There is no right way to do a wrong thing. Harold Kushner Catherine G Whitney

AMEN(ds)

While there is no right way to do a wrong thing, there are countless wrong ways to do a right thing. Today, I am keenly aware of the value of frequent, immediate, and detailed apologies.  I find consistently, that only people in recovery are as into this, as I am. 

Holidays and birthdays are emotionally challenging for me.  Historically (in my family of origin and then similar marriage) special occasions were entirely stressful, guaranteed sources for shame and heartache.  And here we are— in the 2022 holiday- birthday season.  One day at a time, I will get through it.

My grief and anxiety during this time make me more brittle and likely to snap, over things which even just remind me of old pain and betrayals (This is trauma–PTSD- reacting to things from the past rather than the present).  As a human, I inevitably get things wrong.  In recovery, I get to practice making things right, when I have fallen short.  Acknowledging unfair or unreasonable behaviors or words by me and requesting a chance to begin again and do better. I ask questions to understand the thing which I have said or done which caused another pain. I am now clear: Our intention matters far less than our actual impact on others.

People get so caught up in their illusion of perfection, rightness, unfailing goodness, unable to acknowledge their own toxic/injurious reactions and decisions.  Rather than self reflecting and adjusting they cling mightily to their intention or justification and double tf down- just to keep feeling right. Jilan Catherine ghoneim Whitney Frank Whitney Annie Whitney Hunter Whitney

Making things right is something Greg and I practiced brilliantly in our 7 years together.  Our misunderstandings and conflicts were small, infrequent, and quickly resolved. Greg and I have now parted ways and I feel blessed to say that I believe that we left one another better than we found each other.   Much healing and growth, growth which did, for me, lead to the need to say good bye and wish each other the very best.

I treasure the relationships with bestie, my boys, colleagues, a brilliant sponsor and others, which allow me to grow along spirtual lines. Even my relationship with my dogs benefits from my recovery. Things which they do or need could otherwise vex me– feeling (at times): encroached upon, resentful, hostagey, financially exploited (lol–laughing but not jk). I look forward to sharing about my relationships with others, when it is suitable to do so.

I am a work in progress, seeking and seizing opportunities to practice making things right.

I wonder if the other girl (born to the woman who also gave birth to me) will justify spending time with the person I divorced, affirming their unwholesome bond, during this holiday season. The unforgivable thing is that my sons’ father will either try to wrangle them to join or burden them with a report of the visit, never minding how much this compromises them. As I fretted this aloud, my son asked me: “Mom, why must you always imagine the worst?” I told him: “I am not imagining… but remembering. A painful damaging betrayal– carried out, repeatedly.” I cannot spare them that grim reality, but I can work to minimize my commentary on their father’s choices.

I believe that as parents, it is our duty(and privelege) to help our children carry and hold things which feel too big and heavy for them. AND not hand them emotionally dark and complex matters, – and then judge them for their ability to manage or deny the pain of IT.

We are breaking/disrupting these cycles. One day at a time. Frank D Whitney Charlotte NC

Cycles of Healing

I would not have chosen the things which have harmed me but am grateful and proud of how I am allowing myself to be shaped by them. Recovery continues to teach me about mercy, redemption, and reconciliation. I am now awake and this quote expresses perfectly where I am in life: “I choose to love this time for once with all my intelligence.” “Splittings” by Adrienne Rich

In my family of origin, from my earliest days, I felt unwanted, unwelcome, hated, invalid, banished, shunned, discarded.  I learned self-loathing and worthlessness from the people whom I counted on to teach and show me love. To love a person, as I understand, means to be unconditionally FOR them and NEVER against them–acting as an enemy- willingly diminishing, harming or serving up pain.

While my pain and healing have been disruptive and agitating to those too uncomfortable to acknowledge the harm and pain that was, I know that there will be conversations and questions which come about from the younger generations in my family, if not also some of the older ones.

Since my healing is more important than proximity and access to blood relations,  I was forced to choose- as it is not possible to heal from the environment which makes you unwell, while still in that environment.  I did beg, literally begged for decades, repeatedly to do the work to heal together. I was notified that the issues and work were mine alone, fabricated, manufactured, imagined.

