«As long as you do not have experience of this dying and becoming, you are only a troubled guest on this dark earth» Goethe
The brutal and unexplained death of both children of my aunt (my father's sister), who died at a very young age, just babies, some months old, is undoubtedly one of the most traumatic and striking event on that side of my family.1
This bares such terror and astonishment on the family that both deaths have been frozen in time, silenced, hidden, and buried - I would almost say buried together with the corpses of the babies. This is what usually happens with most traumatic events. They are so impactful, so hard, so painful, people just need to detach, to get away from them. You bury the event and you bury your sorrow. You protect yourself. In a way, it is actually a forceful and crucial saving energy we do have as humans.
Forget now. It’s going to be fine.
We need to move on. No time to cry.
Not everything is good to remember.
What is done is done. Past is past.
But what we need to understand is that traumas that are hushed, silenced, buried, that are not worked through, become energetically and almost physically encrypted in the flesh of the descendants. And soon - one generation? Two generations? They become dodgy….A ticking bomb that we pass on, from one to the other. When will it explode? Will it be in our hands?
Of course, the deaths of my baby cousins remained a secret from me for long. It was only half a century later, during a very transformative period of intense research, studies and therapy, that I was able to dis(re)cover them and bring these stories to light.
Sometimes I would bring the subject at a family dinners. Not very wise I admit. But I was always cautious. It was quite a sensitive thing to bring up and I did not know the exact circumstances of what really happened. My father also avoided the discussion and would brush out any further comment with the classic full of generic disdain: “Ohlala, mais qu´est ce que tu cherches la ma pauvre fille!”2 He would also always add a final sentence : «Don't talk about that to your aunt, it would kill her !». The funny thing is that my aunt is still alive and he is gone. But that´s another story…
My aunt, she never really answered any of my questions; she evaded with a sigh, always. At times, if I would insist, she would become a little more angry… passive-aggressive, better say. “uff…..But what are you looking for exactly ?” I would ask for dates, facts, papers, places. Practical things. She would anyhow not engage in any other type of discussion - specially not the ones involving intimacy or emotions. My family is very practical you know. We talk mechanic. We talk pragmatic. Only real stuff!! No much space for feelings or vulnerability. So Tata3 Irene would usually pretend not to remember where the papers are, if she ever had them, where can they be? She could also say something like “You will find them when I am gone!”. The heavy astounding silence around the subject would always make me fantasise more. I could go on and on, creating so many horrible stories usually containing the following :
She killed them!
They were handicapped, and she couldn’t handle the impairment.
Her husband was violent and abusive… One night he was drunk, he shook the baby….and then….
This is an impossible and tiresome and creepy exercise I must admit. But the mind is a mysterious thing…
But there is no grave…
Yes, there was no grave. And they were no words. No elaboration. No integration. And so, the secret fed on us. It fed on me. Though it has been locked, for years, it is still very alive. And the secret grows even more.
A (first) little girl was born to my aunt on Friday 26 September 1952 and died on 7 February 1953. (13 years before my birth). She was called Patricia. Like me4. She was born in September like me.5 When a child dies and the couple has another child, he/she becomes a “replacement child”. That new child replaces symbolically of course but also energetically and emotionally the dead one. In the heart of the mother, happens a very natural operation that “saves” the one she lost. She projects all what she had projected onto her new child. Blurring destinies. Making it complicated to be free from the former incarnated being. Though I am not the child of that woman, I am still wondering if unconsciously I am not carrying the dreams and lost life of the little dead one inside of me. Through the name we share, through the dreams of my father, through the plans of the family system, what kind of energy was collectively and individually injected into my destiny ?
My father and his sister lost their father in 1947; Alexandre, was only 11 years old and Irène was not yet 16. Although very young, they had to grown fast, and for sure were asked to help out their mother Cleopatra. Irene had to go to work. Alexandre was to continue school, but not for long. Let´s freeze the past for a second and try to picture the situation: what happened back then?
They were all shocked and were crying, for hours.
They were all shocked and did not cry at all.
Both versions are possible together with so many other layers and versions of the same story. If they had to take care of a widowed, desperate, crying, sad, depressed mother, not able to do anything anymore, not able to go out of her bed during the day ? Or even not that, even if she was not bad at all, what happened change the whole dynamics. So, did my father and his sister form a sort of little “couple” replacing the parental couple in the household? If, even unconsciously, they became the household couple, does it not kind of makes sense that this incestuous energy impacted the frame of the family structure ? Insinuating the formation of an idealised couple between his sister Irene and my father Alexandre, it all makes sense : I replace the lost child in the family system.
Furthermore, a little later, a pathological jealousy of my aunt directed against my mother would accentuate this hypothesis. It was a constant and fierceful competition for who will be the most beautiful, the thinest, most attractive, best dressed. No wits involved here, I told you, my family is very pragmatic.
Back to me. One thing intrigues me. When I was younger, I had two abortions. It is as if the first two children cannot live; unwillingly, unconsciously, I am loyal to the system. I am reproducing the internalised pattern.
And then, there is worse.
After the birth of my daughter, 3 days after leaving the maternity ward, while the pregnancy and delivery had gone blissfully well, a very serious infection (E.Coli) caused sepsis in my body. I had 41 C fever for more than a week and even in the hospital they could not understand what was happening and why the different specific antibiotics would not lower the fever. According to the doctors, some few hours left and that would have almost cost my life. I did not know by then, but I know now : I was still in the claws of the system, marking a double family injunction – acting as a real curse: being born is dangerous, becoming a mother is forbidden.
Either way, you can die!
We live on top of the remains of lost and hidden stories, ancient ones, neglected ones, dead ones. But myths are strong. They keep us humble in a more than human world. They speak not only of resolutions but also define who we are, our position in time, place, in death, and in eternity.
Myths declare pain and death as part of creation, regeneration, and life itself. And we do that too.
I have written another piece on the subject :
Could be translated into “but what are you after my poor girl….”
Tata = Auntie (in French)
On that subject, you can read also the post “My name is…”
And she died in February, the month I gave birth to my baby girl….
Sage, I got so many goosebumps reading through this. I love the opening quote by Goethe - speaks to me now in a way I wouldn't have gotten even a few years ago. And when you talked about family members not talking about things as a way to manage pain, I finally understood my own family's silence. I would alternate between confusion and anger and disbelief around this pattern. But suddenly it was like, "Of course! That's exactly why!" That feels so helpful to know. I love your writing and art. It is so deep and so resonant with being human.