trauma

Marrying Wrong and the Truth It Reveals

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Marrying Wrong and the Truth It Reveals

Mum would often use her life as an example of the consequences of marrying the wrong person. She didn’t need to explicitly share her story for us to understand; her experiences spoke volumes. She lived in fear of our Dad, her husband, a fear that was so overwhelming it eroded her self-esteem and left her feeling humbled. Before all this started, Mum had loved Dad with all her heart, and she would often recall how she couldn’t wait to marry him when he came to ask for her hand in marriage. She was young and deeply in love, eager to spend her life with Dad. Whenever she shared this memory, her eyes would cloud with painful nostalgia. I could see the lingering longing in her gaze, a yearning to be loved by the man she married – a love she had only known briefly, a long time ago. I could see it too – the silence, the monosyllabic responses, the shouts, and even the beatings. At first, we thought that’s how married couples behaved; that wives should have a reverential fear for their husbands, and husbands should dominate the home with an iron fist. But as we grew older, my elder brother Ese and I began to notice the difference between other couples and our parents. We realized then that something was terribly wrong in our home. Our parents were unlike any others we had seen. Dad never physically abused us, but he did abuse Mum. He would hit her at the slightest provocation and was quick to shout at her if she made any mistake. He would storm out of the living room if she tried to join him and would raise his voice if Mum was running late getting ready for church on Sundays. He was hypercritical, finding fault in everything she did – the food she cooked, the clothes she wore, her initial joblessness, and even after she started a supermarket, he still managed to find fault in that too. He belittled her and rendered her voiceless, silencing her opinions and preventing her from speaking up when she disagreed with a decision. Mum lived in the shadows of her own home, constantly afraid and lonely. But whenever Dad traveled and she was left with Ese and me, a different side of her emerged. We would laugh and share jokes, watch TV until we were exhausted, and go on shopping sprees. We’d dine out and explore all the fun spots in town. She’d invite her friends over and even join them for nights out, staying out late and enjoying herself. She transforms every time into an entirely different person, and it’s that vibrant version of her that Ese and I adored. However, when Dad returns from his trip, Mum would retreat back into her shell, and the laughter and joy would be completely drained from our home. I’ve never seen Mum and Dad share a conversation or laughter together; they live parallel lives, each engrossed in their own world – Dad in his smartphone, Bible, family devotion, and church services, while Mum does the same. This created a suffocating atmosphere in our home. I often wondered how a man could once love and cherish a woman, bringing her close, only to leave her feeling isolated and alone after having children. It seemed like he deprived her of the very companionship she craved. I carried this troubling image of my parents’ marriage with me when I left home for university. ****** Now at 33, I still hesitated to commit to any man. What’s the point of following someone if it means ending up as desolate as my mum was in her marriage? I’ve witnessed enough to know that I don’t want to get married only to become heartbroken and afraid for the rest of my life. My brother Ese, on the other hand, was different. He had friends, including female ones, and eventually fell in love and got married. I was surprised at his decision but then I realized he was a man, and our parents’ troubled marriage had seemingly no impact on him, unlike me. I was wrong; just six months after his wedding, Nadia, his wife, called me one morning as I was driving to work. “He hit me!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling, “I accidentally spilled tea on his shirt, and he became enraged, slapping me and then beating me.” I froze on the wheels, unable to move as I listened in shock. When she finished speaking, I realized that Ese hadn’t escaped the patterns of our childhood after all; the cycles of violence and abuse were repeating themselves in his own marriage. READ ALSO: Silence is Not Always Golden

How Stoicism Helped Me Overcome the Trauma of Losing My Father

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Stoicism

Stoicism is a philosophy that teaches you how to live a virtuous and meaningful life, regardless of external circumstances. But how can it help you cope with the trauma of losing a loved one? In this article, I will share my personal story of how stoicism helped me overcome the grief of losing my father and find my purpose in life. 24th October 2017 ???? Six years ago, I began to learn the ways of the Stoics as a second-year philosophy student. I was trying to find my path between the calling of the Catholic Priesthood or the rich vocation of Matrimony. I was searching for a solid foundation on which to stand. As they say, “Life doesn’t happen to you; it happens for you.” Back then, I hadn’t fully analyzed the meaning of this saying. Armed only with a rudimentary understanding of Stoic philosophy, I set sail on my journey of self-discovery, where I realized that while you can’t control what happens to you, you can control your reactions to life’s events. This newfound wisdom led me to ponder the teachings of Stoicism, a philosophy that produced prominent figures like the great Emperor and author of “Meditations,” Marcus Aurelius. However, reflecting on everything around the demise of my father, I sadly acknowledge that my knowledge of Stoic philosophy was still shallow. I became so entangled in incoherent thoughts that I lost my way. My response to this excruciating event was overwhelmingly negative. It took a toll on my academic performance, and my life felt out of alignment. I was unprepared to live the philosophy I professed and loved. Thus, I became traumatized. Experiencing trauma is a normal reaction, but it was as if my mind was haunted by the incessant knocking of death. I became desensitized to the illusion of the grim reaper and was no longer afraid of death itself. My sole fear revolved around the well-being of my family, hoping none of them would experience the same fate. The true pain of my death, I realized, lay in the fact that those who loved me would miss me terribly. This insight made me acutely aware of the agony my mother would endure if she were to grieve my loss. My mother began having dreams, which she interpreted as signals of death lurking around us. These dreams heightened the anxiety that resided within me, and each time my phone rang, and her name appeared on the screen, my heart would skip a beat. I hesitated to answer, but I knew it was my mother, the woman who gave me my heart. I needed to check on her. I also dreaded seeing my younger brother’s tears. I silently prayed that his thoughts did not mirror my own. From 2017 to 2020, I felt like I was in a state of perpetual darkness, chased by an unseen shadow. I was scared of being alone, even when surrounded by friends. I couldn’t share my premonitions with my friends; it was a personal battle that I had to confront alone. They couldn’t fully understand me, as they were dealing with their own challenges, and I didn’t want to burden them with my struggles. I gnashed my teeth in silence when they were not around. In the midst of my doubt, I found inspiration in an unreleased song by J. Cole, “Show Me Something.” I refused to let my tears fall and instead sought understanding to clear my mind. I was lost, and I even fell into a mild state of atheism, questioning the role of God in my life. Modern philosophical thinking made me more skeptical of the supremacy of the supernatural over the mundane. My philosophical journey became a quest to find myself. In my final year, the rapper I mentioned earlier became an inspiration. In the depths of my doubt, I found myself praying, asking God for a sign to show me something, anything. I began connecting the dots in the lives of those I considered heroes, individuals who had changed the world. I realized that their life journeys followed a pattern, and I discovered that faith played a significant role. Their faith was not rooted in the known but in an assurance and conviction confirmed by the Unmoved Mover. What ultimately restored me was the same question that guided a great monk who lived an austere life, St. Bernard: “Why am I here?” In philosophy, we were taught to ask more questions than seek answers; questions were the Rosetta stone to life. I found my question, my “Eureka” moment. To combat the taunting presence of the grim reaper, I began asking why great individuals lived to a ripe old age or died fulfilled. The only answer I could find, after questioning and re-questioning, was “Purpose.” While I haven’t fully discovered my own purpose, I am on a relentless quest to ensure I live my life in the spirit of Gandhi: as if I will die tomorrow and learn as if I will live forever. I am growing up, Dad, and I hope you’d be proud of me.