What My Bones Know: A Memoir of Healing from Complex Trauma

by Stephanie Foo

So it felt significant—generous—for Auntie to sit here and tell me that the way my mother raised me was unfair. It was a permission of sorts to recognize—even among this generation that was so inured to pain—that the way I was brought up was not right. Not how it was supposed to be.

The past is always here, haunting our homes, standing over us at night. They say you don’t get rid of a ghost by pretending it isn’t there. The legends tell us to address the ghost directly. Declare that this is our home and it isn’t welcome here anymore. But I’m the only one yelling, screaming at spirits in the living room while everyone else averts their eyes, pretending there’s nothing wrong.

That sadness—the sadness of loss—is a different flavor than the sadness of reckoning. The sadness of reckoning feels visceral and angry and tinged with violence. It feels healable, somehow, with revenge or justice. But the sadness of a lost childhood feels like yearning, impossible desire. It feels like a hollow, insatiable hunger.

“It’s not the fights that matter. It’s the repairs.” The repairs.

People with C-PTSD might have an outsized, gnarly freak-out about a cockroach in the house or a flash of anger on someone’s face. But in times of real danger—when someone furious is coming toward us with an actual machete in their hand, ready to kill—we face the problem head-on, while everyone else is cowering. A lot of the time, we’re the ones getting shit done.

In Eugenia Leigh’s poem “Gold,” she writes, “Tell me // I am not the thing / my children will have to survive. / Tell me // the mob I inherited

will not touch / my son. Yes, the cavalcade / of all that’s tried to kill me // may forever raid my brain, but know / this: in my mother’s first language, / the word for fracture, for crack, / is the same as the word for gold.”[1]

I will tell her that when the sky falls, she should use it as a blanket.