I have expressed countless times, my dedication to breaking or disrupting the cycles of pain, so as to not directly hand the dis-eased thinking and ways of being- to my sons.  And until today, I had not considered that I am aslo THE beginning– of a new cycle.  The cycle of healing, awakened parenting, living in ways which allow us each to see, feel, speak, acknowledge, and heal pain and difficult feelings which we both cause and experience. 

“I love you so long as you are pleasing me – doing only as I desire …and when you do not, it will be withheld from you.” This is the cycle of chaos and dysfunction that I am breaking one day at a time. The manipulating, forcing, pretending, denying, lie-telling, defending and covering up. It stops here— I make no claims to being healED—only to doing the work to become healed. I am a work in progress.

Someone at today’s meeting shared the following. I never stop being amazed to hear someone say a thing that I have felt unable to articulate. Amazing….

“The truth is I’m in need of repair every day, One Day at a Time and for the

rest of my life. I’m not going back to a fractured perspective, unclear boundaries, stifling

anxiety, crippling resentments, out of control “control”.”

Dog Whistling

So one of my sons has some serious skills when it comes to dog whistling and gaslighting and boy am I grateful I get to be a different sort of mom, than what I experienced. I get to be a loving witness and a trusted ally. I agree to see and hear them both, the best that I can(and not triangulate- no matter the temptation and familiarity). I continually explain to them that in a perfect world – what is true and kind would matter the most amount. But in this world, more people than not prefer a confident, poised liar/abuser (who does not personally affect them) to even the most innocent or vulnerable person– with intense reactions to pain, fear, discomfort. I am deeply aware and pained that my son has his sensitivity weaponized against him, by two family members whom he loves and from whom he also cannot change or catch a break. All I can do is love them both through it, call it out, and model something more wholesome than that. This is a cycle to break. It has fractured both sides of their families in every direction, with a fair amount of addiction and mental unwellness, some less perceptible.

I was thinking today of when I was maybe five years old, sitting at our dinner table in Fayetteville,NC, with only my mother and my sister, who was 11 or 12 at the time. My sister mouthed the words “you are a pig”. As a 5 year old who was highly sensitive and who was hungry for my sister’s love and approval, I burst into tears. When asked what was wrong (with me?—invariably the question and suggestion)  and I shared that my sister had just called me a pig, my mother quite literally gnashed her teeth and declared me crazy and a liar– because since she was sitting right there – she would have known if my sister had in fact, called me a pig.

At that age I lacked the skills to articulate that my sister had mouthed those words— like she didn’t say them out loud with her voice. While smiling aggressively at me, she silently mouthed them very definitively to only me, again. She was smugly triumphant- always. Jilan Catherine Ghoneim Whitney

And so, we all agreed in that moment, that I  was insane and bad. My mother would never be genuinely curious or concerned about my inner life, only annoyed, while performing sympathy and compassion for my sister, who had fallen prey to my antics. Such a loving and sensitive protective mother. Awww

Not only could I not trust my mother or sister, I could not trust myself to effectively deal with them–and being with each of them caused me great anxiety. Later that the day, I heard my mother on the brown coily corded kitchen phone, first with her mother and later with her brother, describing how awful and troublemaking I was – delusional and hysterical. 

On that day my sister and I learned important things about our roles and our power within that family.  Life was officially not safe for me from that day forward. It was ok to hurt Maggie. People who have abused me or sat silently as I  was degraded, prefer to recall only how undeniably angry and problematic I became around the age of adolescence.  I do not deny that it happened.  I had become unstable in that arrangement and then hormones were like grease to a fire.  It was impossibly destabilizing, hopeless.  This was home life.

With no known way to communicate my angst and no caring ally, that dynamic fucked me up at the deepest levels.  My mother’s frequent reports to her family primed the pump for our family trips to New York.   Everyone deeply encamped in the wrongness of Magda- the deranged, thin-skinned, defective, troublemaking liar, unworthy of love, protection, connection. There was nowhere to go but down.  And down I went.  This left my mother’s family feeling overwhelming compassion for her and my sister and observably disgusted and enraged by me, for constantly choosing to put them through so much. 

