Family Scars Of Avoidance And Neglect

"In the hidden fractures of our hearts, where innocence is shattered by a world too cruel, lies not a fault to bear, but a crack through which resilience blooms. What we see as flaws, as scars of a past we never caused, are in truth the places where light and strength shine through. It’s not our fault… our brokenness is the seed of our healing, where we rise, unbroken, in defiance of all we’ve endured."

-AubsThePoet

The story of my family is a tangled web of pain, love, neglect, and survival. Each branch of the family tree is weighted by generations of emotional turmoil, from my mother’s struggles in foster care to my father’s enduring grief over a lost love, to my grandmothers stubbornness and childhood aches, to my siblings separate and chaotic worlds rarely colliding, to my own, grappling with the legacy of my middle and last name and the emotional scars that come with it all.

This story is not an easy one to tell, but it is one that must be shared, not only for my own healing but for the understanding that there is power in acknowledging the wounds we inherit.

My mother, like many in my family, was not born into an easy life. She grew up in foster care, a system that was far less regulated than it is now (Yet that system still fails many as it did me). She often found herself homeless, living on the streets, and had a fraught relationship with her own mother... Jenny Lynn (Her first and middle name), the woman whose name I carry as my middle name, a name that now feels like a burden I never asked to bear. The irony of having my middle name linked to a woman who I know only through fragments of stories, some of which are painful, is not lost on me. Jenny Lynn was rude and selfish, traits that echoed through the family, affecting my mother’s life in profound ways. I know very little about my grandmother beyond stories I was told and the few unsettling interactions we had before her death. One of the most cutting memories I have of her is our last conversation, where she told me, without any hesitation, that she believed I was mentally “ret*rded.” This was not said out of concern, but rather as an insult, a final jab in a relationship that never had the chance to form. There were no bridges to burn because she had never attempted to build one with me in the first place. Yet, I bear her name… a fact that fills me with resentment. I refuse to use it now, distancing myself from the legacy of a woman who never cared to know me.

My mother’s upbringing in foster care was a lonely and painful experience. Back then, foster homes were far less concerned with the welfare of children than they are now. Laws, regulations, and policies were either nonexistent or loosely enforced, and as a result, my mother endured hardships that left her emotionally wounded. The neglect she experienced as a child shaped her in ways that reverberated throughout her life, and unfortunately, those wounds were passed down to my siblings and me. I firmly believed my grandmothers mother was much like my mothers mother.

My mother met my father under unique circumstances… she was living in a car outside or near my father’s uncle’s house. My mom’s aunt Tina had married my dad’s uncle Jeff (I am uncertain of the timeline on that), creating the connection that eventually led to their marriage. I believe my father, who has a tender heart for those in need, was drawn to her not just out of love, but out of a sense of responsibility. He has always been the kind of man who feels compelled to help those who are struggling, and my mother’s situation triggered that instinct in him. I believe.

Before my mother, however, my father had already experienced great loss. (trigger warning) He had been deeply in love with a woman named Constance, who was the light of his life. But their love story ended in tragedy. Constance was diagnosed with brain cancer, a battle that slowly eroded her physical and emotional health. During this dark period, while attending a concert together, Constance was r*ped in the bathroom, while my father waited for her to return by his side at the concert. The horror of that event, combined with many other feelings of depression and hopelessness alongside her illness, pushed her to the brink, and eventually, she took her own life. She locked herself in a room, and despite my father’s desperate attempts to break down the door, he couldn’t save her. She shot herself, leaving him to carry the unbearable weight of her death. My father’s grief over Constance’s death is something that has never fully healed. Even now, I can see the pain etched into his soul. I make it a point to talk to him about it, when given the chance and emotionally ready space, to let him know that his feelings are valid, and that the memories of his pain matter. His family, unfortunately, never offered him the emotional support he needed as the years went on before we came along... so my sister and I have taken it upon ourselves to be the ones who listen. He deserves to have his pain acknowledged, to have someone who understands the depth of his loss. I believe after my sisters fiancé was killed by a drunk driver, it has helped bring my father and her closer in those regards.

