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The Curse of the Generations

In my line of work, I see a lot of clients who deal with family traumas.

Emotional ones, mostly.

While most of these individuals haven't experienced physical abuse, they still didn't grow up in environments that were emotionally or mentally healthy.

They often feel guilt surrounding this. "My parents were good parents BUT," and then shamefully explain how they weren't allowed to have feelings or share that something their parents did or said was hurtful.

Some parents will guilt or shame their children into not speaking on it anymore. "Well, I guess I was just a terrible mother/father." "Well I guess I just did a terrible job of raising you kids." And then the child or adult child shuts down and realizes that individual isn't safe to talk to about the ways in which they were hurt.

This creates a divide. The individual is broken in some capacity and wasn't taught the tools to pass on healthy emotional coping mechanisms. And most of the time, this behavior continues through the generations.


I think in terms of stories, and every time I see or think of Generational Curses, I see this image. Let me take you through the story of The Curse of the Generations.



It's dark in here. I am standing on a platform and my Child stands on a platform in front of mine.


For years, my back has hurt. My back has had arrow after arrow thrown into it. I've taken blow after blow. I turn around and am shocked to realize, it is my parents holding the bow the arrows have come from.


Their parents are slightly behind them and so on. My entire family line is standing on their own platforms behind me.


I cry out in pain. "Please, make this stop! My back hurts and I am so sore."


"Of course, there is only one way for this pain to go away!" They all call out in unison.


"How?" I beg. I fear the arrows will never stop but I fear them hitting my Child on their own platform even more.


"Pick up a bow!" They say as they toss it to me.


I see the bow laying on the floor of my platform. I debate picking it up.


"What do I do with it once I pick it up?" I ask.


"Once you pick it up your platform moves back here by us! You wont get hit by our arrows anymore!"


"But what about my Child?" I ask.


"They will now take the force of the blows until they are old enough to join us!" They exclaim.


I look down at my bow and then at my Child, my brows furrowed.


"So, if I join you then I wont hurt any longer, but I will pass the pain onto my child?"


"Yes." They affirm. "It is the only way to stop the pain."


I decide to stop the pain. But not for myself. For my Child and their Children after them.


I turn my back to the Generations behind me.


"I will not pick up this bow." I say.


"You must!" they exclaim.


"I WILL NOT." Surely, they will be proud of me for standing against the arrows. For saying "No more."


But there is a palpable anger in the room and then silence.

And then a storm of arrows is fired at my back.

One after another, after another.


"Just pick up your bow!" They exclaim. "This will stop if you pick up your bow!"


But it will not stop. It will continue throughout my line. One Child after another.


"Yes," I say quietly to myself. "It will stop."


Confused and angry their arrows come flying one after another after another. They are angry that I am not picking up the bow. That I haven't made the same choice they did. I think it makes them think of the choice they made. It exposes them to the fact that they decided to pick up the bow.


"I will not pick up this bow and point it at my Child!" I yell.


"Do you not love us?" They ask as arrow after arrow continues to land in my back. "Why will you not join us?"


They are so confused.


"I do love you, but I will not join you." I say.


They look at my action as an act of rebellion. As an exclamation of hatred toward them.


The arrows start to land on my Child's platform. I think into the recesses of my mind and pray for an umbrella. One made of iron to protect my Child. I am only strong enough to hold the umbrella over my Child. I cannot protect both of us.


But the iron umbrella does it's job. It protects my Child from the storm of arrows.


Suddenly, my Child's platform moves away. Far away. I am thankful for I am weary from holding up the iron umbrella. But they are away. They are safe.


And my platform moves away too. Towards my smiling and happy Child. They are confused why our platforms are so far away from our loved ones but I tell them it is for the best. That sometimes the closer we are to the ones we love, the more access they have to hurting us. And we can choose to not get hurt anymore. My Child is sad but they understand.


My family calls out to me, "Why have you done this to us? Why have you left? Do you not love us?"


They do not understand why I would choose to abandon them and not pick up the bow.


But I broke the Curse. Me nor my Child has to pick up the bow. My back is sore. I have more arrows in my back than anyone in the Generations. But my Child has none.


And that has made every extra arrow I received by not picking up the bow worth it.


"If you put your bow down, you can break the Curse of the Generations and come join us over here where there are no arrows!" I exclaim.


A few of them start to but to pass into this New Place they have to watch every arrow they ever shot. Some handle it and continue to work through it. They meet us in the New Place and leave the Dark Place behind. Some cannot and they turn around and return to their bows.


But that is their choice. For no one with bows has access to me or my Child. And their arrows cannot hit us from the New Place. And my Child nor their Children will ever have to make the choice to pick up a bow and arrow.


I broke the curse.


I bear the most arrows of anyone in my line.


But I am the last to be hit by an arrow.


I have broken the Curse.















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