Not My Burden To Carry

Pardon the redundancy, as I’ve mentioned this before, but I go to yoga often; almost daily. Sometimes the process is torturous, usually when I’ve been going incessantly and my body is screaming for a break; sometimes, it’s relaxing, rejuvenating, energizing, invigorating. My favorite experience, however, is when I have a moment of clarity. When something triggers a thought that turns into a crystal clear realization. I had one of those the other morning.

I was excited to go to class, as I usually am on Tuesdays, thanks to the lovely yogi who leads an amazing practice. Although I was sleep deprived, I didn’t feel particularly emotional or vulnerable, which is usually my MO after a short night. Yet, as I was kneeling on my mat, awaiting the opportunity to omit the constant chatter of my mind to the simplicity of my breath, I heard my grandmother say “Du spinnsch doch; Du bisch ned normal; Du hosch se nimmi all,” which loosely translates into “you’re hella crazy; you’re everything but normal; you’ve lost your marbles.” Lovely things to be told by your grandmother, your entire life, in response to almost everything. No matter what, my reaction was always too much for her. Whether I came home crying because I had been bullied at school or I was upset because she was dismissing my needs yet again (she can’t fathom individual differences and is the personification of an egocentric point of view), she was never able to acknowledge her shortcomings in our interactions. Instead, she would attribute my meltdowns – yes, I’ve always been emotionally expressive, even more so in my younger years – to a lack of sanity on my end. Early on, this caused me much despair, as I felt misunderstood and, frankly, mistreated. However, I quickly learned I wasn’t the cause of her behavior. In fact, the more I observed my grandmother’s verbal exchanges with my mother (the sweetest, most kind-hearted human you could ever meet), the more I realized her defensive, dismissive, passive-aggressive attitude had everything to do with her and nothing to do with the people around her. In an effort to deal with her disrespect, I proceeded to disregard her impact on me, to the point of telling myself I didn’t like her. I would entertain rants with my mother in which we carefully dissected our disdain for her.

Not until a few days ago, I finally grasped just how significant the effect of my grandmother’s words had been on me and just how gravely mistaken I was to simply suppress the hurt she had caused. Now don’t get me wrong, I certainly acknowledged and quite audibly vocalized feelings of anger, disgust, contempt on numerous occasions. What did I overlook then? The reality that her words had deeply carved themselves into my psyche, much like youngins etch their names into a tree, encompassed by a heart to manifest their everlasting love. Her frequently repeated, often mindless pronouncements infiltrated my sense of self so much so they haunted me for years to follow; so much so they caused me to question my sanity time and time again. I learned to believe I was, in fact, crazy and seemingly spent most of my life trying to prove the world and myself – or vice versa? – otherwise. Given the ups and downs of life, the natural flow of human existence, I often found myself perpetuating said belief, as I would break apart in yet another emotional eruption, just as recent as last week. This morning, in anticipation of serenity, I distinctly heard my grandmother’s voice, insisting I had lost my marbles. Confused at first, I felt betrayed by my mind – did I really have to start another day in melancholy? Was it really necessary to be reminded of this rather unfortunate self-view?

Despite my frustration, I decided to tune in and take another listen. As I heard her words reverberate in every crevice of my soul, I noticed it was just her talking. No one else. Not me. Not my mom. Not my husband. Not my friends. It was just her, scornfully declaring my hysteria. Nonetheless, I had embedded her unfounded proclamation in my character, built my persona on its foundation, written it into every passage of my book of life. Just as I’d been telling myself the story of the golden cage to which I had no key, I’d been telling myself the story of a madwoman. I let her words become my truth. Reality is those words were solely the utterances of a broken, lost, lonely human who spent a life in so much agony, she couldn’t help but lash out. She didn’t mean to hurt me, she simply didn’t have the resources to contain my emotions, since she’d never learned how to recognize, let alone express her own.

It became clear to me, the pain I was feeling wasn’t mine, but hers that she’d passed on in an effort to protect herself. What also emerged was the realization that I no longer had to carry that burden. Instead, I could free myself of her shackles, not to dismiss her struggles by any means, but to untwine myself from them. They might be part of my heritage, as the trials and tribulations of our ancestors always are, but they’re not a part of who I am, and they’ll no longer have a part in my story, as I continue to rewrite it.