of a present husband.

Her best friend

She used to be her best friend. The families had known each other in generations. Her mother and her friend’s aunt were friends - from childhood.

The two of them started in kindergarten together, when they were 2 years old. They started school together. Her parents ensured that they got in the same class. Her parents ensured that the friend would take care of her.

Her friend’s grandmother lived in the same house. She welcomed them after school with pancakes with strawberry jam and sugar, meatballs and traditional food. They had homemade cinnamon rolls in the freezer.

She and her friend were very different. She was bright, energetic, popular. Mature for her age. She was also easily frightened and anxious. Her friend was fearless, followed her home in the evenings. Her friend was the leader of the relationship. She sees that now. She had to adjust to her friend, tolerate, accept. It was part of the contract.

The friendship got a hit some years ago. It limped on. They had little contact.

I would like to talk to you about something, something that happened in my childhood. Feel into if you are comfortable with this. If so, maybe we can talk one day.

The message was soon answered with a positive and welcoming message. She felt relieved - felt that this friendship was still valuable. Looked forward to talking with her friend, opening the doors to her secret. To sharing the pain.

There was a long silence on the phone.

Are you still there? Yes I am, and how could you fabricate such a story. You are ruining the lives of everyone around you. You are a hazard to the health of your family. Caroline, you are getting more and more strange, and I will have nothing more to do with you.

I don’t use the term “best friend” anymore.

Her

She gets an image in her head - of a little girl. Maybe two years old. The little girl wears a swimsuit she had when she was 10 years old. A swimsuit with yellow and pink stripes. There is a picture of her brother in that swimsuit from when he was 2 and she was 10. She doesn’t understand the mix up with her brother. The face of the little girl is blurry, there is something she wants to tell. Something that has happened to her that wasn’t good.

I got eczema as a young child. I was not born with it but developed it in childhood. It itched. I was told; “After the sweet itch comes the sour sting”. It is true, the itch is sweet, and the sting is sour. The eczema went away. It came back when my son was born. Went away. Back again when I was a mother of two small children - and then it disappeared. After I got the diagnosis, it came back. If a drank milk, I itched. I got red flares inside my elbows. Like I had as a child. And I got this rash on the right side of my neck. A hot, angry rash. It looked like a cut - a cut in the neck.

She had been in IFS therapy for 3 years. She had worked with her protectors. Gotten to know them, appreciate them. She had worked through generational trauma. Felt into an ancient execution of a woman, something with the neck. Looked into her father’s upbringing. Grieved all the small children that had died in her family in previous generations. Grieved the “not good enough” in her mother line. Looked at the exploitation of the women, the large child groups. The violation of women’s sexuality. The early death of her mother and her grandmother.

She had jumped off the carousel when she got the diagnosis. Followed her instincts. She needed time, time to get well, time to heal. Her general practitioner struggled to understand. She was in the best shape of her life. Fit, strong, tanned. The illness seemed to be silent.

She cut contact with her father, her brother, her in-laws, and she looked into her friendships. She no longer tolerated anything close to abuse. She stepped out of her scapegoat role, met like-minded in the Substack community Healing the Scapegoat Wound. Felt the healing power of a community. Gained strength.

She started in group therapy, shared her dark secret. Eventually learned that half of the participants had a similar story. She felt the ease of being with safe people, spiritual people. The ease of being herself.

She cared for the little girl in the swimsuit, like no one had done earlier. She released her from the front seat. She took over the steering wheel and let go of the little girl’s dream of a happy ending.

She dropped everything for 6 months. Let the dark secret sink in.

The little girl’s daddy

When I picture him from afar, I can still see him as daddy. I can see past everything, and know that somewhere he is my loving, undamaged, caring daddy.