My father grew up with a mother who, much like my grandmother on my mother’s side, only cared about herself. His marriage to my mother, though rooted in love, was complicated by the emotional baggage both of them carried. My mother was far less selfish than his mother in many ways, but she still struggled with her own demons. She became pregnant with my older brother before she and my father married in a quick ceremony in Las Vegas. I’ve always wanted to visit that chapel… perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps to understand more about their relationship and hopefully have some feelings come up just to maybe ease any ache in my soul regarding the way my parents met and married and separated.... Despite the challenges they faced, I do believe my parents loved each other. Yet, I firmly believe that Constance’s death casted a long shadow over their relationship. I can only imagine the emotional toll it must have taken on my mother to love someone who was still grieving another. My father’s unresolved pain, no doubt, created a barrier between them, one that neither of them could fully overcome. As a result, and perhaps also due to my mothers fear of leaving the young life she didn't have the safe space to live til she married my father, my mother turned to partying and infidelity, coping mechanisms that only deepened the cracks in their marriage. I do not blame her entirely, though I also cannot fully absolve her. She was a woman carrying the weight of her own neglect, seeking happiness in ways that ultimately caused more harm than good. One of the most tragic outcomes of this was the death of my baby sister, a loss that my mother still blames herself for. Outwardly, she maintains that she never intended to harm any of us, and I believe her. But the guilt remains, and it has shaped the way she interacts with all of her children. Apologizing has always been difficult for my mother, and I see that trait in myself and family tree as well. Serious moments, that are still to this day, well needed, are often deflected in our family… none of us are good at handling them, though we all pretend otherwise. We acknowledge our problems, sure, but we never truly address them. We bring them up, make them known, but then we let them fester, doing little to actually heal the wounds. It’s a pattern that has been passed down through generations, from my grandmothers (perhaps even before them), to my parents, and now to me and my siblings.

Our family is a battleground of emotions, a place where anger, stress, and contention thrive. We talk about our issues, but we never take the necessary steps to resolve them. Avoidance, neglect, and emotional warfare are the hallmarks of our family dynamic. My older brother, though I love him and see more bright and astounding choices than flawed ones, he distances himself from the family, believing that by avoiding us, he is preserving his peace. But I see it as another form of the same dysfunction… just as my mother and father have distanced themselves from their own emotions and relationships. My mother no longer reaches out to her children, worn down by years of rejection I am sure. My siblings have either ignored her or explicitly told her to leave them alone. I am one of the few who still occasionally responds, but even our conversations are few and far between, I too avoid and neglect as a way to protect my own peace but in so doing, perpetuate the generational pain. My father’s mother, my grandma, similarly, moved away from her family, blaming us for the pain she continues to carry. The cycle of isolation continues with my aunts and my sister, each of us retreating into our own worlds, calling it self-preservation when, in reality, it is just another form of avoidance. It has taken me decades to realize that happiness is not something you can run away to find. It is something you must build, piece by piece, even amidst the pain and chaos. Problems... they don’t disappear just because you put physical distance between yourself and the people who hurt you. They follow you, lingering in your heart and mind until you confront them head-on.

We all wish for things to have been better or even BE better, but that cannot happen with distance.

Isolation, for all its healing potential, can also become a crutch, an addiction that eats away at your soul. My family has mastered the art of isolation, it is a skill we have long been exemplary at…. but it hasn’t brought us the peace we so desperately seek. Instead, it has only deepened the wounds, leaving us more fractured than ever. I have often found myself torn between wanting to cut ties with my family yet also wanting to fight for the goodness I know exists within us. I see the potential for healing, for breaking the generational curses that have plagued us for so long. But that kind of healing requires more than just acknowledgment… it requires action, compassion, and a willingness to truly listen to one another.

