I recently wrote a post about all of the things that I realized about my trauma Journey throughout the making of Traumatized Motherfuckers. Namely, the fact that the obvious traumas I had experienced early in life and then repeated with new relationships in my twenties were not actually the most impactful events and relationships that I’ve had.
It’s easy to focus on the big, hulking, screaming aggression in your life. It’s easy to reason that this is not acceptable or healthy behavior. It’s a lot harder to come to terms with the fact that your “good parent” imparted insidious abuse lessons that have marred your existence, all along, unnoticed.
In fact, as I reported in that recent post, I would say now that my covertly abusive mother has had a larger negative effect on my mental health than my openly violent father did.
But another thing that I’ve been struggling with throughout the making of this trauma research project has been trying to understand why my mother and brothers have been so antagonistic towards me. Why they have transparently mocked my research and recovery. Why they have doubled down on old abuse tactics and in some cases revealed new ones as they abruptly turned against me, one by one.
It’s been a real mind fuck for the past two years.
And I have allowed my mind to get turnt inside out trying to understand it; devoting countless hours, days, and weeks to ruminating on every negative word they’ve spoken and all the positive words they’ve redacted.
As far as trauma goes, exile and scapegoating scrutiny from the entire nuclear family has been a significant one.
And I just couldn’t stop thinking about it, because this ever-inquisitive brain couldn’t stop asking the big Q… “BUT WHY?”
Considering my feelings of love for them, healing intentions, and desire to help everyone I can… what the fuck was the reasoning for this affront that took over my family life?
I mean, let’s not be too high on our horse.
Sure, I’ve talked a significant amount of shit about my mother on the show as time has progressed. But only in response to her aggressions. And I’ve held my tongue more than I’ve let it fly.
And my brothers have an ingrained protective instinct towards both my mom and dad that painted me as an enemy as soon as they realized the show discussed our childhood home. “WE’RE NORMAL! YOU HAVEN’T SEEN SHIT!” they’ve insisted.
Plus, my estranged father’s untimely death didn’t help anything. It stirred up a lot of repressed bitterness about the relationship I didn’t have with him. For the show to mention his addictive and violent ways (before his death, mind you), did not help the situation.
But, still, the antagonism that’s been received never felt like it matched the intention of the show, or the purpose of my moving across the country to be closer to them in the wake of the loss, or the information about the family that I’ve shared with the internet.
My mind could not stop obsessively overthinking about their reasoning and their abandonment.
Until… it finally snapped into place one recent day and that mystery was solved.
My family turned against me and maintained their position over these past four years, simply, because….. I’M THE PROBLEM.
And furthermore, because “The family beard ran off and joined the circus.” Which then opened their eyes to problems they weren’t ready to admit existed, while coloring me a baffling “outsider” to the entire clan.
Suddenly, I claimed to have TOO MUCH in common with them, in ways they didn’t want to admit. And yet, demonstrated that I turned out NOTHING LIKE THEM in ways that challenged the tenants and outcomes of their lives. All while discussing issues that, in their eyes, are as valid as hollow earth theory.
So, yes, it’s really no wonder that I went from the family golden child to the blacksheep who could starve to death in a distant field, for all they cared.
And, truly… though I still don’t agree with their actions and have a hole in my heart where my family used to sit… I feel so much better realizing what an unscrupulous monster this little bah bah butthole became to them, in order to inspire the abuse that’s trickled down for years now.
Let me explain.
I’m the problem, it’s me
Let’s start with the most trauma-common aspect of this disaster.
The fact is? The family functioned “just fine” the way that it was. And then, as the generational trauma “cycle breakers” and “truthtellers” do… this bitch went off, getting educated on the workings of the mind, and started pointing out everyone’s bullshit.
First issue: not hard to identify.
I started questioning the life narratives of everyone around me after seeing conflicting evidence, researching the less obvious forms of abuse, and becoming acquainted with the games our consciousness plays to keep us operational.
My family’s means of survival and coping were all called into question, revealed to be cheap bandaids on top of festering wounds, and labeled “dysfunctional.”
Of course I’m the problem.
