7 generations of inherited trauma

Gifted to me by my mother, 

As the if the shame and guilt are a prize, 

Harrowing heirlooms of our ancestors, 

Handed down as holiness by our grandmothers,

Unspoken, unhealed, unloved fragments,

Split into slivers, bored into the skin of our souls. 

Disguised, coveted, protected, poisoned,

From cross to cradle to grave and over again,

Passed through the wrath of father’s belt like wisdom 

Whispered into the welts on his beloved, bleeding son,

Procreated by denial, determination and duty,

Trampled deep into the fabric of my DNA, 

By the broken in boots brandished by my father,

Pulling myself up first by my bootstraps, then the noose,

7 generations of trauma, handed down like a legacy, 

Seared into my thoughts, my mind, even into my fertility,

My mother still whispers so no one can hear her say,

“Wicked child, my wounds are your fault, I love you.”

I carried the weight of the wounds inflicted on her by my birth,

Chin up, in silence, dutifully, like my grandmother, 

Held held head high, lips pressed tightly, tortured. 

“Quiet, shhh!” My screams, they beg for freedom,

500 pills poured down my choking throat gag them,  

Seeping out, escaping, dripping with the blood, 

Self inflicted wounds on my 17 year old wrists, 

Buried again under the kissed on stitches and scars, 

Birthed into the beautiful blue eyes of my daughter. 

Echoing in my child’s protests as she is ripped out of my arms,

My ancestors were never allowed to speak their truth, 

It has become my purpose to scream the good news.

7 generations of trauma begin to unravel in my truth.

I was sent to lead the liberation of my family line- 

I begin to remember the truth of my ancestral role- 

I was sent to hold a torch and speak the truth.

The truth is:  

Before I was an independent, modern day woman, 

Longing for the illusion of a lover raised by an unwounded 

father, 

Before the touch of that sick soul on my 4 year old flesh, 

Before war became a game played by politicians, 

Before youth and death was indiscernible from pride and profit, 

Before true love became dollar signs and bit coin banks

Before the world forgot it’s sacred divinity,

My soul made a choice: go and show them how to be free: 

Somehow I begin to hear my ancestors whispering truth: 

The truth is: 

I am soft and sweet, so resilience and love become my weapons, 

My sticky, heavy, dirty soul is worthy of love, is love,

You and I are love, a direct expressions of God, 

Intentional creations of a loving creator, 

Universal truth of the divine, as above so below, 

As within, so without, the truth is: 

I cannot wipe my daughters slate perfectly clean, 

I gifted her the same wounds of 7 generations: 

And I will gift her the breaking of a cycle: 

I will speak honestly about the wounds I bestowed on her, 

I will own that responsibility,

I will teach her the things I had to bleed to learn, 

I will set ten thousand fires and burn 10,000 times

Showing her how to rise in strength from ashes, 

I can show her that courage and compassion are king,

I can show her how to remain rooted even in fear,

I can show her the courage to not fear her shadow, 

Acquaint her to the army of her ancestors:

I will teach her to walk, talk and breathe her truth, 

And show her how sitting with the broken teaches more 

valuable lessons than dining with the rich. 

I cannot take away the reality of the pain I caused, 

But I can be an example of how to love without fear.  

To find confidence through humility and gratitude,

She will know the truth is: love is the truth. 

God is love, so we are love.

I will rise for her, no longer broken, but whole: 

So her great great great granddaughter will be born free. 

Free from the 7 generations of trauma, passed down from 

My mother to me.