Avoidance, neglect, and contention still run deep in our family, but I refuse to let them define us forever. I want to be one of the family members to end this cycle, not the only one. I do not believe i have the power to do it alone. I want us to combine… to bring grace and understanding into our relationships. It won’t be easy, and it may not happen in my lifetime, but I believe it’s possible. I believe that, with time and effort, we can set aside our pain and come together as a family… one that is not bound by the chains of the past, but free to create a future filled with love and peace.

Family, as I have come to see it, is an ever-shifting landscape of opposites… a mosaic pieced together from shards of both affection and adversity, beautiful in its complexity yet delicate in its balance. Each shard tells a story, each piece a memory, and in its creation, we are all bound together, for better or worse. For me, the familial bonds I hold have been as formative as they have been painful, yet from within that pain, I have found my own peculiar brand of hope.

My mother’s story, much like my own, is one of hardship, resilience, and a search for belonging. As I said, she grew up in the foster care system, constantly shuffled between homes that felt more like cages than havens. Something I relate to. The care she received was often indifferent, lacking the warmth or tenderness that a child needs to blossom. Her relationship with her own mother, my grandmother Jenny Lynn... whose name I bear, though not by choice... was fully charged with tension and misunderstanding. My mother, homeless more than she was housed, learned to navigate a world that seemed determined to cast her aside… And my grandmother, my mothers mother, a figure who has cast a long shadow over my life, even though our connection was tenuous at best. Again, I will say, I know very little about her, except for the tales my mother told me and the bitter fragments of conversations we shared. I carry her name, but I no longer use it. It is a small act of rebellion, a way of distancing myself from the coldness she embodied. I mourn the warmth I never had the pleasure of knowing... I am certain if she still lives, I’d have made some sort of effort or gesture to become closer to her as I have realized a lot since she died. I do not, ever again, want to wait for people in my family tree to die before making that effort.

My mother's life, shaped by loneliness and neglect, became the crucible in which she forged her identity. She was often left to fend for herself in an unforgiving world, enduring not only the emotional wounds inflicted by her own mother but also the harsh realities of a foster care system that cared little for the well-being of its wards. Laws and regulations meant to protect children were, back then, mere formalities, often ignored or circumvented. Painful experiences, both physical and emotional, haunted her throughout her youth, leaving a profound impact on the woman she would become and the mother she tried to be.

In the midst of tumultuous lives, my parents met in a union born not from love, but necessity and shared loneliness. My mother, then living in her car was the key point in a memory, history long gone that introduced her to my father through a family connection. My father offered her shelter and companionship. Yet, I believe there was something deeper at play… a connection between their unspoken griefs and unmet emotional needs.

My father's story is not only one of loss but also endurance. He grew up in a home dominated by his self-absorbed mother, and sisters in need of emotional empathy, a hell of unmet needs… and in marrying my mother, he found himself again in a relationship where his needs were often overshadowed by hers. My parents did love each other, but their love was complex, colored by unresolved grief and my mother’s desire for a life she perhaps didn’t fully understand.. a life marked by partying, infidelity, and, eventually, devastating loss. The death of my baby sister remains a painful chapter in our family’s story. My mother's neglect, born not of malice but her own emotional wounds, led to a series of events that culminated in tragedy. My father’s sister, sought peace by moving out of state, far from the chaos of our family dynamic. While I envy those who have been able to distance themselves, I also recognize that running from our problems offers only temporary relief. True happiness and healing must be built within ourselves, not found in a new location. Isolation, while sometimes necessary, often becomes a crutch to avoid the difficult work of repairing relationships. It has always come to, "it is them, not me" thinking errors. While reflecting on the generational pain that has shaped my family, I yearn for something different. I want to break the cycle of trauma, neglect, and avoidance that has held us captive for so long. I long for a family that can set aside bitterness and resentment, that can embrace one another with grace and understanding. To avoid avoidance itself.

