The Journey of Forgiveness and Understanding in a Psychic Life

I’m sharing this part of my journey not for sympathy or to portray myself as a victim, but rather to illuminate the importance of self-awareness. It’s crucial to recognize our triggers and understand their origins, a skill many struggle with. The best way I know how to encourage this self-exploration is by sharing my own experiences.

I was seven when I first expressed my dislike for my mother’s boyfriend, instinctively sensing he was a bad man. My mother was embarrassed and told me not to say such things, but it was too late; the words were already out. When he later confronted me with the question, “What’s the problem?”, I was utterly perplexed. At that time, my biggest concern was trying to understand girls, especially after witnessing a classmate suddenly burst into tears, which had thoroughly confused and scared me. I thought he was referring to this incident, but he wasn’t, and to this day, I still don’t know what he meant.

That conversation marked a significant shift in my life. The following years saw me confined to mental hospitals for children, causing me to miss out on many formative experiences. This isolation led to social awkwardness and neuroticism in my later years. For a long time, I believed I was crazy and felt a deep sense of shame, avoiding friendships and relationships under the belief that something was inherently wrong with me.

High school was an odd mix of experiences. I often chose the path of an outcast, only engaging when I truly felt like it. In retrospect, I realized that this was a conscious choice.

Throughout my adult life, I worked hard to forgive my mother for various things. But one thing I struggled to forgive was her insistence that I was mentally unwell. In a candid conversation, I even told her that I could never forgive her for making me believe I was crazy.

Returning to my recent discussion with Christine:

Christine pointed out that I was still clinging to the deep-seated belief that I was crazy. She helped me realize that I hadn’t truly seen my mother’s perspective on the events of my childhood, nor had my understanding of these events matured as I had.

As I began to reevaluate these experiences from an outsider’s perspective, it struck me that I had never attempted this before. I realized my mother was not only afraid of me but also for me. She didn’t act out of hate or lack of love; it was the opposite. Her actions stemmed from a profound fear and a sense of helplessness.

Interestingly, one of my mother’s close friends, a psychic, had told her about my abilities. This revelation helped me see things from my mother’s viewpoint, which was, in hindsight, quite terrifying. For almost two years, nearly every photo of me featured unexplainable phenomena. Our home was a hotspot for strange occurrences, and I often knew things about my mother’s past that I couldn’t possibly have known otherwise. People even warned my mother about me, calling me a “devil child” in front of us.

This realization led me to develop compassion for my mother. She was terrified and didn’t know how to react. After the mental hospital stays, she steered me towards religion. We started attending church every Sunday, and I was enrolled in Bible study. By the age of 13, at her insistence, my involvement in the church intensified, meeting with pastors to instill a fear of God in me. This was likely a response to the resurgence of the inexplicable events that had characterized my younger years.

Currently, my relationship with my mother is strained, to say the least. We barely have a relationship, although she maintains a close bond with my younger brothers, which brings me some peace.

Our parents shape our initial understanding of the world and ourselves. We often base our identity on the perceptions we form from them. While I never blamed my mother for my choices, I did resent her for hers, without fully understanding her perspective at the time.

I’ve always felt she could have chosen discovery over fear. But I also needed to understand her perspective, her genuine fear for and of me. I often write letters to the universe for guidance. Once, I asked about my relationship with my mother. The response, which I initially disagreed with, now makes sense to me. It suggested that my mother feared losing me, as if someone else might have been better suited to raise me.

Recently, during this period of realization, I stumbled upon this letter again.

In healing, I’ve learned that I also need to heal my mother for her experiences and actions towards me. A conversation with an expert in generational trauma underscored that healing often begins and ends with our parents. We need to forgive and heal them to free ourselves from the identities and traumas we inherit.

Parents are imperfect; they are human, with insecurities and fears. As children, we struggle to understand that our parents are more than just our caregivers; they are individuals with their own complex lives. When they don’t fit the mold we’ve created for them in our minds, confusion and feelings of personal affront can arise.

To my mother:

In the years we’ve been apart, I’ve gained a deeper understanding of my early years. I’ve come to understand your fear of and for me, and I’ve spoken to relatives who shared those fears. I get it now, and more importantly, I forgive you.