When I was younger I quite often had the deja-vu feeling that my actions and words were repeating themselves like a broken vinyl. Scratching at the same position again and again, repeating the inner programming again and again.
I did not like myself for that, even worse, I really hated myself for the person I was, there was nothing I resented more than myself. I remembered some of the ugly experiences with my parents, the cruel, judgemental and resentful treatment from them, but it was easy for me to forgive them, easy for me to wipe all those aside and feel the love and loyalty of a child towards them.
But me? I had to hate me, as I was all the bad things I was told I was and even more. There was no unturned piece of my self that I did not resent... I was ugly, fat, looking like a man, ugly hair, ugly eyes, ugly huge nose, ugly face form, ugly eyebrows, ugly breasts, ugly bottom and each and every part of my body had several insults on it from my beloved birth family and from myself... it was never about forgiving them, because I never even considered their way of treating me as wrong, I was just deserving, they were just seeing me the right way, this is who I was.
I took on all their beliefs about me, it was even more, it became my whole identity. I deserved to be mistreated, abused, neglected, ignored, because there was nothing lovable about me. And I did believe them, because I did love them, I did connect to them, I wanted to belong to them and I just copied their behaviour, their words, their treatment towards myself. Because I didn`t deserve any better, I wasn`t worth any better.
They were right, I was wrong. They were good, I was bad. They were deserving, I was not.
And because I had to be resented so much, I had to be hated so much, I had to work to deserve a place in life, which would not have been bad, if it would not have meant, that I was expected to give to my parents, give them what they have never gotten, the care of a parent, in the emotional sense and on the material plane it meant, to work like an adult.
I did so, because this gave me a place, this gave me a home, this gave me the feeling of belonging to a family... but there came the time, when I left and when I built my own family, which was not a conscious act, because barely anything at that time was conscious, it was merely for or against my parents, from them or taken from them.
Having a child myself, made me aware even more of how alien I was to myself, to my body. There was this child, that needed nourishment from my body, the body which I hated so much and I had to numb my hatred, had to numb my resentment and because I was zero, nil, not a tiniest bit aware of it, I resented my son subconsciously. I felt weird, I knew I wasn`t normal while my body was speaking volumes. I wasn`t normal, because everybody else around me seemed to function, seemed to feel different, seemed to be different. And I was not. I was this, feeling different than I should feel, speaking different than I should have spoken, acting different than I should have acted. So I was wrong, faulty, broken, but I never considered what I experienced as the resonance, I only considered being me the reason. And my body, it was not only speaking, it was screaming and the screaming got louder and louder, but since numbing everything that reminded me of being a physical being was my strategy to survive for so many years, I tried it even harder. I couldn`t feel it, but my son did.
When I was carrying him around, he turned away, which made it even harder, since I believed the best thing you could do to your child is allow him to be as close as possible, nourish him as natural as possible. I tried, I even did, but I was constantly working against myself, constantly numbing any impulses I felt, denying my bodily needs, because the only way to deserve a place in this world was to take care of others needs first - even though this was against each and every inner impulse I had - and I had this perfect little image inside my head, this perfect little wish of how I could give my son, what I had missed so much. It was so beautiful there, it looked like paradise, it seemed so peaceful and harmonious in my head, but this was not the way it felt. I just wanted to give my son the best start for his life, all his primary needs being met, all the attention he needed taken care of, but it was a fight, a fight against myself, a fight against my own denied memories, a fight against everything I had experienced and it was a hopeless fight, an ever draining fight, because in my mind I never acknowledged my own pain, my own hurt, my own trauma, only to spare my parents, only to still be able to be the loving child, that wants nothing else but to belong
And this is where I realized why history repeats itself, why my body memory ran the show: For as long as a pain is being buried, it will show itself in the behaviour of the hurt person. For as long as something is kept in the unconscious, there is this constant unconscious urge to come up again and again, just like a scratch in a vinyl. For as long, as we don`t look at our pain, it is there and it is not giving up in reminding us. But as long as we are not consciously working on it, we can not see and we can not heal