Over the years, I’ve compared my seemingly mid-range trauma to the intense, obvious trauma suffered by others—those who were denied food, hidden in attics for decades, or endured severe abuse. Mine was never like that, so what do I have to complain about?
“Quit complaining, Carol Ann. At least you have a roof over your head,” my mom’s voice—and then my own voice — echoes into the void.
In studying childhood trauma, there appears to be a point when dissociation takes the place of healthy emotional progression, replacing that progression with disconnection from reality, thoughts, or feelings. I suppose everyone has experienced some form of disconnection at least once. It becomes unhealthy when this mechanism is used to survive for so long that it becomes a way of life. The body, in service of survival, privately—unconsciously—repulses, allowing one to cope with the reality at hand.
Until now, I’d never consciously experienced those body reactions. Does that mean my trauma is less than others’? I wasn’t physically beaten or abused, but it was still painful. As if everyone received something in childhood that had been denied me. Sometimes I can’t quite put my finger on it—that missing thing—but I can feel its vacancy. Could it be that I have not yet connected the dots?
It’s a strange phenomenon: to deeply feel what is not there. Could this be what phantom pain is? An intense pain for a missing piece. This awareness alone could be a study unto itself—this notion of phantom pain. I always assumed it was purely physical. I now believe it can also be emotional.
I’ve felt this phantom emotional pain my whole life—at least the portion of my life in which I missed my dad. I don’t remember the pall of sadness before his leaving. This pain comes and goes, sometimes less pervasive because I’m quite good at dismissing my own needs.
For years, I held my dad’s abandonment as the Holy Grail of my childhood trauma. Until one day, someone suggested my trauma really wasn’t with my dad, it was with my mom.
Pain is like water. Both deal in emotion, and both seep into any nook, cranny, or layer they can find. Once I had a grip on what this pain looked like, healing could begin.
As aware as I am—and despite bringing it to the surface to inspect and analyze—the low frequency of grief remains, attracting more of the same, the laws of the universe being what they are. If I were a betting person, I’d say I’m not done digging, inspecting, coming to terms with, and resolving. The infected splinter has not yet been dislodged.
By choice, I’m consciously working through the layers—one event, one introspective thought, one dream interpretation at a time. Gathering my self-worth, I remind myself that someone’s exclusion does not automatically parlay me into discard. At least I have agency over my own thoughts, though it takes serious introspection to move the needle into a higher vibration—high enough to make healthy choices along this path of spiritual, emotional, and physical healing.
Not only did I miss my dad throughout my growing years, but well into adulthood there was an opportunity to meet him face-to-face after years of estrangement—a one-on-one meeting at a stage of his life that often invites transparency and confession. It involved a plane ride and some planning, but the gift would have been worth the effort. My mother, in her predictability—her intrusion and pout—ruined the opportunity. I never saw my dad again. He died a few weeks later, without a final goodbye, without any emotional gift imparted.
I hate my mom for this. And I hate myself for hating. Forgiveness is hard.
My anger is palpable. I could gut her like a fish. But the look of bewilderment and betrayal that would cross her face would be too much for me to bear. Guilt would consume me.
Dad wasn’t mean to her. He wasn’t mean to us—his three children. In fact, after living with her for many decades, I’m posthumously recommending Leonard H. Berroth for sainthood.
With all my wisdom, I realize he may not have been husband of the year. Perhaps he dashed her expectations of married life. Perhaps there was nowhere for her to hide when her angst overcame her, and her outbursts had nowhere to go. Perhaps marital intimacy brought back too many awful memories. We can speculate with 70 percent of the puzzle pieces in place. Who’s really to know or say?
Ever the optimist, and assuming others are searching for the same things I am, I made it a personal mission to connect with my dad’s side of the family, essentially the truncated limb of the family tree. They held the key, I reckoned.
If I were honest with myself, I’d admit it was always a trade with this limb of the tree.
My dad’s wife had given me a garnet ring that had belonged to Grandma—rose gold with three round garnets, Grandma’s birthstones. The garnets had been glued in after the prongs wore down from a century of banging against dishpans or planting seeds in hard dirt. He’d taken it from her dresser after she passed. The subliminal message in that act—taking something not given to you—perhaps because that’s the only way you’d ever get anything from your family. They held the key.
Bequeathing to your firstborn as an act of love—so she’d have something as a remembrance, an heirloom. They held the key. Frankly, they held everything.
