What will they remember?

[Tee]

Wrote this the other day when I was struggling in a loop after freaking out on my daughter.

WHAT WILL THEY REMEMBER?
What will be remembered when the years go by
The times I yelled and screamed at them the times I made them cry
What will they remember as they grow from babes to teens
Will they remember snow forts, science center, zoos or the times in between
What will they remember as they start thier life after high school
Will they treasurer the time they had with us as we taught them to not be cruel
What will be remembered as they grow into adults
Will the good drown out the bad or will they blame me for my faults
What will they remember as they start families of your own
Will they remember the love and snuggles the movie nights the fun
What will they remember when they look back at their life
Will they see a mom who tried to them help grow as she became a better mother and wife
What will they remember when when all is said and done
Is the struggle that I face daily going to be seen or well hidden
What will they remember?

[bluepalm]

Tee, thank you for this lament, which resonated with me. You ask:

"Is the struggle that I face daily going to be seen or well hidden
What will they remember?"

My experience has shown me that 'well hidden' is the answer for me.

It took emotional work, supported by therapy, to keep my struggles as well hidden from my children as I could for decades as I raised them on my own. And now, having done that imperfectly, it's taken work, again supported by therapy,  to accept that it's never going to be the job of my children to understand my daily struggles, as I raised them or now; that there's no catharsis to come with my children, who are now grown men.

While I've shared with them in recent years some explanation for the shape of their lives, for what happened in my childhood and marriage, I've accepted (I think) that they're always going to be my babies and I will always have a responsibility to shelter them as best I can, to protect them from the miseries I experienced in life. And to the extent that they suffered from seeing my pain and grief or from my failing them because I reached the limits of my energy or patience or ability to control my feelings, I now feel 'that was as it was'.

I cannot continue to beat myself up for my failures. They came in large part from how wounded I was as a baby, a child,  a wife, through no fault of my own. Feeling a mix of regret and compassion is where I've landed at the moment. And having my struggles largely 'hidden', not seen, is actually a relief. I feel it helps me in my healing journey now.

[Kizzie]

I don't know if either of you have seen this but it's one of my favourite blog articles ever:

A Love Letter to Cycle Breaking Heroes

by Annie Reneau

There are superheroes among us. Disguised as ordinary moms and dads, members of this league of extraordinary parents change diapers, pack lunches, and tuck kids in at night just like the rest of us. But behind the scenes, they battle forces of darkness none of us can see.

My dad was one of these superheroes. I was unaware of it through much of my childhood, though the signs were there. I don't remember when I first took note of the cape tucked neatly under his sweater vest, but by the time I left home, I had some idea of how much time and energy he spent fighting the villains in his head.

Growing up, I heard stories and parts of stories. A grandfather beating his wife before chasing his sons down an alley with his police pistol. A mother plagued by alcoholism and anger. Six siblings from six different fathers. A precious violin smashed to pieces in a drunken rage. Bit by bit, the picture of my father's upbringing was painted in blacks and blues. He didn't tell us everything—just enough to give us a sense of where he came from. Superheroes must keep some secrets, after all.

Now that I have three kids of my own and a keen understanding of how difficult parenting can be under the best of circumstances, I recognize my dad for the cycle-breaking hero that he was. I'm well aware that the * he lived through as a kid, simply by being born into a wounded family, could easily have been my own fate. The cycles of addiction and abuse, the inheritance of personal and parental tools in need of serious repair, the passing down of bitterness and rage like family heirlooms—I've witnessed these phenomena in other families over the years.

It's the easiest thing, for mortals to be human.

But at some point, my dad stepped into a phone booth and vowed to be more than the sum of his upbringing. He took on the monsters that followed him and declared war on the dysfunctional demons he carried. He chose to give his children the childhood he didn't have.

And for the most part, he succeeded. I remember fun family vacations, laughter around the dinner table, prayers and hugs at bedtime. I can still see my dad giggling to the point of tears when my brother announced his pet rock pooped on the floor. I can smell his famous hash browns cooking with Stevie Wonder blaring on the record player Sunday mornings. I can hear his voice filling the room at choir concerts, plays, awards ceremonies, and graduations—"THAT'S MY DAUGHTER!" He was always proud of me. I always knew I was loved, deeply and sincerely.

But there were battle scars he couldn't hide. I remember watching him leave in the evening to attend ACOA (Adult Children of Alcoholics) meetings and wondering what went on there. I recall pleasant but wary visits with uncles and grandparents and a dim awareness of extended family member drama. I still feel the grief of my dad's beloved younger brother's suicide when I was ten—too young to understand that my sweet, funny uncle had been fighting the same war as my dad, but had lost.

And I did witness occasional losing battles—jaws clenched, eyes flashing as the demons surfaced, changing the weight of the air in the room. I remember moments when my mother (a superhero in her own right) calmly tamed those monsters. I remember staring them down myself once, begging my father to fight harder before he silently carried the beasts off to battle alone. He always apologized for battles lost.

But I remember many more battles won. Struggle and strength manifested in deep breaths and strained brows. There was a speed and energy to his movements when he took on the rage monster. I instinctively knew to step lightly, to give him space to build his fortresses and strategize without distraction. In time, I discovered some of his weapons—faith, prayer, books, routine, decompression time, classic rock albums—and saw how much easier the fight was if he kept them well-maintained and at the ready.

I know it wasn't easy. I'm sure he feels he failed us in some ways. My dad wasn't perfect, it's true. But neither is any parent—or superhero, for that matter. All have their kryptonite. But the fact that he kept returning to that phone booth defines his fatherhood for me. I admire my dad for many reasons, but none so much as his courage and fortitude on his internal battlefield....

You can read the reminder of the article here - http://www.motherhoodandmore.com/2015/12/a-love-letter-to-the-cycle-breakers.html

[Tee]

Thanks Kizzie that hit home. 

[bluepalm]

Yes, thank you Kizzie for reading and responding so kindly with something so on point. It helps to think that others can recognise all the silent lonely struggles as taking the courage they do.

[Kizzie]

   I like the thought that as parents we do vow to be more than the sum of our upbringing and our children are forgiving of the inevitable mistakes we make (all parents make), because of the love we have given them.

[RiverRabbit]

A psychologist told my wife that our job is to make our kids feel safe and protected.  And, that I was doing them harm when I spiral into catastrophic thinking.

When my wife told me this it floored me.  Self loathing eclipsed all other thinking.

I have been struggling to break the cycle of abuse, and now I was being told I was doing harm in spite of how I struggle not to.

I feel a deep fear and dread about harm I have caused before I determined to fight this... to change who I was shaped to be by abuse.  I feel shame and deep sadness to know that I still do harm (emotionally) when I loose some of these internal battles... it is not supposed to be their problem.

So, what you wrote is something I struggle with often... and what Kizzie shared helps me to see some hope, some reason to keep fighting, and not just give up and fall back into the void.

[Tee]

My T keeps telling me that my kids know they are loved.  That I apologise for the mistakes I make which is a major difference than my up bringing.  So where I struggle with my inner critic my T reassures me that they will remember the love and the negative will fade because I work to repair those mistakes. 
River rabbit you are not alone don't give up the fight.  Keep writing to repair the mistakes, and trying to do it better the next time.   
Thanks for letting me know my words have meaning to you.