If we could learn to truly see one another… to acknowledge our pain, our failings, and our humanity… I believe we could begin to heal the wounds that have divided us. The mosaic of my family is molded and glued together with both love and loss, resilience and regret. It is a complicated inheritance, one I carry with both sorrow and hope.

A few examples of what I have learned or inherited from a few family members despite my mixture of feelings about them:

From my grandmother, I have inherited the quiet fortitude to endure in silence, the strength to persist through emotional absence, learning to navigate the voids left by unspoken affections. Her resilience, though often unsung, shaped my ability to stand firm, even when warmth and understanding seem beyond reach.

From my father, I carry the scars of words left unspoken and the weight of unmet expectations. Yet, woven into these wounds is a tenacious spirit….. an unwavering resolve to seek love, even when it eludes or hides in the most unlikely places. His unspoken grief and quiet endurance taught me that love, though fragile, is worth pursuing, even amid uncertainty.

From my mother, I have inherited an enduring desire for connection, a yearning that persists even in the face of emotional distance. Her presence, though often fleeting and fragmented, instilled in me a deep, abiding need for closeness, a longing to bridge the chasms of separation. Despite the complexities that define our relationship, this desire for meaningful bonds remains, a reflection of her unspoken legacy. Together, these inheritances shape my understanding of love, loss, and the resilience to seek connection, no matter how distant it may seem.

From my older brother, I learned the art of quiet reflection, the discipline of choosing logic over emotion. Though I still grapple with this balance, I strive to embody his steadiness and reason. His example inspires me to seek a calm, rational approach, even when emotions feel overwhelming.

Family is messy, complicated, and often painful. But it is also a source of profound love and connection, if we are willing to do the work.

I am committed to breaking the generational chains that have bound us in chaos. I am committed to seeking grace and understanding where there has been only silence and distance. It is not an easy journey, but it is one worth taking.

In the end, family is not just about blood… it is about the love we choose to give, even in the face of imperfection. Through love and resilience, I believe we can forge a future where healing and connection prevail over the wounds of the past.

I'm not painting anyone as a victim nor am I looking for sympathy as one…

Sympathy is easy. It’s the feeling that comes when we observe suffering from a distance, like when we used to come across late-night commercials of starving children. It’s a fleeting acknowledgment of someone else’s pain, cushioned by the comfort of knowing we’re safe in our own lives at least safe in some ways they aren't. Sympathy keeps us detached, secure in the belief that their struggles are theirs alone and far removed from our own reality.

But empathy… empathy is different. Empathy is the hard work. It asks us to look deeper and to lower our defenses, to kneel down and meet the eyes of those who suffer. In the context of my family, empathy means more than just seeing someone’s pain… it requires us to feel it, to recognize that we are not so different, none of us, and that our lives could have taken a different turn with just a few changes in circumstance.

In my family, empathy has become scarce... decades ago.

We have lived so long in our individual battles that it’s easier to watch each other from a distance, wrapped in our own pain. Yet, I’ve come to realize that what truly divides us is not our suffering, but the unwillingness to see ourselves in each other’s wounds. I'm no better than the rest of my family, I acknowledge that deeply, but I'd like to propose they see it from my view I've just recently adopted and embraced recently… If we could step out of our own shadows long enough to connect… to see my father’s grief, my mother’s loneliness, my grandmother’s emotional absence, my demanding of vulnerability and many mistakes of reacting terribly, my sister and brothers isolation… everyone's isolation and avoidance due to such tremendous pain we still hold onto… if we could see the pain as the root… perhaps we could heal. It is empathy, not just sympathy, that will save us. Only by recognizing that we are all intertwined by the same fragile strands can we aspire to mend the very fabric of our family.

