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 through our lineage.
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 as wisdom,
Whispered into the welts on his beloved, bleeding son.
Procreated by denial, determination and duty,
Their sins are trampled deep into the fabric of my DNA.
By the broken in boots brandished by my father,
Pulling myself up first by bootstraps, then by noose.
7 generations of trauma, handed down like a legacy,
Seared into my thoughts, my mind, into my fertility.
Mother’s hushed voice shrouded behind a sunny smile,
“Wicked child, my wounds are your fault, I love you.”
Wilting under the weight of her wounds, my birth rite.
Chin up, silent, dutiful, beautiful, intelligent, slit wrists,
Head high, lips sewn shut, seductive, sweet, tortured.
My screams stifled, shut down, begging for freedom,
Stifled by 500 pills poured down my slender throat.
Seeping out, escaping, brainiac dripping with blood,
Off the charts IQ escapes in slices, self inflicted at 17.
Buried again under the kissed on stitches and scars,
Birthed into the beautiful blue eyes of my daughter.
Echoing under, reverberating, patterned, my parenting,
My child protests as she is ripped out of my arms.
My never self searching nor speaking truth,
A cyclic sentence, I am responsible to reveal, to break.
7 generations untied, unravel, initiated by my suffering.
Scared little me, fearless liberator of my family line.
Broken open, the truth is revealed, my ancestral role-
Sent here, Hell, head high, had enough, to hold a torch,
To burn it all to the ground.
Defiant, determined, deliberately deliver from fear.
Liberated from lingering lies, to stand with the truth.
The truth is:
Long before I was an independent, modern-day woman,
Lost in the illusion of a lover raised by an unwounded father,
Before the tortured touch of that sick soul on my 4 year old flesh,
Before war became a game, parcheesi for 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 the its sacred divinity,
My soul made a choice:
Learn what it means to be free:
Uncover the wisdom in your wounds:
When they look at you, let them see a reflection of their own beauty, the truth. In silence my ancestors appear, whispering in my ear:The truth is:
I AM soft and sweet, despair and love, my weapons, My heavy, sticky, dirty soul is worthy of love, is love.You are love, I am love, direct expressions, art of God, Intentional!
The Universal truth of the divine paradox,
The manifest universe observing itself,
In wonder, significant and insignificant, connected.As above, so below,
As within, so without.
The truth is, in my example, my actions:
I cannot wipe my daughters slate perfectly clean,
I gifted her the same pain of 7 generations:
I also gift her the breaking of a cycle:
I speak honestly about the wounds I bestowed on her,
I own that, I am responsible,
I teach her the things I had to bleed to learn,
I set ten thousand fires and burn 10,000 times,
I show her I rise in strength from ashes, transformed,
I show her how to stand in, to be, to return to love.
I show her that courage and compassion are king,
I show her I remain rooted, no running, fuck fear.
I show her to search for lessons in her shadow,
I acquaint her to the army of her ancestors,
I walk, talk and breathe my truth, and she hers.
I sit with the broken to learn more valuable lessons than dining with the rich.
The truth is:
I cannot take away the reality of the pain I have caused,
I can be an example of how to love without fear.
I find confidence through humility and gratitude,
I celebrate as I witness her stand in her truth:
Love is the truth.
“God” is love, so we are love.
“God” is darkness so we are darkness.
We must explore, learn, understand this to know ourselves.
I rise, no longer splintered; whole:
So her great great great great granddaughter not have to wage war within herself; born free.
Free from the 7 generations of trauma, passed down;
A gift from mother’s mother to my mother to me.
Megan Forrest