At the same time, I challenged all the stories that kept them together.
“My mom saved my oldest brother from heroin addiction.” Did she, or was she at least half of the cause of his heroin addiction, as evidenced by the fact that EVERYONE around her becomes an addict? And did she help as much as she abusively tormented him throughout those 12 years of junkydom, as evidenced by his overt overdose attempts in her name? “It’s all for you, mommy” he would tauntingly say, calling her at work as he shoved a needle in his arm, and I got to babysit him all night to make sure he didn’t die.
Hm.
“My middle brother is the family ‘good guy’ who keeps the peace.” Is he, or does he passively flip-flop his loyalty as necessary, withdrawing from the world and choosing sides as needed, just to be left alone and maintain his ‘reasonable’ role in the family hierarchy while everyone turns a mostly-blind eye to his 2 decades of alcoholism?
Hm.
“My oldest brother changed his life all on his own when he kicked the needle, he’s a real stand-up guy now.” Did he, or did he put everyone through hell with his addiction, which has never been rectified… and then received endless help for 15 years that he mostly rejected, until he was finally ‘ready’ to join the rest of us in society, which is the reason why he wound up with a high-paying job that he holds over everyone’s head? And how much stand-up behavior DOES he demonstrate, when people who help him to this day aren’t watching or listening?
Hm.
I could go on. These are just the beginnings of the questions I asked and the undesirable stories I started to stitch together. (Given, I could be wrong about all of it.)
And either way, I get it now…
I started shit stirring when I went looking for truths instead of convenient stories that enabled the remaining 4 / 5 family members to view their intertwining unhealed lives the way they preferred to. When I defected from the fairytales and left those stories to 3 / 5 individuals.
So, no duh. That doesn’t go over well for ANY of us in the recovery game. It’s no surprise.
But beyond THAT level of destruction that I caused…
The family beard shaved off
Another thing I’ve struggled with in the past four years has been the sense that my family is mad at me for not working the job that they want me to have.
Which… also wouldn’t be a brand new situation for anyone – plenty of folks have been pushed into careers to make their parents proud. Except… there was no lifelong expectation that I would become a cellular biologist, and it wasn’t “saving the family” with additional income or clout. In fact, no one understood what I did, at all, and my salary wasn’t one to fawn over.
And yet…
There seemed to be a massive, largely unspoken but alluded to, bitterness and judgment around the fact that I quit science, changed careers two more times, and wound up in mental health.
I just couldn’t wrap my head around why this mattered so much to anyone, except for that capitalistic working class programming I’ve spoken about before – “if you have a job that’s ‘ok’ you hold on to it like your life depends on it and consider yourself incredibly lucky to sell your life away.” I didn’t do that. I jumped ship from salaried positions. Twice, even.
And, of course, because mental health isn’t a field “they believe is real,” didn’t help either.
But the real grudge they hold against me (I believe), is…
Before, when I had an impressive job in biomedical research, I was evidence that the family WAS FINE AND ALWAYS HAD BEEN. Because “look at Jess, out there being a high achiever in the world.”
My entire life, they’ve held this story that I’ve been fine. I’ve been better than fine – I’ve been GREAT. I haven’t had problems. Not in physical reality and not in the brain.
All the disjointed memories come rushing back to me.
The many times I’ve tried to talk about anxiety, depression, hopelessness, suicide, and even observable health challenges… and they’ve reacted with confusion, aggression, and rejection.
“YOU’RE FINE” they’ve always told me in return. “You wouldn’t GET what I deal with,” I’ve been informed… and then heard the same symptoms I’ve previously described. “It’s just hormones,” my mother has said in response to revealing my deep depression.
But it’s the time that my mom chased me around the house, trying to break through doors while screaming at me in response to asking her for help with my frightening suicidality that really sticks out. “What, are you saying I was a bad mother?!?” was her concern, as she pounded outside my bedroom.
Add in a comment that her friend recently made to me – “your mom just can’t understand why you ever quit research and why you can’t seem to be happy” – that finally busted the cognitive door open on what’s been happening in my family, unbeknownst to me.
