Breaking the Cycle

 In my private women’s group on Facebook, someone posted about how proud they were that the younger generation of women are no longer tolerating the things that used to be considered normal. They are not tolerating violence, neglect, uselessness, or the lack of connection. It is genuinely wonderful to see. But in the comments, many women my age and older began blaming themselves for staying in bad situations as long as they did.

Since seeing that thread, I have thought a lot about the conversation. Not just about the original post, but about the comments from women asking themselves why they allowed certain things, why they stayed, and why they did not leave earlier. The truth is that leaving damage is incredibly difficult because most of us have a strong sense of hope and faith in people’s ability to change. And when it comes to men, the bar for what needs to change has historically been very low.

This is not a flaw in who we are. It is a flaw built into the system. It is the culture we were raised in, the examples we were given, and the messages sent to us both out loud and silently. Many of us are mothers and grandmothers who actively tell younger women not to repeat the patterns we lived through. We explain why. We talk about the actual damage done. But how many of us had mothers who did that for us. Some. How many had grandmothers who did that. Again, some, but not many.

In my own situation, my mother was essentially a cautionary tale. She moved from one disastrous relationship to another with such consistency that it almost became impressive. It takes effort to find men who do not just slip below the bar of tolerable but sink so far beneath it that they are practically buried in the dirt. I do not blame her for this. I know her history and the abuse she suffered. From my own experiences with mental illness, I understand hers. I know why she self soothed with substances and why she believed she was not worthy of decent partners. I know why she thought that if she could prove she was worth changing for, even to a terrible partner, then maybe she was worthy of love at all.

I have studied pictures of her at nineteen and realized that this is where I began. In this broken, damaged child. Understanding that does not erase or excuse the pain her children suffered, but it does allow me to heal through the situation.

My mother was part of a cycle. A cycle of untreated mental illness passed down through generations. A cycle of manipulation. Her father was, by all accounts, considered a good man. And in many ways he was. He met the basic bar for men and even went beyond it. He worked a steady job, provided for his family, was calm, did not drink or use drugs, and although he smoked, that was not considered an issue at the time. He was soft spoken, steady, and did not create a home full of nervous energy. He was a good Christian, a deacon of his church, helpful, humble, kind, caring, and would never have considered raising a violent hand to anyone. All of these things were true. None of it was fake.

But people are complicated, and another truth existed alongside all of that. He valued his birth family more than the family he created. He bought his parents a home before he built his own. When he finally built his own home, he placed it within a two minute walk of his parents so he could be there at any time. He paid their bills. As advancements happened, his parents received them first. They had indoor plumbing and electricity before his wife and children did. Only when he had additional funds did his own household receive those things. It is strange to think about now, but in rural areas during the 1950s and 60s, this was still common.

He bought cars for his parents and his sister whenever they needed one. Always. Without fail. And while that may still sound generous, it came at a cost. His wife and children were always last on the list, and it was not only that they were last. My grandmother had to cook for his parents, clean for them, run their errands, and take them places. She essentially ran two households and was not compensated for any of it.

When my uncle was eight or nine, he was sent to work at the general store his grandfather owned. The store was across the street, so he walked over after school and worked until eight every night, then worked full shifts on weekends. He was not paid. This continued for roughly eight years.

When my grandfather’s father died in the early 1960s, his mother asked for companionship. In response, my grandfather sent my mother to live with her. For some people, living with a grandmother would have been ideal. I wish it could have been that for my mother. It was not. It was servitude. My grandmother still did most of the domestic labor in her mother in law’s home, but my mother did the rest. Until she was around twelve, she was not required to cook, but she had to serve meals and wash everything afterward. She had to keep the house spotless. She once told me that her grandmother would walk through the house several times each evening, and if anything was out of order, my mother would be hit.

Her grandmother was verbally and physically violent. Often. Viciously. And my grandfather knew this. He allowed it. He created the situation that made it possible.

So was he a good man. Yes. No. It is true that his parents raised him to value them first, but at some point, when you see bruises on your child’s legs, something inside you should recognize that the situation must stop.

My point in telling this story is that my grandmother saw the patterns. She spoke up about how wrong the situation was. She did so often and loudly. For her efforts, she was labeled a nagging woman. And nothing changed.

When I was born, and the abusive grandmother died in the same year, my grandmother made decisions. She spoke to me about how things worked. She did not simply suggest that I choose differently. She insisted on it. I was fortunate to have someone who told me directly that the patterns could and should be broken. Not everyone gets that.

Modern girls walk away now. They do not allow certain behaviors to begin in the first place. They do not fear being alone because they understand that alone, for women, is often another word for peaceful and quiet. They understand that alone is misleading anyway, because people can have friends, family, roommates, and even their own children without involving a walking red flag in the matter.

They understand these things because they grew up with the message, spoken and unspoken, that they have personal value that does not depend on others. They learned that they have the right to safety, comfort, and peace. They learned that they are enough on their own.

You who raised the next generations deserve credit for telling them that the cycles should be broken. You showed them the beauty and value of independence and freedom. You worked hard to find your own healing, footing, and sense of self. I commend all of you for that.

TL;DR: We were shaped by the generations before us, but we are the ones who shape the future.