Generational trauma

My father grew up right at the end of World War II in 1945, Asakusa, Japan. I heard him passionately tell and often repeat many crazy stories. I heard from secondary sources such as his martial arts or Buddhism students, whom travelled with him to Japan and experienced some life changing events together; stories of passion, courage and almost once-in-a-lifetime shenanigans. The older I get, I'm reminded to appreciate and am blessed that in my short 26 years of living and growing up here, I never once had to desperately need to survive; to be put in a life or death situation where the animal within me said I WANT to live.

Apart from a few altercations on the street or sometimes feeling a bit on edge in a dark alley, I never really had to worry about my day to day safety. A stark contrast to the 40s and 50s in Japan, where the country saw much violence, corruption and brutalities. People must have felt absolute fear day to day; while they are asleep, while they are walking on the streets, while they are talking to someone at the shops. Starvation, the survivability of their families, the future of one's next generation and blood line, enemy attacks...

Over the last few years, I've been navigating the discourse of my relationship with my father and I. Each week, it feels I am piecing our relationship together, through conscious understanding of the unconscious, which was streamed from my earliest childhood memories. This intensive process has allowed me to understand more of WHY he did certain things or WHO he really is. My father grew up in a time where survival was the only priority. When he was born, his parents were fleeing with him from bombings, from savages and gang warfare on the street or corrupt police. Love was expressed solely through one's care in another's survivability. Those you trusted with your life and vice versa, stuck together. Quickly, what is real and what is false was discerned. 'Survival of the fittest' principle stood true as those who survived set the precedence of what works. Overcoming sheer struggles together procured love and of course, this demanded the conscious or unconscious appreciation of delayed gratification. Actions meant far more than words. From connecting with the world more, I understand many, many people share similar upbringings and dynamics with their parents. In the end, it's often about going back. There is a lot in between the lines, if you can see it and dig deeper.

I found out recently that my dad's dad, passed away when he was very young. 7 years old, he said. As much as I thought I understood generational 'trauma', or at least, generational impacts fall onto the next generation, I was and still am very naive. In my line of work, I very often see the many destructive tendencies stemming from the parents and their parents whether it be financial habits, relationship disconnections or self-image etc. People only know what they know. My dad's method of raising me was largely influenced by how he was brought up, in the 40s/50s in Japan. This worked for him so it must work for me. Such an upbringing clashed heavily with the Western environment. It confused me very much and it's only as I mature, that I can see my dad's intentions and combine it with his actions, to synthesise it into appreciation and respect. This process of healing my perception of our relationship and now building on it forwards, is something that I am so grateful for. Better late than never.

It's interesting how this dissonance of upbringing and environment as well as the inherent nature of humans as animals manifests in love. Experiencing 3 divorces throughout my life no doubt affected my belief and perceptions of love. Despite desensitation and sometimes strangely exaggerated sentimentalisms, somewhere within me, the animal and human inside of me deeply wanted love. I believe everyone is hardwired to want and need love. As such, I learnt what felt most appropriate in Australia and output that to the people in my life, through 'acts of service', 'physical touch', 'gifting' or 'words of affirmation'. Of course, the mere acts of doing this did not help me understand the core essence of love at all. And of course, this lead to much toxic behaviour like poison spreading outward. I'm still learning what love truly means to me and I appreciate this is an organic process involving ongoing healing and growing.

Going back to my reflections of my father, his upbringing was what had cultivated his 'competitive' character. I don't mean this in a modern context such as selective schools in Australia or say in sport. In my dad's upbringing, everyday seemed to be a matter of life or death. To survive, he had to be competitive just like how animals in the wild have to be 'competitive' to survive: the survival of the fittest. This rubbed off on me, as each generations rub off on the next. I am only beginning to understand how competitive I am, yet how silent and invisible this has been throughout my life. I type fast, I eat fast, I punch and kick fast, I think fast, I run fast. It seems I am trying to out-best myself and am burning out. I also begin to recognise that I'm trying to stay ahead of the race too, comparing myself to others. I recall as I was often compared to others as a child too. The more I connect with the world, I see how destructive this can be, while it can also be a powerful asset if controlled consciously. Such is the nature of balance. To feel 'enough', to not want to seek different things and to just stay with the path you have chosen, these are the invisible struggles of human kind across time. The questions are the same, the answers are a bit different.

This reminds me a simple yet perplexing comment my senior said during one tough sparring round.

"Sparring should be fun! Enjoy it! Smile!"

What? I thought. As I write this, I begin to understand that I wasn't enjoying sparring at the time because I was losing. I wasn't present, my mind unconsciously was in the future and in the past; I need to win (future), why didn't I win (past). For my father, sparring was not something I would say, he enjoyed. Sparring, or better put, fighting, was a matter of survival. When he survived, he felt the dopamine and everything he did for the end goal of survival, fostered dopamine and fulfilment. For the average person in today's society in the West, sparring and beyond, is an ongoing process of trying to unlearn human's natural instincts to avoid head shots, to minimise over reactions and to calmly take in your opponent's data. In a way, like animals, who learn through osmosis.

Within all of this complexity, I begin to truly appreciate simplicity. Like all of the greatest struggles, whether it be drowning underwater to the most stressful days with work, our mind goes everywhere. But when it's over, there is silence. Regardless of the outcome. There is beauty in the absolute silence, just like a little whisper versus aggressive shouting over one another. I look towards Japan back in my father's time, and even today. There is beauty in the struggle with those who push through and not go the other way. Like Dante's going beyond and through Hell, when one goes with the deepest struggle, the purest, soulful expressions manifest. Like the gold fixed cracks of the vase, like the simple wood blocks, the heartful animes, the soulful music or the wildest technological innovations, struggles produce beauty to those who can make it: the survival of the fittest. This seems to be the common denominator: struggles, humility, sincerity.

Smile.