I was evidence of the family’s “fineness.” Or even of their “relative greatness,” as they tend to estimate themselves superior to other human beings.
I served as some proof of those fallacies and egoic games.
Until I wasn’t.
By focusing on all the things I accomplished externally, my mom and brothers were able to rationalize that our family HAD been normal and HAD been better than normal. Because, look at this seemingly impressive outcome.
The other outcomes – those of my parents and siblings – were unfortunate accidents.
Jess, though, demonstrated that everything was always on the up and up; that things were good enough, that our family was healthy enough… because how else could this little scumbag have managed to be on the high honor roll every semester? To take college courses in high school? To become a peer-reviewed published scientist at a major land grant university? To end up with a high achieving musician born to electrical engineers at NASA?
I was the family beard.
“No trauma, abuse, or dysfunction here (outside of their beneficial personal stories of victimhood, of course) – just look at Jess.”
And then…
Jess quit her cushy and intimidating job for “no reason.”
Jess revealed that her upper class relationship was highly abusive and a giant facade.
Jess started talking about the pervasive mental illness, hopelessness, and misery that had been her real experience, all along.
Jess either revealed that she was crazy all along and simply no one had wanted to see it… or she suddenly went crazy, ruined her life with this mental health nonsense, and the ramifications of it couldn’t be ignored, since her mental break was bringing up “horrible lies” about the family.
I’ve been directly told “none of it ever happened, our family was absolutely the picture of American normalcy, and I’ve gone insane making up stories.” I’ve also been told “I’m the only one who didn’t receive any abuse, obviously, because look at how I went to college.”
Two conflicting stories have been offered. Two disjointed attempts to explain away what I’ve been discussing on the podcast and the series of life choices that led up to this strange career.
But the fact is, either way – it suddenly became impossible for my family to see me as “the proof that our household was never fucked up.”
Which, for my mother, tore apart her narrative of being an excellent example of maternal care. For my oldest brother, dismantled his tale of being “the only afflicted child in the family whose behaviors thankfully didn’t affect anyone else. For my middle brother, threatened his view that everything has been 100% typical, there’s no reason to explore his psyche, his preferred behaviors of self-destruction, or the fucked up relationships he’s had.
And I think that’s why they’ve been so aggressively against me since I left academia.
Because I stopped being the mask that everyone could hide behind when I took off my own costume – my “science jacket” as I liked to call it – and stopped living the lie that I was taught to uphold.
I never belonged in academia. I never wanted to be a scientist. And I was only a high achiever because it was my adaptive response to being born last in a traumatized family where everyone else was already fucking up so badly that the only available niche and way to survive was to become overly responsible and driven to succeed if granted any opportunities.
But even moreso, since I started a career that they have absolutely NO comprehension of.
That three ring circus I ran to
Here’s the final piece of my case.
Does anyone in my family do what brings them joy, satisfaction, or a sense of purpose? Hell no.
Does anyone work for themself? No.
Or follow their guts? No.
Or step outside the traditional lines of conduct? No.
Or have a spiritual life? No.
What about having a creativity-based job? Or trying to help others, forgoing personal comforts to do so, rather than making a steady buck? Not a motherfucking chance.
In fact, I’ve been directly told, “it’s not what I would do” in response to my putting out any free material, whatsoever. “Fuck people who can’t afford help, what matters is your income.”
So… to suddenly be an independent PODCASTER who researches a topic that, again, they “don’t believe is real” – psychology… in the name of helping disguuuusting strangers who can’t necessarily give anything back?
(They think all humans are disgusting, don’t take it personally.)
Is an insane thing to do.
If they thought I went nuts before, when I stopped working for the UofI and gave up my benefits, satan knows what they think of the no-safety-net self-employed writing and audio recording position that I struggle to make a livable wage from… TO HELP OTHERS?!
Picture three heads exploding.
Not only did I reveal that something must be wrong with ME, which suggests that, in fact, something has always been wrong with our family – it’s not just coincidental that 4 / 5 people struggled enormously, now it appears that 5 / 5 people have been a bit whacko at times, and that’s hard evidence to dispute…
But I did so by becoming a “gen z faggot,” as my brother so eloquently put it.