I’ve only recently learned the terminology dog whistle. So, at least, I now know exactly what that thing my sister so skillfully and regulary did to me, is called.

These two women shaped my ideas and core beliefs about truth, trust, worthiness, abuse, belittling, transparency, integrity, betrayal, honor, honesty, connection, safety. Everything I understood about those things began with what they modelled for me…until recovery and motherhood taught me something better, more true and good than anything I had known.

My First Bullies

Who in your life held you in unconditional high regard and rooted for you, ride or die 24-7-365?

Who in your life consistently instilled messages of doubt, fear, shame, guilt, defectiveness? Chances are that those very people made damn sure to amplify that message at every opportunity, to share with anyone who would listen. The person/people who did so to me, needed for me to be bad and wrong so they could feel right about how they treated me and for enlisting others to support their smear campaign. AND to help them curate affirm their identities as the perpetual victim, the martryr, the hero.

Having the primary women in my life bully me, collectively, particularly when I struggled in ways they could not relate to or manage, was devastating. Allowing and expecting my proximity only when I happened to please them, banishing and condemning me the rest of the time. Never ever to be counted on as trusted allies to me. Conditional af –soul-crushing and heart breaking. Not loving. Not kind. Not Safe. Always needing to punish/shame or rescue. Who even benefits from that….ohhhhh- naricissists do.

As I review these patterns and try to make sense, I am finding undeniable connection between the bully, coward, persecutor and the “rescuer”. It is one persona, seeking control, pity or admiration— at any cost.

It is a freaking miracle that I have been able to learn to recognize and address the negative effects on me and to examine toxic attitudes and behaviors which I learned, copied, developed to cope within that malignant dynamic. I have so many things which I have said and done which make me cringe, too many to count. Fortunately, 99% of them are more than 15 years behind me. Cliche as it is…hurt people, hurt people. And when we know better, we do better.

I am beyond grateful for all of the unlearning and reparenting. I can see many reasons for why I behaved as I did and in my effort to understand and explain it, if only to myself, I do not think for a moment, that having a reason is the same has having an excuse. Some things can simply not be excused. Forgiven, maybe, but not excused.

Without recovery, I absolutely would have (unknowingly and naturally) abused my children, simply by doing what I had learned and experienced: each time I annoyed, inconvenienced, challenged my bullies–typically by having and expressing a feeling or need.

Are you seriously still talking about it?

I came to view punishment and shame as logical/natural consequences to being different displeasing. Great and collective effort was dedicated to reducing me to a more manageable situation. It is difficult to discern which was more demoralizing, being demeaned or ignored- like in like the Amish shunning type of way.

I cannot beleive I still get to be with Sweet Greg (nearly 7 years), who would not consider diminishing, ignoring, or abandoning me. This relationship is one of the greatest gifts and challenges of my life.  Receiving unearned unconditional kindness, love and loyalty, is unnatural and unfamiliar AND actually triggers sadness and pain. It is a reminder of the basic kindness and secure connection, I had not previously known.  So, even within the dearest of times, I struggle (with doing the unfamiliar) and am in pain.

It is not a negative attitude, not an obssession with the past or lack of gratitude. THIS is unhealed trauma. THIS is grief. I will continue doing the work to break the cycle and to heal myself. My recovery is the very most important thing I may ever truly do or model for my children. It is exhausting though and never fn ending.

Out Of My Control- In My Control

CPTSD often occurs as a result of being made to feel unsafe because of your identity.  Feeling powerless to change who and how I was, made me fearful, anxious, aggressive, which exacerbated my reality as an outsider. I was trapped within a cycle of stimulus- response and I had no support or skills for understanding and changing my responses to discomfort, need, fear (which, while smaller(easy to ignore) reactions may have curbed the need to abuse or banish me, technically would not have been an actual solution).  It was consensus that the manner in which I expressed “no, yikes, STOP, or ouch” was THE problem. As well as my inability to move tf on and pretend to be ok, pleased even.  These things about me, which seemed to cause the tension, appeared to be unique, permanent and pervasive.  Believing in my terminal defectiveness drove a whole battery of other issues.