And to my grandma, despite my last letter to you, I have more words for the sake of the family and I:

As you inch ever closer to the threshold of death, aging... the weight of your choices lingers like a shadow over your life. Your son, your four grandchildren, and likely many others among your descendants... we long for a moment of honesty from you…. a moment where you set aside the shield of divine justification and admit the wrongs you’ve inflicted upon us all that you so eagerly dismiss and neglect to acknowledge as the years achingly trudge by. We just want an admission. The very God you believe in, I’m certain from all I've read about the grand being, wants it. Your admission, to all of us… Not in some vague, distant way, but with the gravity and clarity we, your blood, deserve. You wield God’s name like a crutch, a veil to cover the truths we have lived through. But faith cannot absolve the unspoken sins if those you’ve hurt remain unheard, their wounds unrecognized.

We ask for so little, really. Not for perfection or some grand redemption, but for a simple acknowledgement of the pain you caused us. Can you not, at least now, admit that regret lingers in the quieter corners of your heart? Can you not see how crucial it is to speak the words… to confess what you did, how you did it, and how it harmed those you were meant to guide and nurture? Because the truth is this: God's forgiveness cannot fall upon a heart that refuses to bow to the humility of admission. To say you regret nothing is to deny the human soul’s need for atonement, for reconciliation with those it has wounded. My father, my aunts, my siblings and I… We were children under your rule, under your siege. Innocent, trusting, and vulnerable. Your choices shaped us, scarred us, and we have waited, yearned, for you to do better… to make it better. Your mother shaped you into a cold resemblance of bad parts of herself and all we ask is the forgiveness, admission and change that you have said in the past, that she refused you…

But time is slipping away.

Should you pass through the very veil you long to pass through, without confronting these truths, God Himself may meet you not with the embrace of grand forgiveness and warmth you so firmly believe you'll receive, but with the disappointment of what could have been. Beneath the weight of your silence, generations have suffered wounds that have never truly healed. The love we have all longed for, the comfort that should have come from your arms, was twisted into something cold, distant, and unforgiving. It was not just your actions, but your refusal to see the damage in their wake that haunts us still. Every word unspoken, every moment of denial, became a stone we carry in our hearts, passed down from one to the next. We grew up seeking warmth in places you never offered, learning resilience in the face of your harshness. You stand now at the edge of eternity, and still we hold out hope for the one thing we have never been granted…. your recognition of what we endured. You spend your days volunteering at a prison, spreading the word of God as if your life is a testament to the humility and holiness you preach. You speak of forgiveness and grace, while the family you left behind sits in your shadow, neglected and blamed for sins that were never ours to bear. You fled to Tooele, a heavy yet graceful 40 minutes away, yet you speak as though we are the ones who abandoned you. You wield your isolation like a weapon, reminding us of your distance, though it was you who chose to move away. Even your neighbors whisper to my sister of your cruelty, seeing beyond the hollow façade you present.

You boast of your righteousness, but humility and godly behavior lie in confronting your own wrongs, not running from them.

You cannot escape the truths dwelling inside you, no matter how far you go. The real work of faith is not in speaking to strangers from a place of false devotion to your God, but in looking within and admitting to the pain you’ve caused those closest to you. The generational curse of stubbornness, of pride, is a chain my sister and I (along with some others in the family I know of) fight to break each day… for the sake of those we are around and those who will come here-after. We refuse to be shaped by the same bitterness and denial that raised us.

If you can offer guidance to those imprisoned, you can offer genuine healing to the family still waiting for your love.

We are not garbage to be thrown away and forgotten. We are your blood, your legacy, and we deserve to be cherished, healed, and united… not escaped from.

Over the years I have written poems to help my soul heal from many different familial pains I suffered through growing up. Here are a few plus descriptions:

Empty Honey Pot-

In the shadows of memory a bitter taste lingers,

Like honey turned sour, a legacy of pointed fingers.

Raised on revenge and a toxic brew of spiteful sweetness,

Generational curses woven with silent and unseen bleakness.

Heritage of darkness and burdens passed down the line,

We were only children while innocence veiled in pain's design.