Several years later, Cousin D called to ask if I had the ring or knew where it was. I can’t lie. I can’t keep something that was meant for another—no matter how desperately I would have loved to have a small treasure. Our negotiation included me sending her the ring, and she, in return, would send me something meaningful that belonged to Grandma. That was our agreement. She received the ring. I received nothing.
Years later, while moving, I came across a box of family scrolls written in German—baptism and marriage certificates, wedding licenses. My mom had “borrowed” them but never returned them. Like my dad taking the ring, I suppose she felt entitled.
I had the scrolls scanned for genealogy purposes. Then, on a cold, snowy mid-December day in 2023, I traveled to Florida to deliver the scrolls to my cousins.
It felt like a beautiful reunion. Consciously, I knew they carried family lore. They held the key. I’d get the rest of the story. All I really wanted was a decent photo of my dad as a young boy. After all, my grandparents had means and protocol. Of course they’d have had their two sons professionally photographed. Even though my dad was the black sheep, his photos wouldn’t have been discarded. Cousin assured me he’d gone through the photo boxes ahead of time—I understood him to be the family “steward.”
We stopped for lunch in St. Pete Beach overlooking the Gulf. Someone suggested driving back to the house for coffee and dessert, where we’d go through the photos and reminisce. I was on top of the world. At last, the Holy Grail was within reach. They held the key.
An edge of defeat crept into my psyche during the one-hour car ride to the house. One cousin’s wife made small remarks—meant to be helpful or concerned—about the trauma of estrangement, but they seared, missed the mark. In my habitual dissociation, I stuffed the pain right in on top of the bourgeoning pile of accumulated disappointments and betrayals.
They couldn’t know the depth of my injury. They grew up with parents celebrating golden wedding anniversaries; I stood atop the shards of my family. The conversation was awkwardly shallow, though I doubt they noticed.
The “steward” cousin admitted he’d gone through the photos but couldn’t find much—only a few black-and-white Kodaks from the 1950s and ’60s. How was that possible? A family that kept every ring, dish, scrap of cloth and memoir had no photos of my dad? Not even one with the two boys as youngsters? Reality seeped in faster than I could process.
They already had the baptismal scrolls. I had nothing—not even their empathy or understanding. My expectation loomed absurdly. This was outside their realm of experience. Still, as was my practice, I said nothing—hoping coffee and dessert might turn the tide, open a portal to some small token of the past. Just a smidge. My disappointment was tucked safely away…or so I thought.
It’s funny how our bodies don’t lie. The body tells everything. My body spoke before I could consciously process what was happening. It revolted against my dissociation in one grand gesture.
We sat on cousin’s back porch, making small talk about his backyard remodel—the enclosure, the mosquitoes. The coffee was served in a huge, thick mug. I like my coffee in a nice 6–8 ounce china cup—just enough coffee to stay hot. What was I going to do with a 12-ounce mug of mediocre coffee? Cousin went to get the photo box. My perceived reality was slipping away. I twisted in my seat—so unlike me. What is happening?
I couldn’t maintain equilibrium. The room moved. Reality distorted. I ran through a mental checklist of possible ailments. This was nothing I’d ever experienced.
I hardly know these people. Am I safe?
In that moment, I wasn’t disappointed—I was unmoored. As if the ground I’d been standing on my whole life simply vanished. It was the sudden certainty that I did not exist in this family in any way that mattered, and neither did my dad.
I announced I didn’t feel well, sprinted to the bathroom, and vomited for twenty minutes—hung into a stranger’s toilet, my face in the bowl, moaning and purging.
For a moment, I wondered if I’d been attacked by a poltergeist in their home. That’s how strange and unrecognizable it felt.
When there was nothing left to purge, I groped my way back to the porch and laid my head on the swing. I couldn’t hold it up. What had come over me? What was happening? I was scared.
At my request, they drove me home—another hour ride. Still unaware of the cause, I apologized profusely. Yet through those apologies, I realized I felt better. I was headed home — to friends who knew and cared about me—I couldn’t apologize for that.
And that was the end.
Later, the “steward” cousin mentioned that Grandma had kept a notebook of tarot readings. He said he’d give it to me—“when he finds it”.
This month marks two years since that visit and purge. No photos have surfaced. No tarot notebook has surfaced. These small tokens of my father’s life would mean the world to me—would offer a sweet connection, proof that I belonged, and that my dad did too.
In the end, my body held this story for me, just as it does for every person who has suffered abuse and lived with visceral reactions. Like the others, my body protected me—once more—from the pain of not being seen or heard.
There is no moral to this story.
Suffice it to say: when someone trusts you enough to share a piece of their story, hold it as sacred—because, to them, it is.
