Time is a therapist

Your assumption when reading this title may be that, "Oh, of course. Time heals all wounds, as they say." Which isn't the truth. What moves you will always matter, to varying degrees. What makes you feel sadness now will continue to carry memories and feelings that relate you to a sense of loss and grief. What causes you to experience anger will continue to motivate pet peeves and future frustrations. However, we can work to reduce the severity of these experiences and detach from the immediate reactions that persist in our earlier years.

One of the most humbling experiences for me over my 20+ year journey working with psychologists, psychiatrists, counsellors, therapists, hypnotherapists, shamans, practitioners, teachers, and sages was a realization that could only come with time. Not because of how hard I worked on healing, or how diligently I practiced my budding skills, but as a result of the distance between my physical self and the systems and environments that nurtured that initial trauma. There have been a few massive shifts like this since, but this one struck me in a way that forever changed how I look at the healing journey and my attitude towards the work.

A warning that this article highlights experiences around addiction, domestic violence, emotional abuse, and family-based trauma. Please use your discretion to protect your wellbeing.

I deeply love my family of origin. I told them, 'My soul chose you on purpose, and I'm grateful that it did.' My parents were pleased that if I could have selected any family in the Universe, it was this one. This life. This experience. I had already spent years recovering from past traumas, bankruptcy, and homelessness, and was back on the wagon. We'd had many conversations as I tried to educate my family on what was happening in my world. I would see their statements as proof of their growth alongside me, ignoring their actions and attitudes that belied them.

After countless hours with various professionals and multiple cycles of leaving known social circles for higher-quality relationships, I was no closer to being in a healthy, loving partnership. I had walls up all day, every day, and was still performing in ways that kept everyone around me running smoothly. In fact, my mental health challenges were seen to reinforce the stories that my family would always need to care for me, that I wasn't great with success, and that I would eventually need to seek support with my finances. These wounds went deep. My identity at the time relied on others' generosity and willingness to understand.

I wasn't ready to see this for the problem that it was. I was happy to be in a comfortable role, telling myself the stories I always had that people were doing the best they could, that it was a personal problem. Over 2 decades, I was able to convince my Mom to attend one session of counselling with me. She chose the professional. She said what was expected when asked. I was so very desperate to get her to participate in an act of healing that I took that one experience as full payment on the dream. Interestingly enough, that conversation revolved around a debate that we had been in for years, my sexuality. My Mom expressed that she knew me better than anyone, even myself. Seeing our relationship more clearly than either of us could, the professional prodded her to state that "Yes, I would absolutely accept you regardless of who you were in a relationship with".

When I'd established the Foundation and was deep in the research, alongside my healing work, I focused on repairing relationships and practicing what I'd learned. I revisited extended members of the family, including the married-into-the-family relative that I'd been close to since we'd moved to Calgary. I'd been 14 years, and this individual had been 51 years, with a life full of stories (which was valuable currency in my family), delivered with charm for all the women in the family, and somehow, he saw me. A young girl on the cusp of womanhood, eager to be seen as the adult I had been forced to be so early on in my life, and full of the doe-eyed appreciation that he desperately craved to validate himself.

I didn't quite register any of this, even 20 years later, as I gained my footing in sobriety again. I realized that I had not seen him in a while, and, as I was on this path of reconnecting with my family and getting back to where things were, it made sense to me to reach out and set up a lunch. I was now 37 years old, and he was 74 years old, twice my age now. I was at the tail end of a 7-year stretch with no personal transport vehicle, so he picked me up and we headed to the restaurant. It was in the thick of COVID, so even as I had moved away from the systems I'd known as part of my recovery, we were affected by the larger systems change of the pandemic and having not seen each other in a few years.

He was not dealing with the change as well as I was, communicating through less of a filter. Or perhaps I had been the one filtering him, which was more likely. Throughout the meal, he freely spoke of illegal coping mechanisms that debased his relationship with his partner, and asked me inappropriate questions. He asked for pictures that I would share with him of my body or to tell him stories about my own exploits, like I used to. I felt used, stunned, and went into a grey mode (or gray rock mode), as I now do with those displaying narcissistic or abusive tendencies. I ate what I could. When I walked with him back to the vehicle, I could feel his eyes on my body, and I felt sick.

I brought it up to my parents again, experiencing flashbacks to a similar "intervention" style interaction at 16 years old. I felt numb this time, witnessing my Mom attempt to comfort me by placating, and my Dad silently sit across the room, stewing in his anger. 20 years later, this was a familiar scene. Once I'd seen the truth of the behaviour, I saw it in them all, and couldn't unsee it. We couldn't fully acknowledge the monstrosity of the situation if we refused to recognize the monster. Instead, it was more of "that's how he's always been," and the gist was that it wasn't worth challenging the larger family story. Worse was the unspoken blame for what I did to bring this situation about. No parent wants to reckon with taking responsibility for their part in creating an unsafe environment for their children. I realize that my parents were doing the best they could. I loved them for being as caring and loving as they had learned to be.

They learned that my youngest brother was planning on giving me his older vehicle, as he was working with my parents to purchase a newer one. They took the car apart in my Grandma's garage, detailing it and putting it back together with the help of Pick-Your-Part over 4 days. They gave it to me as a gift, with a bill for $500 for unexpected costs. Because I was starting up my car insurance after so long, it took everything for me to put together the $2000 for the lump sum payment. I didn't pay my parents' bill. It cracked me open, so I could let new light in. Like all good eureka moments, I felt an increase in compassion and understanding. It also unlocked new waves of grief and loss. I acknowledged repressed anger and began a new chapter in my healing journey, with a new perspective on "the work".

This wasn't the article that I sat down to write. It feels right, though. This is only one story, about one aspect of my disabilities and mental health challenges. I know that it's a big one for me. Time has a way of letting us come to terms with things, thankfully recognizing when we're ready to move on. Learning these kinds of lessons is part of life's universal path. Like realizing that people are neither perfectly good nor bad, or that life is more complex than we can imagine, but not as complicated as we make it out to be. These truths are taught through our relationships and governed by time, through growth, and love.