The pillar to lean on yet also the target to beat,

Her eyes were windows to a soul drowning in defeat.

Our bodies not yet grown but forced to bear the weight,

Of brokenness concealed beneath a mask of cold slate.

Her warmth was a distant echo in the caverns of her heart,

Trapped beneath layers of anguish, eroding and torn apart.

God invoked as the final crutch was her desperate plea,

To validate a life lived in chains so careless and un-free.

Yet salvation eludes, for the child within remains,

Lost in the labyrinth of wounds and enduring life's pains.

Spirit bruised and dark as a legacy was left unhealed,

Unable to offer love and the void remains concealed.

True affection a foreign concept, lost in the fray,

Leaving hearts yearning for what she could and would never convey.

The relief felt when she departed as a testament to the weight,

Of love withheld, of kindness veiled, by this cruel fate.

We all seek support elsewhere, knowing she cannot provide,

The solace and understanding for which we've longed and cried.

Accountability, distant dream, shame left unclaimed,

Genuine apologies lost in a landscape untamed.

True love is a mystery unexplored in her realm,

Leaving behind a legacy of darkness leaving us overwhelmed.

In the quiet of reflection while the echo of her pain resounds,

A tragic tale of unmet needs, silent and profound.

Yet amidst the shadows a glimmer of hope remains,

That through understanding and healing, we may break these cursed chains.

For the wounds of generations run deep but not insurmountable,

In the journey of reconciliation we find the invaluable.

To unearth the buried truths and to confront the clouded past with grace,

To rewrite the narrative and carve a new path to embrace.

In the echoing chambers of history, let wisdom prevail,

As we unravel the threads of sorrow stitch by gentle stitch.

May healing be our beacon and forgiveness our guide,

As we navigate the labyrinth of generational pain, side by side.

-AubsThePoet

04-25-24

In my poem, EMPTY HONEY POT, I confront the complex and painful legacy of abuse that has haunted my family for generations. My grandmother, shaped by her own traumatic past, carried that darkness into her role as a mother and grandmother, passing it down to us. Although I can see the suffering she endured, it deeply hurts that she refuses to acknowledge the pain she caused. She still lives in Tooele but distances herself from the family, only choosing to appear at funerals. Growing up under the shadow of her unresolved pain, I was forced to bear emotional and physical scars that have marked my life. Her love was distant, hidden beneath layers of anguish, and though she turned to faith, she remains trapped in her trauma, unable to offer the affection and support we desperately needed. Her continued absence, even in life, serves as a reminder of the emotional distance she maintains. I often write about these painful experiences as a way to heal and overcome the childhood trauma that still resides within me. Each poem is an attempt to scrape out the pain, even if it takes countless words to do so. Through my writing, I hope to find some form of resolution, as she has never offered the closure or understanding I long for. Despite the sorrow, I hold onto a glimmer of hope. I believe that through understanding and healing, we can break the chains of generational pain. It’s a journey of reconciliation, where we unearth buried truths and confront the past with grace. I want to rewrite this narrative, to create a new path where healing and forgiveness guide us through the labyrinth of our shared history.

Abuse And A House-

hurt, oh ache, a burning fire,

strength and weakness, desires conspired.

a room of rubble, yet the house remains,

long fear-filled sighs through maroon carpeted plains.

can you hear the wind, through the cracked wood door,

groaning as if it once wept before?

the walls hide secrets, whispers from the past,

silent cries, muffled screams, echoing at last.

old words plastered on the ceiling above,

murmured apologies, unheard cries of love.

you can feel the pain these dwellers bestowed,

walk through the basement where cold memories corrode.

walls stained with beer, tears, and bitter hate,

mumbled curses and lashes, a child's cruel fate.

her bedroom littered with food and art,

overeating failed to heal her heart.

the dream of an artist, like her father once was,

shattered and questioned, without a cause.