AKA – I think he speaks for the family and actually means a person who works online, has positive opinions about gender/sexuality/race/social equality/mental health, and has ducked out of traditional lifestylings.
Collectively, taking on this podcast project has put the final nails in the coffin that…
I am not like them in the ways that matter to them most.
But I am a lot more like them in the ways that they want to sweep under the rug than they can possibly admit, if they want to maintain their lifelong stories about how “fine” everything was.
And so…
It’s true. Sincerely. I’m the problem
For pointing out the problems, directly, through the research and disclosures on the show.
Which I understand. No one wants to be publicly studied and their survival methods scrutinized. That was a “bold move” on my part, and one that I would have my own regrets about, if they hadn’t been vengefully abusive to inspire those deep dives into their mindspaces.
Gotta say, not the wisest move to mentally torment someone as they write a show about mental torment, in the attempt to prove to them that you’ve never been mentally tormenting. Spoilers: you will become a guest star of that show, which will make you all the more outraged about the assertions of abuse that you’re trying to disprove via present day abuse.
WHAT.
(Sorry, I’ll never stop laughing about how dumb humans can be.)
But, I’m the problem also for challenging their shared plotline about the family. “My dad was the problem, he impacted my oldest brother and my mother – but they’re fine now – the rest of us got away unscathed, and there’s nothing left to investigate… Obviously, because look at these fancy pieces of paper that Jess has brought into the bloodline!”
When I revealed (again) my mental and emotional hell, publicly, I ripped the camouflage that my family works so hard to keep (the presentation of a middle class, typical, family) from their (working class, highly traumatized, substance abusing, codependent, and chaotic) bones.
And, lastly, I’m the problem for turning up my nose at the ways that they’ve existed within the confines of societal trauma and striking out on a path that makes absolutely no sense to them, as the final piece of evidence that I am absolutely off my rocker, against them, and impossible to comprehend. I gave up a salaried position with benefits, an office, and a million other perks… to struggle through self-employment in a creative industry that’s only existed for a decade? Because of some supposed “spiritual call to purpose” in helping people who couldn’t otherwise afford it? Who in the motherfuck IS this idiotic nutjob?
Yes, all of this IS beyond their comprehension or degree of comfort.
No, they will not attempt to understand it.
Ever.
This will always be the wedge between us.
And, I have to say…
This has been the most RELIEVING realization that I’ve had since 2019.
Sure, my family considers me to be their direct opponent. And they antagonize me in the attempt to protect all the things I challenge. And the two relationships that I formerly believed were “the crux of my safety on this planet” – my mom and my middle brother, who was once my best friend for 10 years.
And it hurts.
Ohhhhh, how I’ve cried. When the pain of it all wasn’t so overloading that I couldn’t feel at all, that is.
But at least now I understand WHY.
Plus, I honestly can’t even blame them.
If I was in their shoes ten – even five or six – years ago… I would have thought, said, and done the same things. Before I knew about CPTSD or the nightmare person it made me or came to terms with the inauthentic and (honestly) rather stupid ways that I lived in the aftermath… I, too, would have declared myself the enemy. I, also, would have put massive efforts into attacking, dismissing, and demoralizing myself.
I can say that for a fact. Because in the wake of their retaliatory abuse in the past two years… I HAVE done those things to myself, right along with them.
And that’s the last tiny portion I want to touch on today to round out this report on the hell I’ve only VERY recently crawled out of.
Abuse, like the family insisted
The last piece of the puzzle to smash into this increasingly-clear picture?
How poorly I’ve treated myself for the last two years and the causes of that self-abuse.
Why I couldn’t find any self-compassion or even self-belief. Why my esteem flipped inside out and I became my own biggest enemy, bringing the greatest mental, emotional, and physical harm to myself, even in the face of their attacks. Even after fleeing from their attacks and going No Contact.
None of it mattered.
