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Excerpt 1 - From the chapter Silencers The judgments were so loud it was as if some evil cartoon conscience were perched on my shoulder yelling in my ear: What is wrong with you? Get over it already. It wasn’t that bad. Look at you. You’re doing fine. A LOT of people had it worse than you. It’s not like your parents beat you or anything. They did their best. Nobody is perfect. It was the right thing to do. It seemed like such a strong reaction to such a simple act: I was looking for a book. I had heard about a book with information regarding adults who had been raised in divorced homes. I wasn’t even sure what language might describe people like me. Adult Survivors of Childhood Divorce sounded too dramatic. Adult Children of Divorce (ACOD)… Was that the term? I wasn’t sure. Things could be a lot worse.
A lot of people go through this and come out okay.
A lot of people would feel grateful for the advantages you’ve had.
Its not like your parents were drunks or anything.
The voice cut into my thoughts. With each step I took toward the shelves, the silencers chanted like a prison gauntlet, urging me away from any awareness that might challenge the status quo. Whatever you do, don’t say divorce is bad. With so many ACODs and so little discussion about why our backgrounds matter, my struggles to trust, hope, and foster healthy relationships exist in isolation. I am a little nuts, I fear, sometimes secretly wishing my fucked-up-ness showed in a recognizable way, half regretting that I hate hangovers and love food and therefore can not join a support group for alcoholics or anorexics. I know that I am not the only ACOD who has struggled. Research indicates that a skyrocketing divorce rate has left more than a few scars. I was not the only one telling stories in college dorm rooms where discontent abounds. But the link between private conversations amongst peers and abstractions regarding ACOD risk factors is one we seem reluctant to take seriously, on both an individual and societal level. The abstractions are rarely personalized; the peer stories are rarely placed in a broader theme. When they are, the tension builds. If I were to say, for example, that my mother’s ongoing financial struggles coupled with my parents’ outright opposition over who should provide for me financially instilled me with a fear… Shhh Marla. Stay Silent. You have no right to reveal these things. The bookstore was quiet. Yet, the passing voices of the years swirled around me like a fall wind. They were the voices of peers and passersby, themes from popular movies and the subtle awareness gleaned from dinner table conversations. I was too young to remember. I was too old to be affected by it. What doesn’t kill us makes us strong. It made me independent. No one wants to return to the days when women were
barefoot and pregnant. I think it is different in my ethnic community. It was different in my family.
In my family the divorce made us all happy. I hate my dad. My
step-dad was a great replacement. It was the best thing for my mom. I think it affected my brother, but not me. It all worked out in the end. “Stop! I’m just looking for information.” I told the voices authoritatively, continuing my search with resolve. I was looking for a book for me. What I found instead were shelves of books for divorced or divorcing parents. For them, the bookstore was loaded. There were at least fifteen different books telling them what to do and what not to do: how to get the best settlement possible, how to divide custody, how to get even with an ex-spouse, how to recover, how to start dating, how to co-parent with an asshole, plus books to boost one’s self-esteem through it all. There were all kinds of help, all kinds of comfort, all kinds of instruction and reassurance – for them. The books served as a reminder, shifting my focus. Then, like a bad odor, the voices surfaced again. But you love your parents, right? But your parents did their best, right? But there were good things, right? These are the silencers. Before the thoughts even slip past, self-censorship keep personal exploration at bay. For a moment, instead of filtering my thoughts through a parental or a societal lens, I wanted to focus on my own perspective. I wanted to explore an individual case – my case – within a broader context. In doing so, I discovered it is possible to contain it all: the difficulties, my parents’ best intentions, my resiliency, and the societal implications of awareness. The silencers still whisper, probing with their insidious forked tongues for weak pockets in my psyche, but the sound is faint now, almost unintelligible, drowned out by the powerful vocals of a new set of voices. I have a right. I have a voice. I deserve to be heard. These are the healers.
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