MOURNING WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN: A Personal Reflection of Life After Trauma

Grief is a side effect of evolution that all animals experience on some definable level. Elephants have been known to bury their dead & pay tribute to their corpses. Dolphins frantically attempt to keep their dead young buoyant by supporting them at the surface of the water. Dogs stand sentry at their owners' graves as they cling to the concept that their loved one will eventually return to them.

As human beings, we understand the complexity of this emotion, generally defined by a 5-step system that allows us to eventually reason & accept the pain in which it carries.

But how do I reckon with this pain when it’s caused by losing something that I never had? How do I process the death of an existence that never spawned?

Like all people, my early childhood moulded the formation of my identity. I was raised in an abusive household by a sweet but passive mother and a violent, drug-addicted stepfather; experiences which marred my early life and paved a long, hard road ahead of me. It’s difficult for me to reflect on this period, not simply because of what I endured, but because it brings with it a deep sense of loss. A quiet, overlooked feeling of mourning for lost potentialities. I often wonder who I would have become if those events never happened. I see a version of myself, more confident, maybe even carefree, pursuing things that once seemed possible.

I sit and I daydream about my other self, this other woman. I think about the relationship she has with her mother and father. I imagine her having heart-to-heart conversations with them, sharing secrets, dreams, and worries, and finding comfort in the security of that relationship. But when I return to reality, I’m confronted by the irony that what my mother and I both endured has disconnected us from each other to some degree. I find myself mourning not just the woman I could have been, but also the relationship we could have shared. I wonder about the version of us that could have existed in another life. What laughter, what support might we have given each other if not for the pain that altered us? Perhaps she even feels the same way. After all, my mother is just another girl, another woman who has had to drag herself through the trenches. I wonder if she too reflects on our relationship and feels the same distance as I do.

I then begin to consider my complex relationship with sex. I wonder if this alternative version of me has healthier relationships with men. Sexuality, for me, is not a simple concept that can easily be explained or rationalised. What could have easily been a source of intimacy, fun and joy instead became a vicious internal battle of shame, confusion and fear. I wonder if the other version of me, who grew up without trauma, could have had more fulfilling connections with people. Could I have seen sex as an act of love rather than a reminder of what people stole from me? Perhaps in another life I could’ve explored my earliest intimate moments with trust and confidence. I feel that I’m damaged goods in spite of the blame not being mine to shoulder.

Whilst I contemplate these issues that are deeply personal to me, I’m reminded that I’m almost certainly not the only person who feels like this; who feels robbed of an identity. Women in modern society are taught that they can have it all, that they can juggle motherhood, careers, ambitions, and I equally believe this. However, something that’s not considered, or at least readily discussed, is how women can continue to obtain their wants & needs after they have been steered off course by the hands of others. We are built by the episodic moments in our lives whether we like it or not, and as such, have to reckon with the reality of accepting a different life than what we’d set out to accomplish. I imagine that so many other women balance on the same tightrope, teetering between the weight of societal expectations and their personal experiences. Women who, like me, have been shaped by pain and grief, who wonder how they can chase their future whilst the shadows of the past continue to chase after them.

And I’m not saying I want this imaginary life. I’m not saying I wish things turned out differently; the path I’ve walked has led me to happiness and stability regardless of the challenges. If I look into the lens of my past I can scarcely believe that I am the woman that I am today. But, I will always ponder on the what-ifs, mourn the possibilities that didn’t come to seed, and the woman who I will never become.

Victoria Walton is a 30 year old amateur writer hailing from England. She has previously had her personal essays regarding trauma, identity, grief and mental health published in The Midnight Woman and The New Feminist.