walk through the kitchen, where anger once reigned,

shattered glass, broken plates, laughter feigned.

condescending correction, love insincere,

parents' falsehoods, siblings' shared fear.

the house still stands in her mind every day,

burnt edges of childhood, in disarray.

it never felt like a place to love,

perhaps that's why it never felt like home above.

originally created: february 17, 2017

revised and edited: july 20, 2024

In my poem, ABUSE AND A HOUSE, I capture the emotional scars of a childhood home that never felt like a true sanctuary. As I reflect on this piece, I am drawn to the way it intertwines both physical and emotional ruins… the broken remnants of a house mirroring the fractured heart within. The imagery of a maroon carpet, beer-stained walls, and shattered glass evokes a place filled with haunting memories, where love was often a lie, and pain became the norm. The house, standing as both a symbol and a reminder, embodies the weight of unresolved trauma, of anger that seeped into the walls, of secrets and unspoken suffering that lingered like ghosts. The contrast between dreams and the harsh reality of familial neglect echoes throughout the poem, as does the quiet ache of a child seeking refuge where none could be found. This piece explores the wounds of the past, where strength and weakness are woven together, revealing a profound sense of loss, betrayal, and the search for healing amidst the ruins.

Fault-

In the quiet tremor of a child's heart,

A fault lies hidden deep within and unseen,

Where innocence fractures and chips apart,

By a world too harsh, too sharp and mean.

A fault—my fault, they whisper in the dark,

The blame laid heavy on tender skin,

Yet how can a heart so young bear the mark,

Of a world’s weight of an inherited sin?

In the earth beneath, a fault does divide,

Silent and shifting beneath the feet,

Like secrets kept and like tears we hide,

In a dance of denial, broken and incomplete.

Yet in the fault, a crack that widens still,

A place where pain and earth collide,

There blooms the strength of iron will,

In the rupture a resilience will abide.

A fault in character that they said is just a flaw,

But what if it’s the place where light shines through?

Where brokenness reveals a deeper law,

That to heal we must first undo.

Fault, they called it in whispered tones,

But I say it’s where we find our truth,

In the chasm where we’re most alone,

We discover the resilience of youth.

Through faults the earth does quake and shift,

But so too, the soul begins to mend,

From the trauma vapored from the rift,

We rise, unbroken and stronger in the end.

For every fault that scars our past,

There’s a strength that blooms anew,

A testament that we can last,

And in our healing, we are made true.

-aubs

July 31, 2024

(Ode to Robin Williams SERIES)

This poem speaks to a deep, hidden fault— wounds and perceived flaws—that lies within my heart, much like the emotional scars we all carry. The imagery of innocence fractured and burdened by the harshness of the world evokes a sense of blaming myself for something I never caused. I was inspired by that moment in *Good Will Hunting*, where the character is gently, yet persistently, reminded that the pain and guilt they've internalized aren't theirs to bear.

Just as Robin Williams’ character reassures, telling Sean (Matt Damon), he is also telling me and others bearing such pain and weight of the past, over and over that “It’s not your fault”.... it's not our fault... we were children.... And that the blame doesn't belong to the one who suffers, this poem reflects that sentiment. It explores the idea of a "fault"—a crack, a perceived weakness—but gradually transforms it into something more profound. This fault isn’t a flaw; it’s a place of potential, where resilience is born and strength blossoms. The grief of what happened can help guide. Feeling it is essential!

The poem insists that these wounds, these "faults," are not marks of failure or inherent flaws but the places where healing and growth occur. It's a reminder that in the face of adversity, the pain isn’t mine to hold onto; instead, it’s an opportunity for growth and self-discovery. The poem echoes that same message I need to hear: that the weight I carry doesn’t define me—it’s what I do with it that does. Just like in *Good Will Hunting*, I have to acknowledge that the hurt isn’t my fault, and that realization is where true healing begins.

If you have read this far, please share, like, and/or comment.

Until next time...

-AubsThePoet