Not the research I did. Not the education my schooling provided to myself and others. Not my insights from and about other trauma recoverers. Not the empathy that I had for people in similar – and worse, and better – circumstances. Not even the empathy that I had for my family, who so obviously suffer in the same ways I do.
None of it made a difference in the way that I regarded myself or behaved towards myself.
Because my family didn’t give me the “okay” to ease off my self-scorn.
Because my family didn’t care about me, so how could I care about me?
Because the people who were supposed to love, accept, and understand me… seemed to do their damndest to make sure NONE of that happened.
Because the people who had – in my mind – been my pillars of safety and concern… reallllllly seemed like they wanted me dead, from the inside out.
And without their approval, their laying down of weaponized words and pointed rejections, without their acknowledgment of my existence or the well intended reasons I did what I did, without their most basic expression of acceptance, care, or humanity…
I couldn’t do those things, either. I couldn’t get off my own ass. I couldn’t get out of my own head, ruthlessly picking myself apart as if I was an incomprehensible nightmare that just wouldn’t quit. And so I nearly beat myself into an early grave for two years, wondering why I ever foolishly set out on this journey, who the fuck I thought I was, and if the pain of living with the disaster I had become would ever end.
In other words…
While I couldn’t understand their actions and fruitlessly brooded about their reasoning, I also couldn’t find compassion for myself without having these answers about why.
I couldn’t comprehend their antagonism, so instead I joined in.
I punished myself, in line with my family, and picked up the slack for them when I was out of their reach. And – it’s probably no big surprise – I was far more thorough, educated about the attacks, and dedicated to my effort – than the three of them combined.
That same high-achieving, never-quit, skills that landed me on the high honor roll, in a research job, and supervising a world class multidisciplinary research lab shortly thereafter… the same behaviors that masked my trauma from them and plenty of others, in the first place… the ones that catalyzed the creation of this nerdy-ass self-employment in the first place…
Were the traits that became leveraged against my own self. Day after day. Pulling every aspect of me apart. Every thought, every decision, every move. Searching for the buried turds that were apparently stinking me up to the point of being unlovable and worthy of a united abandonment.
Until I finally understood.
“They don’t hate me, they just can’t understand me… because they have never tried and it’s too late for them to give it a swing now. It would require too many revised stories. The validity of which they depend on to continue living with themselves and each other.”
They pretended I was something and someone else for my entire life until I was 30-something years old. And then I ripped off the mask they relied upon for their own purposes. In doing so, tearing away the beard that hid the family dysfunction from onlookers. And forced them to have a semblance of a doubt about the rest of their previously held beliefs. And maybe even their relationship histories between one another.
Which is like ripping the bottom Janga block out from the pile – a precarious stack of blocks that’s dependent on everyone playing the role that they were assigned early on, in this traumatized family, just like the rest of them.
I made the tower teeter.
For each of them individually, and for the entire family, as a unit.
No wonder they’ve been pissed off and on the offense. I’m a real, direct, threat to the infrastructure that they all rely on.
If you’re familiar with “The Tower Card” in tarot… I am the lightning bolt, bringing disorder to the world they thought they dominated. The world that dominated ME until… who am I kidding, it still does, on my bad days.
So far their shared tower – their little kingdom – hasn’t fallen down or completely crumbled, from what I can tell.
But I do think that my behaviors and the massive changes I’ve gone through as a person – for better or worse, who knows – have shaken something inside of each of them.
And because coming to terms with who they really are and what they’ve really done in their lives is the greatest personal threat of them all, to any human being on this planet…
Yeah, no shit, Jess.
I am the enemy.
Since the day the family beard ran off and joined the fucking circus.
But now that I DO understand after two years of LITERALLY RESEARCHING IT EVERY DAY (putting in more effort to understand them than they will ever put in to understanding themselves, let alone me)…
Thank Archie, I can say that I’ve been able to stop abusing myself.
And maybe one day they’ll work through the CPTSD strongholds of shame and fear, themselves, in order to catch up.
But first they’d have to admit that I was right about any of it.
I won’t be holding my breath for that day to come… but I’d love it if they’d prove me wrong, instead of beating me down as evidence that the family has always been “All right.”