The Son’s Prologue: I'm Finally Ready

The Son's Story.

Image: Adobe Stock

(For revised Prologue on Medium, please click

It was eighteen months ago that a harrowing truth compelled me to face the darkness that had been engulfing me since I was a little boy. The heavy grief that was a silent friend had found its source - it was a type of clarity that I had never experienced before. Immediately, all of my missing dots joined together like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, and waves of horror washed over me as my nervous system lit up like a Christmas tree. This was the day that marked the beginning of my Spiritual Awakening. It was one of the most profound moments of my life.

I doubt there are many people in this world who would enjoy sitting in front of a computer screen, trying to find the words to convey the weight of abuse that they endured from their Mother. It feels horrific in every sense of the word: a soul death. Part of what it means to be human is to have a nurturing, caring, loving mother. When you are devoid of that, and when few are witness to it, you will naturally grow up blaming yourself.

This journey of uncovering my inner truth has shown me how shattered my heart is as a direct result of the choices and behaviours of my Mother. It’s been closed for a very long time and it is only just starting to open up again. This has made me feel like a prisoner in my own skin most of my life, particularly when surrounded by people who offer me genuine connection as I instinctively pull away.

It all goes back to when I opened my heart to the one person who should have cherished it. My Mother shattered my trust in unimaginable ways, leaving me feeling emotionally violated, completely alone and scared of the world.

When I used to reflect on my childhood, I was riddled with question marks that became increasingly prevalent as I entered my twenties. I would continue through life feeling like there was always something amis. With no understanding of what was wrong, my mind latched itself onto recollections of materialistic nostalgia: the detached house, the family boat, the jetski, the caravan getaway, the ever-changing range of sports and family cars, and the wooden decking courageously built by my Dad and his half-brother.

You might consider us fortunate to have these things, and you’d be right in thinking we were. They presented a lot of opportunity, freedom and fun. However, it is my understanding that these images played an essential role in my psyche - a safety blanket to shield and divert me from the unprocessed wounds of the past. It was the perfect camouflage.

The day I woke up to what my Mother had done (and hadn’t), and I could feel the damage that she caused, I soon understood that I was left with two options:

A) Continue the cycle of abuse. Keep subjecting myself to mistreatment. Listen to that inner critic that I had been fed on a poisonous spoon, determined to pull me down. Remain the inconspicuous, vulnerable, codependent little boy that my conditioning insists I am.

B) Embrace the path of healing. Do the work. Understand that it was never my fault, come to terms with the fact that it is not my responsibility to heal my mother (a subconscious aim in all my romantic relationships), offer myself the love that I lacked, break free from generational trauma, and pave the way to become the man I've always meant to be.

These chapters are a testament to the latter, and will serve as a place to aid my journey. They will touch upon what my Dad has written about in his blog but through the eyes of his son. Through his online presence and the work he has courageously done on himself, he has been a huge source of inspiration. He has always encouraged me to refrain from seeking assistance with my writing in any capacity and has kindly provided me with this platform to discover my voice, which was denied to me growing up.

I’ll be writing for those trauma-bonded partners, the scapegoats, the golden children, and those who are on their path to recovery. And, If the day comes when she decides to confront the pain that I see in her, I hope my writing will act as keepsake for my younger sister.

I love you, O.

I’d be lying if I said that my family's lack of validation isn’t hurtful. It's a hurdle in my healing that has proven to be excruciatingly difficult to bear. But, for now, I know that freedom from within is what truly matters most. With that said, it feels poignant when those who have supposedly been by your side all long suddenly turn a deaf ear or withdraw entirely from you when 'family drama' occurs. The injuctice I feel literally psyically pains me at times. Sadly, this is just the reality of the situation when your perpetrator spreads falsehoods about you, manipulating the events that took place while they run around playing the victim. Because of this, there are very few people in my family who truly know who I am.

I've come to understand that maintaining tes with family who support a dishonest narrative leaves me feeling far lonelier than being around those who have known me for mere weeks, days, or even moments. Those people who have come to appreciate the authentic me and provide a sincere ear to my pain.

This story is of a young man gradually stepping into his power, who now thoroughly embodies what has happened to his Dad and his two children. Emerging from denial, cognitive dissonance, and enormous heartache proves a worthwhile but horrific Mammoth to battle. So, these forthcoming chapters will be here to inspire you, the reader, to have the courage one day to step back from the cloud you may find yourself in and acknowledge that what happened to you was not okay.

Little Me is desperate to share his story.

Thank you for reading.