Aug 17 in General discussion
The 7th Generation
7 generations of inherited trauma
Gifted to me by my mother,
As the if the shame and guilt are a prize,
Harrowing heirlooms of our ancestors,
Handed down as holiness by our grandmothers,
Unspoken, unhealed, unloved fragments,
Split into slivers, bored into the skin of our souls.
Disguised, coveted, protected, poisoned,
From cross to cradle to grave and over again,
Passed through the wrath of father’s belt like wisdom
Whispered into the welts on his beloved, bleeding son,
Procreated by denial, determination and duty,
Trampled deep into the fabric of my DNA,
By the broken in boots brandished by my father,
Pulling myself up first by my bootstraps, then the noose,
7 generations of trauma, handed down like a legacy,
Seared into my thoughts, my mind, even into my fertility,
My mother still whispers so no one can hear her say,
“Wicked child, my wounds are your fault, I love you.”
Shouldering the weight of the her wounds, my birth rite.
Chin up, in silence, dutifully, like my grandmother,
Held held head high, lips pressed tightly, tortured.
“Quiet, shhh!” My screams, they beg for freedom,
500 pills poured down my choking throat gag them,
Seeping out, escaping, dripping with the blood,
Self inflicted wounds on my 17 year old wrists,
Buried again under the kissed on stitches and scars,
Birthed into the beautiful blue eyes of my daughter.
Echoing in my child’s protests as she is ripped out of my arms,
My ancestors were never allowed to speak their truth,
It has become my purpose to scream the good news.
7 generations of trauma begin to unravel in my truth.
I was sent to lead the liberation of my family line-
I begin to remember the truth of my ancestral role-
I was sent to hold a torch and walk without fear.
Discarding our shame, my head held high.
The truth is:
Before I was an independent, modern day woman,
Longing for the illusion of a lover raised by an unwounded
father,
Before the touch of that sick soul on my 4 year old flesh,
Before war became a game played by politicians,
Before youth and death was indiscernible from pride and profit,
Before true love became dollar signs and bit coin banks
Before the world forgot it’s sacred divinity,
My soul made a choice:
Learn what it means to be free:
Uncover the wisdom in your wounds:
When others seek answers, reflect to them their own beauty.
Somehow I begin to hear my ancestors whispering truth:
The truth is:
I am soft and sweet, resilience and love, my weapons,
My sticky, heavy, dirty soul is worthy of love, is love,
You and I are love, a direct expressions of God,
Intentional creations of a loving creator,
Universal truth of the divine.
As above, so below,
As within, so without.
The truth is:
I cannot wipe my daughters slate perfectly clean,
I gifted her the same pain of 7 generations:
I also gift her the breaking of a cycle:
I speak honestly about the wounds I bestowed on her,
I own that responsibility.
I teach her the things I had to bleed to learn,
I set ten thousand fires and burn 10,000 times
I show her how to rise in strength from ashes,
I tell her what it means to stand in, to be, love.
I show her that courage and compassion are king,
I show her to remain rooted, even in fear,
I show her to see lessons in her shadow,
Acquaint her to the army of her ancestors:
I teach her to walk, talk and breathe her truth,
And show her how sitting with the broken teaches more
valuable lessons than dining with the rich.
I cannot take away the reality of the pain I caused,
I can be an example of how to love without fear.
To find confidence through humility and gratitude,
She begins to know the truth: love is the truth.
God is love, so we are love.
I rise, no longer splintered; full; whole:
So her great great great great granddaughter not have to wage
war within herself; born free.
Free from the 7 generations of trauma, passed down;
A gift from mother to me.
Megan Forrest
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The 7th Generation
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