Breaking the Cycle
Photo Courtesy | Crystal James
BY CRYSTAL JAMES
It was the beginning of our first camping trip of the season. My husband had already started breakfast on our summer splurge, a flat top griddle grill. Coffee was percolating on our vintage Coleman stove. Drinking coffee outside in the morning hits differently. The coffee aroma feels nostalgic somehow like sipping coffee next to the spirits of previous generations. I poured a little milk into my mug, scrimping to ensure we had enough all week for our traditional breakfast, cornmeal pancakes. I carefully carried the hot stainless steel pot to the picnic table, stepping over beach toys buried in fine black dirt which my son appropriately named dirt-sand then dodging the dirt-filled blanket that our dogs were peacefully sleeping on. Still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes from a restless night in the rooftop tent cramped with dogs and children when I noticed mold growing in my mug. I sighed in disgust, and then I scolded myself in my head for not carefully washing the dishes before packing them in the tote for our trip. At that moment, I completely dismissed the hours I spent carefully washing and drying the rest of the dishes. The mugs were packed separately and were missed in my meticulous inspection.
I grunted at what to do next. I had milk to dispose of, but I wasn’t sure where to do it. I stared at the milk, wishing one of those spirits would whisper what to do with it. I felt paralyzed by how to proceed like one wrong move, and I’d step on an explosive. This is the result of growing up in an alcoholic home. I am constantly fighting an internal battle – one where I’m about to get into trouble by an invisible being but in reality, there’s no one in my vicinity that will actually yell at me. The remnants of an alcoholic father are just like the mold growing in the mug; easily overlooked, and if left untreated, it only spreads.
Typically I'd look for camping advice from my husband, but he took my young son to the restroom, our first camping trip was a modern setup which I was thankful for. I walked across the way to the water spigot and saw the drain. I figured the small amount of milk would be fine dumped down the drain. As I poured it with running water, it pooled on top of the drain and over the land. The “small” amount of milk was no longer. The clouded pool continued to maneuver in every direction filling the sidewalk cracks and crevices and pouring down the side of the hill. All I could think about was how foul it would inevitably turn in the summer heat even though the campground was well shaded and well ventilated from the crisp Lake Michigan air.
I continued on with panicking. I became suspicious of every person walking past like they were judging me for idiotically dumping milk, and they would all hate me for the smell, and they would all gossip about how I was the one that made this terrible mistake. I called myself a stupid idiot over and over in my head. Or at least that’s what I thought until I saw my seven-year-old daughter looking straight back at me as the words left my mouth repeatedly. It was as if I couldn’t hear the mean comments I was repeating until I saw her expression. Her facial expression was a mixture of curiosity, confusion, and concern.
At that moment, I wanted to reverse time. I’ve always been proud of myself for conscious parenting decisions like never saying mean things about my body or my looks in front of my children, yet there I was calling myself mean names. For the rest of the trip, I heard my harsh voice through her ears. A voice I typically keep locked in my mind. I couldn’t shake it.
Afterward, I tried to brush it off like it was meaningless. I told her it was silly to speak to myself that way and attempted to reassure her that mistakes happen. I fumbled through an explanation that sometimes people regret decisions, and they beat themselves up for it even though they shouldn’t. I tried to back-peddle quickly. It was like when I witnessed a little girl my daughter’s age soaring down the hill on her razor without shoes with a look of fear and regret as she yelled that she couldn’t stop. I was that little girl. Making a simple mistake with milk was one thing but berating myself in front of my child was far worse. I couldn’t jump off that razor quickly enough.
For the rest of the trip, I kept recalling an early therapy session. I had told my therapist I often felt like I was going to get into trouble and yelled at; always unprovoked, and other times, I worried about my decisions. She asked what kind of inner voice monologue happens during those moments; I told her I hear things like “I’m stupid and idiotic.” She asked who’s voice is associated with it. At the time, I told her I wasn’t sure because I couldn’t remember anyone specifically calling me names. Over the course of two and half years of therapy, I’ve realized my father constantly berated my mom and all of us children. He called us all mean names and his voice made its way into my psyche.
What hurts the most is that I didn’t realize how often his voice is in my head talking down to me until recently. Now that I'm aware, it feels like a running tally. He passed away earlier this year, and yet I can’t shake his voice from coming alive. I always tell my children that when someone passes away, we carry them with us through memory, and we cherish their essence through dreams, smells, and even voices in our minds. Except I never mention that we must take the bad with the good. I hear his mean voice through the same process that I hear my late grandmother’s sweet voice. Her goofy, giddy laughter and her sweet, calm demeanor live in the same spot in my brain as my father’s voice berating the household that I grew up in. It’s all a part of me though.
That night, in the tent, I looked into my daughter’s large hopeful eyes and explained that sometimes we get mad at ourselves, and might even say mean things towards ourselves so we don’t make the same mistake twice. I told her it’s not the best way to ensure we don’t make another mistake, but that was the only way I learned as a kid. I told her she has the choice not to do that though. I asked her what she would do if she made a mistake. She simply said, “When I pour milk by accident, I clean it up . . . just like you did.” Then she continued, “Next time you could just clean up your milk without saying those mean things to yourself.” I smiled at her innocence and honesty, then said, “You’re absolutely right. We can just fix our mistakes the best we can without saying mean things to ourselves in the process because mistakes happen.”
I realize that my father was the result of generational trauma, and although he tried to get sober here and there, he couldn’t shake what his father said or did to him. But I have an advantage; I have self-reflection and self-awareness on my side. I want to continue to improve and become a better version of myself year after year. I recognize that spirits live in me, and I can choose who to listen to.
I want to take the experience of accidentally berating myself in front of my young, impressionable child in a beautiful setting off the coast of my favorite lake, and I want to feel it all; the good and the bad. I want to feel the guilt of what I unintentionally did to her, and I want to feel what I said to myself so that I can change. Hopefully, by breaking these cycles, recognizing that mistakes happen and being gentler with myself in the process, I can prevent her from criticizing herself or being paralyzed by wrong decisions, or worrying about mistakes. One way I can do all of that is by writing. So here I am.
CRYSTAL JAMES is a mother of two young children. She is writing from Grand Rapids, Michigan. She is a writer, poet, and artist. She believes in the power of being vulnerable with an open heart. This honest approach to writing helps her heal and grow with the hope of helping others along the way. She has been published in Kindred Voice, Journal of Expressive Writing, and has upcoming publishing with Motherscope, and Women’s Writing Circle Anthology. She actively posts poetry on her Instagram account at wordsbycrystaljames. She’s been featured on several IG poetry communities (Poetic Reveries, Streetwriters, the Writers Turf).