TW: Mentions of dysphoria, family trauma, and sexual abuse
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about echoes lately. Not the “shout into a cavernous space and hear it come back to you” kind of echo either. The kind of echoes that come rippling off from events, people, and circumstances in the past. I’ve been largely unaware of these before the past couple months, and I think my blindness was a choice in part. It can be depressing to face the traumas that have conditioned me to behave, think, and react the ways I do, and so I avoided them.
It’s amazing to me how long these echoes last. And sometimes, how quickly they can take root and start to adjust the way you think and act.
Around my birthday, I received a video message from an aunt I am on friendly terms with, but don’t speak often to. She has treated me with nothing but kindness, and yet I saw the unopened message and my gut clenched in fear. I stared at the icon, debated whether to click, and decided I’d never know what she said unless I actually listened. Even so, I prepared myself for vitriol and anger. I prepared myself for a verbal whipping or some backhanded insults. Maybe I’d done something wrong that I couldn’t remember? Had she changed her mind about wanting to be in my life still after coming out? Maybe she secretly despised or resented me?
The moment I opened the message and it began playing a recording of her singing me happy birthday, I was awash with relief…and shame. Shame because I’d expected venom instead of the love she has always so freely given. It felt unfair to her that I had judged her so quickly, and I spent a few hours wrestling with why I’d exhibited such a knee-jerk reaction to someone who had never slighted me before.
It wasn’t long before I found the root of fear that had crept up on me—the majority of my family has, in essence, disowned me either for being transgender or my coming forward with news of sexual assault. They’ve ceased to contact me, and although I ask my mom about their well-being ever so often, I am told they do not ask after me. I am not surprised. Even when we were in contact, they refused to use my name or my pronouns (this I still respected, although I hated it). I was met with requests to not contact their families, to not associate with their children. I was told who I am was a result of my sin nature, that I had fallen prey to the “lies of the enemy”, and that I was reveling in sin. Who I am was debased, time and time again. All in the name of love—in the name of pulling me back from the proverbial edge.
It cut me deeper than I knew at the time. When I received their texts or emails—and later the lack of them—it left wounds in the shape of betrayals I wasn’t aware of. My mistrust of familial ties firmed, and I developed a view touched with hurt when interacting with others. I don’t trust as easily as I used to. I often assume that people are trying to hurt me (and a lot of times, I’m right). I fear telling my stories, be they regarding transgender issues or my sexual assault, because I’ve been burned by those I loved most.
To be honest, some of the changes stemming from this aren’t negative. I developed protective measures that have kept me safer, wiser, than I was before, and I’m glad. My view of myself has grown bolder, and I’m filled with self-love, self-advocacy, and no apologies. I’ve found that family isn’t in who you’re related to, but in who you choose, and that has given me strength and support I never knew before. I’m a more confident, unapologetic, fearless person than I was at the time of receiving their abuse.
But I know my wounds, if left unnoticed and unchecked, could impede me going forward. I know my mistrust could make me unable to form connections with people, and that my defensiveness could end up hurting those I love most. For now, I’ll keep a close eye on it. I’ll catalog the times my guard comes up and try to find the purpose behind that reaction. I’ll apologize when my hurt becomes someone else’s hurt, and I’ll try to heal what can be healed.
I wonder how much time will ease the ache that I feel when I consider them. I often try to imagine what must be going through their heads—are they thinking of me? Are they sorry for how things went between us? Are their views shifting to more compassionate, tender avenues of existence? Or do they still hold disdain and righteous indignance towards everything that I am and love? Am I still a blight on the family tree?
Worse yet, have they thought of me at all?
I’ll probably never know the answer to these questions, and in all honesty, I’m not certain I want to. The damage inflicted by our fallout is deep and wide and crushing. There are some days I ask myself how I survived the severing between us at all. I was so raw back then, only a few months past, and so full of desperation to keep them even at my own expense.
But the thing is, I don’t feel that way anymore.
I love my family. I don’t know if I can ever stop doing that, but I do not want them in my life. The consequence of their actions towards me, and the consequence of my growth through this, is that I can no longer bear that sort of intolerance in my life. Even if they had a sudden heart change and decided to begin treating me as a human being capable of thought and autonomy, the breakage between us is too complete, too deep for me to welcome them back. I would applaud their journey from afar, I might even rejoice their growth.
But allowing them back into my life? No, I do not think I could abide in that, even if I wanted to.
It’s important for me to remember that finding peace and joy in my own life does not require allowing those that have maimed me back into that space. I do not owe them a redemption arc, nor do I plan to give it to them should they request it in the future. It is not my job to assuage their guilt or quell their fears. I do not have to be their friend, because it isn’t my responsibility to change them or “fix” them. I reject that narrative, and if you’re a trauma survivor faced with reconciling with your abuser, I would recommend that you consider your choice in this carefully as well.
I don’t say all this because I want them to remain intolerant, ignorant individuals. But I’ve bore the brunt of keeping others happy for so long. The weight grew unbearable, and my personhood disappeared beneath that burden for many years. Long enough I almost took my own life trying to suppress it. It was only when I stopped trying to keep everyone happy, stopped to trying to measure up and cater to other people’s expectations of what I am, that I found joy.
Consequently, it was the same time they left. The irony of that is not lost on me. My finding myself resulted in me losing them. I could not have myself and my family at the same time, and so I chose me over them. It hurt me and it broke me and it healed me all at once.
Those echoes. I’m still finding them. I probably will be for a long time hence—ripples of trauma that flow outward and bounce off situations, people, and attitudes. I flinch when I should be steady, I run when I should stay. I’m defensive, and strong, and wary.
But the good news in all this? I’m in control. How this unfolds is entirely up to me. Yes, I have a lot of shit to unpack, sort through, and assess. I have trust to rebuild within me and tenderness to uncover again, but I also have faith in myself. I have faith that self-awareness and self-work (and some folks around me not afraid to call me on my harmful coping mechanisms) will help me move forward.
So, friends. If you’re reading this and you have trauma in your life, if you’re doing the hard work of cutting out the negative consequences from that and celebrating the positive ones like I am, I’m proud of you. Remember to give yourself patience and mercy. Psychological wounds are just as real as physical ones, so take your recovery seriously. You deserve the time, gentleness, and love that you give others.
