Photo:Beth Wright
Photo:Beth Wright
Beth Wright
Beth Wright was abused by her father as a child, an experience that left her carrying guilt and emotional scars well into adulthood. Decades later, after raising an adopted son who had also known abuse, she came to understand the legacy of trauma and found a way to forgive her father, who caused her such pain.
I was seven when my father started abusing me. I was sixty-seven when I finally forgave him.
The abuse tore me from my childhood and hurt me profoundly. For all those years in my mind he ceased to be a person, let alone my father. I was unable to focus on him as anything other than an amorphous entity that somehow represented all that was bad. It wasn’t worth my time wasting too much thought on him.
Every Sunday as a child I attended church where I would recite the Lord’s Prayer. I would ask God to “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.” By asking God to forgive me I was admitting my guilt. In truth I had done nothing wrong – any wrongdoing had been done to me, by my father. But traumatised and bewildered at all that was happening to me I believed that if God thought I was in need of forgiveness, then I must surely be guilty of something. At the age of seven I had no words or rational thought to explain the muddle that was going on in my head. From then on, I was never comfortable within the church. How could someone as evil as I was made to feel, ever be welcome?
As I grew older forgiving my father never entered my mind. Anyone who has suffered childhood abuse lives with the guilt of a crime inflicted upon them. I believe this guilt is one of the longest lasting legacies. The guilt that makes you feel undeserving, a lesser human, a person who is forever grateful for even the smallest crumb of kindness.
It was only as I grew older and, aided by professional therapy, I began to understand the impact of childhood abuse. I very slowly began to realise that I was not to blame. I gradually opened my mind to the thought that maybe I was loveable, acceptable and worthy.
My husband and I, unable to have children of our own, adopted a seven-year-old child. During his early years he had suffered unimaginable abuse and lived his life full of anger and resentment. For many years he took out his anger on me and for many years I forgave him every time. He threw insults at me, broke treasured possessions and refused to cooperate in any way at all. I knew why he behaved this way and I chose to respond with as much understanding and patience as I could possibly muster. He received professional help and eventually his anger subsided. He has become a kind, generous and loving son.
I had started to consider what it really meant to forgive my father, even though he had died. I wondered whether it mattered and if it was even important. But increasingly I began to feel that I needed to do so, for my sake. I no longer needed or wanted to hold onto the anger and hate I had felt towards him. Such negative emotions were weighing me down – it was time to let go of the past.
The years passed and I gave little further thought to my father. But then I found myself wondering why I could forgive my son time and time again and yet it had taken me so long to forgive my father. Of course, I understood my son’s reasons for his behaviour, but I never stopped to think of my father’s reasons for his actions.
Over the years of learning to understand our son and the effect his childhood trauma had on him and, indeed the effect my own early life had on me, I found myself wondering about my father’s life experiences.
My father’s life had been tough. He was one of four boys, left fatherless at the age of eight. As a child he had two long spells in an isolation ward in hospital with no visitors allowed. He collected horse manure and delivered newspapers to help to put food on the table. His very beautiful mother had many “gentlemen visitors” who helped to pay the rent. Some, I understand, were abusive. He won a much-coveted scholarship to study at the Slade School of Art but war broke out and his dream of becoming an artist died. He served in WW2 and returned home broken, like many others. Unlike today, no therapeutic help was available, so he sought solace in alcohol.
When I pieced together his past, I found myself wishing with all my heart I could see him again, put my arms around him and ask him to tell me all about his life. And I would tell him that I truly forgave him. I am so sad that this is no longer possible.
