This article is my life-saving text to you; it is my personal invitation to any adult child of divorce or separation to start (or continue) your own healing journey with Life-Giving Wounds.
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My parents officially divorced when I was about 17 years old. My father persistently campaigned for a divorce. He confessed that he had been in a relationship with another woman whom he had actually married while on his “vacations” in Egypt. Since I was the eldest of three, my mother would share her pain with me. To this day, being the main witness to her inconsolable weeping is one of the most painful experiences I have had as a 41-year-old man.
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This past Christmas, like many others before it, was hard. My “difficult” father tends to “act-out” during the holidays to get the attention he craves, and this Christmas was no exception. So, my therapist suggested I do some restorative care to help heal my immediate father wound, and to help me manage my long-term depression: what Rick Springfield calls, “Mr. D.”
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Though I hid, self-protected and continued to wear the masks that I thought gave me some value, Jesus never stopped seeking the real me underneath. He never abandoned me. All the while, He was patiently working on me, preparing my very calloused and guarded heart to be broken again through the second loss of my dad. But this break would be healing and redemptive, because it would finally let Love Himself enter in. And He came in through another father, His father and now mine – Good St. Joseph. I truly believe everything started with my simple prayer after that providential homily. St. Joseph became the guardian of my healing journey and continues to be my strong and faithful pillar along the way, in both explicit and sometimes hidden ways.
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I desire to make decisions from a place of authentic love and not respond from the wounds of my past and present. Wounds that make me feel trapped—make me feel like I do not have a choice in the matter— with no control. For this reason, when I first heard about St. Josephine Bakhita, I was drawn to her: a woman who was kidnapped as a child, sold into slavery, and ultimately lived in the freedom of the Lord’s love as a religious sister.
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I thought that if I just sat down and listed all the things I ‘should’ be grateful for in my life that I would then become a person filled with gratitude. I saw this exercise as the ‘fix’ for my pain and struggles. All the people I read about who had done this seemed so happy and peaceful. I wanted that for myself! My experience in life, largely shaped by my parents divorce, had taught me (incorrectly) that if I wanted something I had to get it for myself. So I went for it, only to be disappointed again and again.
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Upon entering religious life, I tried to hide in the coping mechanisms that had worked for me growing up, such as people-pleasing and anticipating others’ needs. I desired to please the Lord, could follow community customs and was good at serving others. Not only was I good, but was praised for my attentiveness to the needs of others and my generosity in service. As I continued further in formation, those coping mechanisms started to unravel and the truth of the pain I was in surfaced.
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Prior to the divorce, mine was a picture-perfect nuclear family: a dad, a mom, a little boy, and his dog. The dog, a Cockapoo, was named after my kindergarten best friend, Shawn. I don’t remember anything about the young human Shawn, but I do remember the canine one. He was the love of my young life, especially after we moved when I was six. I did not like being “the new kid.”
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It was a few months into my freshman year of college; I was at daily Mass with my friends. At this time, I was really beginning to become aware of how much pain my parents’ divorce had caused and continued to cause me. I remember sitting in Mass, attempting to calm myself, but feeling rising panic each time the priest said the word...
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From day one it seemed like my parents were divided over my name. Well at least my first name because both of them shared the same last name before marriage. Each parent wanted me to be named after their dad. As a result, one side of the family calls me David and the other Andrew. By the time I was four, this division was complete and definitive by way of their divorce. As most children of divorce, I certainly felt divided and split in two; exemplified by my two different beds, two different sets of clothes, two different sets of toys and two different first names.
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During Covid some people learned to bake bread, some planted gardens, others drank too much wine. My Covid experience was time with Father God, Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit, fully aware that they were changing me. I became like the unrelenting child who asks too many questions. But my unrelenting was a prayer, “Heal my heart, Lord. Please heal my heart.” He did it when he knew I was ready.
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But my mom was human. Both my parents were human. And the very fact that in spite of the deep pain and abuse that my mom went through for most of her life, she still tried…SHE TRIED. That is the difference.
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A couple of months ago, I was attending a women’s retreat... where glossy tiles of neutrals and shades of blue formed a gorgeous mosaic of the Blessed Mother. I kept returning my gaze to it, and I heard in prayer: “I see you looking at my mother—her maternal love is so different from what you have seen… My mother is tender, approachable, truly sacrificial, and only able to love fully and purely…”
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As a teenager, I began to experience mere anger, seemingly without any other emotion or feeling that I had no control over, and had no idea where it came from or why it would get so out of control. ... This was a tomb that I suffocated inside of for years throughout much of my adolescence.
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I searched my heart for months and I accepted how I felt about this situation and made a decision. I realized that if I did not take care of them my guilt would have been much worse than I had experienced in my life. My father remained at his home with home health care and I oversaw his care. My mother eventually spent the last nine months of her life at home with my husband and me.
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Prayer, true prayer, is the time of greatest intimacy in our day. Prayer is about relationship and the basis of any relationship is trust and vulnerability.
As an adult child of divorce, I know my experience with all of these words- trust, peace, stillness, vulnerability- has been warped and twisted by my life experiences.
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Unlike the innocent childhood rites of passage that bring about a sense of pride and accomplishment, children who live through their parents’ divorce often experience an abrupt passage from childhood to premature adulthood. The hard and jagged rock of a parents’ divorce deeply and profoundly impacts a child even beyond what others see or notice.
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So, when we pray to forgive those that have hurt us, whether it’s the first time we are forgiving them or the seventy-seventh time we have forgiven them for the same offense, let us ask the Lord for the forgiveness powerful enough to conquer sin and death in our loved one.
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"The Soul of Shame: Retelling the Stories We Believe About Ourselves," by Curt Thompson, has been an important part of my healing journey. I picked up the book on the recommendation of a friend and a deep desire to dig into the pain of shame that was touching every part of my life. My heart was sore. I was on the path of recovery from habitual sin that had infiltrated my life for half a decade.
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Looking for answers, I’ve read many self-help books, listened to speakers, and talked to professionals, friends, and family members, but none have offered solutions. | En mi búsqueda de respuestas, he leído libros de autoayuda, he escuchado a charlistas, también he hablado con profesionales, amistades y familiares, pero ninguna de sus sugerencias me ayudaron.
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