One source describes victims of early childhood trauma “as a burden to themselves and others and a minefield many would prefer to avoid”.  I think that sums it up.

Complex trauma disorder is a psychological disorder that develops in response to prolonged repeated experience of interpersonal trauma in which the individual has little or no chance of resolution, repair, or escape. This way of being is not inborn and is not pathological– but is caused by lack of nurture- within bad relationships with people, on whom you must rely on to be caring, trustworthy, and protective.

I am working closely with a therapist to develop plans, goals, skills that are less insular than me trying to manage my reactions. With peaceful connection as a goal, I can no longer settle for minimizing the outward manifestations of my stress or pain. That failed to yield results worth continuing. Self regulation is essential, for sure, but still just a survival tactic- to limit how upset I might become from a person whom I percieve as intentionally menacing. Response management would have more than satisfied my family and the male version of my sister, whom I married.

What to say when you have reacted poorly- Sit With whit- Photo Text

dis-GRACEd

Ruminating (ok, obsessing) on the concept of grace and how I feel nearly frantic (obvi) that my boys may not learn to value grace, as a way of being. Intentionally evolving enough to choose and do (or not do) a thing because it is wholesome, kind, generous, considerate, connective…..rather than doing only the things which serve, suit or favor them. I can name only one person throughout both sides of “their” genetic families, who moves through the world with grace (and near superhuman benevolence)…and my boys have no access to her– Thanks to the handiwork of their dad and my female sibling–doing only and exactly as they like, at my sons’ immeasurable expense. That unholy alliance cost my boys their nuclear family and extended family. Catherine G Whitney Ghoneim Charlotted, NC

There have been exactly zero times when someone in my family of origin and my marriage (his family of origin) in which I observed people doing the things (they did not prefer) with grace. If and when one of them did so, it was because they felt strong armed and therefore resentful and owed….no genrosity of spirit. NONE. No grace, but managing their face so that it was arranged properly(the optic) while also mentally scheming how to extract their due.

It feels devastating to think of my boys carrying on those ways of being, particularly with each other. They deserve to learn to want and support the best for each other…to genuinley want the best— for all people. Wanting the goodness and blessings for only your self and your “people” is very non-gracey. Non-wholesome and Non-badass.

I continue working on myself.

While the choices I make are of grace, my frequent intense emotional reactions, are not- They may be explained (but not excused) by C-PTSD- hard-wired reacting to “triggers”— words, faces, tones, lies, indifference, selfishness, dismissiveness, sneakyness as an immediate dangerous threat/assault. I apologize immediately and remind them: 1- When I do THAT, that is my pain and unwellness, unhealedness. 2- It is not fair or right and they do not deserve it. 3- My inappropriate reaction is my problem and my responsibiltiy and ALSO in no way takes them off the hook for their parts.

Apologizing is natural for me. I was the family apologizer- born sorry. I was always sorry and desperately apologizing for feeling and acting in DISGRACEFUL ways, as well as for causing others to feel and act in unfortunate ways.

And now, I have one son who is leaning toward family apologizer and another who literally can find no wrong in anything he says or does. We remain painfully divided in our family of four: those who can do no wrong, and the rest of us.

Amazing Grace

I created this blog to discover(through reflection an sharing) and reclaim all of parts of myself which had been erased– or failed to develop as a result of learned distorted ideas about myself, love, connection, and God. I think frequently of grace and mercy, practices first introduced to me in recovery. How did I go for so long without knowing or being these ways? Tragically, that is exactly how.

I have a tattoo of the word mercy mixed in my slowly evolving sleeve. Mercy: compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone whom it is within one’s power to punish or harm. I feel as though Mercy may be universally defined…so tattooing something so precious and clear felt easy. I get a fuckton of practice with an excess of opportunities to be merciful. I have contemplated the word grace for a tattoo, also. But I struggle with that one, as I do not feel that there is a universally shared definition and sadly I still sometimes give a teeeny tiny fuck about being misunderstood, by even those intent on misunderstanding me.

