The Quiet Traumas
Developmental trauma doesn’t need violence and chaos to create lasting impacts.
Photo by Adi Goldstein on Unsplash
Almost every description of childhood trauma I’ve encountered includes multiple elements of overt violence and chaos. Overt violence and chaos are relatively easily defined, and the ACES scale does an excellent job of sussing out when folks have experienced several overt types of childhood experiences that may result in trauma.
My path toward recognition and acceptance of my own developmental trauma took much longer to surface. The oppressive, regimented, quiet nature of my childhood doesn’t fit the common narrative for childhood trauma.
You could set alarms with my family’s schedule. From the time each of us got up, to when the meds were distributed, to what time each meal was served, to Eric’s and my bedtime in the evening. The only variable came in the summer when we were sent out of the house after dinner until the streetlights came on.
The old homestead was neat, with signs of life. We lived there until just after I graduated from college. With some judicious planning, we had enough to get by.
There was food on the table, and we generally ate together. Meals included conversation because books weren’t allowed. (I’m guessing that other electronic devices would have been outlawed if I’d been born decades later.)
The extra funds we had supported weekly meals out and an annual two-week vacation. We did things together and enjoyed each other’s company.
And.
Expectations were clear. When in doubt, choose the quiet and helpful path. Behave well in public. Ask for nothing, expect nothing. Clean up after yourself. And figure it out yourself.
All reinforced by a quiet, unspoken, unseen pressure of the rarely elucidated “or else” that underpinned interactions with Mom. The expectations were rigid enough to tame the wildest of kids because no one ran wild around Mom. She had that effect on children.
From the outside looking in, I’m guessing it looked like we were doing pretty well, given the curveballs we’d been dealt. Yes, the kids were a bit on the quiet side, but so were the parents; ergo, they’re OK.
From the inside, I felt like a rat trapped in a tunnel labyrinth with only one path of travel and a wall following behind me, preventing my escape. There was no room for a misstep or an outburst.
As I ran the path laid out, it felt as if the walls were the only support I had. When I was confused by how kids at school were behaving, there wasn’t an adult to have a conversation with. I just assumed I was wrong somehow and leaned into the rules.
The rigid nature of my environment left no room to breathe. Exploring and taking chances was for books and other folks.
Books became my only way out because, in the isolation created by the exacting nature of my familial expectations, books offered the possibility that I might one day be able to breathe freely.
I spent more than forty years in survival mode. I was so far in the hole for many of them that I had to promise myself an afternoon nap to get out of bed in the morning. Most of them were supported by a bit of fiction or two where people explicitly cared about each other, and I got internal voices to prove it.
It also took more than twenty years for me to see my childhood trauma. Sitting with the abject despair of my younger parts wrenches my heart every time we connect. Even as I work with my pack of rebels, all of them ready to instigate change, some of them way more willing to use violence, I see the rage at having to figure out how to human without help.
I know my parents did the best they could given the hand they were dealt and the tools they had available.
And.
The kid I was forty-some years ago still felt unseen and experienced being unwelcome in my parent’s presence. I was so young in those moments that the only reasons I could comprehend for being told to leave or be quiet were some variation of “I’m not wanted.”
Those messages became a set of agreements I made with myself to keep myself alive. Those agreements were amazingly simple.
Never accept outside assistance.
Never assume you’re wanted in a space.
Never arrive empty-handed.
Never bring problems.
Never take too long.
Never admit a mistake.
Never feel or show your emotions.
Never share about yourself.
Never trust anyone.
Never let anyone in.
In hindsight, and with a lot of support, I’ve shifted most of those agreements. Those shifts happened as my capacity for change slowly aligned with my desire to do the work. A number of those shifts remain works in progress because long-term systemic change takes time and support.
I now walk rooted in the fact that my parent’s reality doesn’t change my experience or the long-term impact of my childhood.
I write this to affirm for those of you wondering if your experiences count as traumatic because there wasn’t violence, rage, or chaos. If there were large swaths of your childhood when you felt lost, unseen, unaccepted, or unwelcome, the challenges you’re dealing with now from those moments might be due to trauma.
The challenge for us as adults looking back at our experiences is that we look back with the capacity to understand complexity and context, and not with the limited perspectives available to a child.
Looking back, you can see how your caregivers tried and what tools they didn’t have at hand. Their reality doesn’t change your experiences. I imagine you have your own agreements you made during that time. Are you still operating from them? Do you want to shift them?
Acknowledging these experiences and tracing how your response to them shows up in your life today can be useful as you look to shift your behavior patterns. These bits of insight often create space for you to practice compassion while providing self-talk language that recognizes the value of an old behavior as you ask yourself to choose something different today.
A special thanks to Ravyne Hawke for the prompt agreement via Promptly Written.