So, the kind of grace I have learned in recovery, is what naturally flows from behaving/ living with gratitude (the act—differing from gladness & appreciation), humility, courage, surrender. So…But for the grace of god, go I. -Grace resulting from teeth gnashing acceptance and difficult compromise- because it is wholesome to do so and also feels nearly impossible. That is THE grace, I want tatooed on my body. The grace of choosing mercy and compromise over rage, righteousness, and self service. Who would’ve thought a wretch like me might come to know grace? Amazing, I know!

I have descended from those who likely think Grace to be about poise, posture, manners, table settings. I fail in all of the ways to exhibit or care about that kind of grace. My idea of Grace: quietly offering some of your sandwich, maybe even to someone you don’t super like when it would be easy to eat it all and pretend as if you dont know they would appreciate it—My kind of grace(the kind I want tattooed on my body) is not a meal served up fancy and often with an expectation for praise and recognition. What impresses and inspires me cannot be purchased, crafted, curated, forced or feigned.

As a result of learning to practice gratitude (acts of gratitude—-paying blessings forward), humility, courage, surrender– my life is more beautiful and blessed than I could have imagined, or made with out spritual recovery. It is full with people and things which I love—but do not fully enjoy–cuz depression and trauma. But blessed beyond measure. I will keep doing the work. Forever. But why can recovery not be an event, rather than a process and daily practice foreeevvvver?

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now am found
Was blind but now I see

Was Grace that taught my heart to fear
And Grace, my fears relieved
How precious did that Grace appear
The hour I first believed

Through many dangers, toils and snares
We have already come
T’was Grace that brought us safe thus far
And Grace will lead us home
And Grace will lead us home

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost but now am found
Was blind but now I see

Was blind, but now I see

Stuff that is important to me

LoveEnjoyNeed
My sonsTattoosSafe Solitude
Sweet GregTacosKindness
Favorite(my bff)TiramisuSafe Laughter
AnimalsBooksSafe Connection
The BeachYardworkReading
Our HomeGood NeighborsSafe Disconnection
SunsetsCarbonated Flavored WaterEmotional Honesty
CaliforniaGreat SaladsTrust
RecoveryPoke BowlsHealing
CourageSushiUnity- a shared purpose
 VulnerabilityComediesFaith- my spiritual practice/program
AuthenticityEstate and Yard SalesExpansive People and Places
Unapologetic awkwardnessSalvation ArmyResolution and Repair
Accountability MemoirsBelonging 
The best revenge is none. heal. Move on and don't become like those who hurt you. Pamela short Photo Text Catherine G Whitney

In healthy, healing, loving family systems…

Ok, I have no experience within those kind of systems. My lived family experience falls well outside any of the categories of healthy, healing, loving.

How I remember my mother and my family treating me: The message, from mye arliest days, was consistent and I believe began with my mother and was readily adopted by her brother, mother and my older female sibling. It flowed through the rest of the genetic links and affiliations. “Because I regard you as lacking, it is fine to diminish, degrade, and alienate you.  I invite others to “see you as I do” so they may join or at least not judge anything but you.”

… because I think that little of you and that much of me

… because you are patently unlovable– a suboptimal human

I was robbed of any sense of self, purpose (outside of -JUST “become different already”), and peace. AND while that is undeniable. Only in a perfect world would it matter.

My observable and undenaibel unease/discomfort and sensitivity triggered the fragility of those possessed by a lethal preference for feeling in charge — responsible for only the things which make them feel elevated and revered.

I knowingly married a person eerily similar because I believed validation via proxy to a psychologically, emotionally and morally similar man could elevate my worth and potential for relating to them.

And my hope that these harmful things might not be so readily allowed to continue, drives the urgency to share about them. IN My very OWN space – I get to state the truth of what it has been like for me…. what it continues to be like, navigating and recovering from betrayals of the highest order. I do not consent to the erasure of me or my lived experience. While the details of my experience may qualify as inadmissable in my family of origin– they are admissable right here. Jilan Catherine Ghoneim Whitney Catherine G Whitney