Echoes of Trauma: When your love is edited out of the story

By Lillian Okenwa

You can spend years showing up for someone and still hear them tell the world you were never there.

Daniel had spent years trying to be a responsible son. He contributed to his mother’s upkeep, attended to her needs as best he could and tried to be present when she needed him.

He had his own responsibilities and limitations, but he did what he could, believing that a son should not turn away from his mother when she needed him.

Yet, when his mother spoke to relatives and neighbours, the story was often different. She spoke of her suffering, of how difficult life had become, of how her son had abandoned her.

The money he sent, the needs he met and the times he showed up rarely made it into the account. What remained was the story of a mother left to fend for herself.

Daniel found himself having to defend his commitment to a woman he had spent years trying to care for. He could explain, provide evidence or do more, but none of it guaranteed that the next conversation would tell a different story.

Imagine the pain of loving someone and discovering that, in their telling of your shared history, your love has almost disappeared.

This is not an experience confined to parent-child relationships. It happens in marriages, among siblings and in friendships.

The details may differ, but the hurt is familiar: You give, sacrifice and show up, only to discover that your efforts have been left out of the story, while every disappointment has been preserved as evidence against you.

There are wives who spend years caring for their husbands, raising children and holding households together, yet are described as selfish the moment they express exhaustion or refuse an unreasonable demand.

There are husbands who work harder, take extra jobs and stretch their earnings to provide for their families, believing that their sacrifices will make life better for the people they love. Yet, despite their best efforts, they are told they are not doing enough.

What they consider sacrifice amounts to nothing in the account being told. Their shortcomings are recounted, while their struggles and contributions go unacknowledged.

There are siblings who shoulder much of the responsibility for an ageing parent, only to hear accusations of neglect from relatives who rarely share the burden.

There are friends who offer money, time and emotional support through one crisis after another, but one declined request is enough to earn them the label of disloyalty.

In such relationships, one person’s disappointment can consume the entire history of the relationship. The help received fades from view, while the help withheld, delayed or deemed insufficient becomes the story everyone hears.

What happens to the person whose love is repeatedly edited out?

Often, they try harder.

Daniel may send more money or rearrange his plans to attend to another need. The husband may take on extra work, sacrifice his own comfort or keep pursuing opportunities to improve his family’s circumstances.

The wife may assume more responsibilities, and the friend may continue giving beyond what is reasonable. Each hopes that the next sacrifice will finally put the accusations to rest.

Beneath these efforts is a longing many people will recognise: If I can just do a little more, perhaps you will finally see that I care.

But when the accusations continue regardless of what is done, love becomes an exhausting exercise in proving one’s worth. The person on the receiving end begins to explain decisions that should not require elaborate justification.

They defend themselves against familiar charges and live with the fear that any failure to meet an expectation will be used to discredit everything they have done before.

Eventually, the strain begins to show. Phone calls bring anxiety rather than pleasure. Visits are approached with apprehension. Giving becomes less spontaneous because every act carries the fear that it will soon be forgotten.

Some people become resentful; others withdraw, ashamed that they no longer have the strength or willingness to keep giving as they once did.

That withdrawal may then become the latest evidence of their supposed indifference. The person who has grown weary of defending their love is presented as proof that the love never existed.

The pattern can be difficult to name. It may involve an inability to acknowledge another person’s efforts, a persistent airing of grievances or a tendency to turn disappointment into a sweeping judgment of someone’s character.

One might describe the relentless spilling of resentment into every available conversation as mental incontinence. The phrase is a metaphor, not a clinical diagnosis. It describes what happens when grievances are repeatedly voiced without sufficient regard for context, fairness or the damage they may cause.

Of course, people must be free to speak about their pain. Someone who says they have been neglected may be telling the truth.

A person who has been hurt should not be silenced to protect another person’s reputation, and no one should be expected to pretend that a relationship is healthy when it is not.

The problem arises when complaints become a persistent, one-sided account of a relationship, leaving out every act of kindness and every attempt to help.

There is a difference between saying, I needed more from you, and declaring, You have never done anything for me, when the history tells a more complicated story.

One expresses a need. The other can erase years of effort and turn a painful disagreement into a judgment on an entire person’s character.

For those on the receiving end, the challenge is learning to examine their own shortcomings without accepting every accusation as the truth.

They can apologise where they have caused hurt, make amends and change what needs changing. But they do not have to accept a distorted account of the entire relationship simply because it comes from someone they love.

This can be particularly difficult when the person making the accusations is a parent. Many adult children long to be seen as good sons and daughters.

They may endure painful criticism because defending themselves feels disrespectful, or because they fear that setting limits will confirm the abandonment they are accused of.

Yet honouring a parent does not mean agreeing with every accusation. Caring for a struggling parent does not require an adult child to neglect every other responsibility or meet every demand regardless of circumstance. A son or daughter can care deeply and still have limits.

The same is true of marriage. A husband may work tirelessly to provide for his family and still fall short of what his wife hopes for.

A wife may give generously of herself and still be unable to meet every expectation placed on her. Sometimes there are genuine unmet needs that require honest conversation and change.

But when one partner’s efforts are habitually dismissed, the other may begin to feel that nothing they bring to the marriage has value. Over time, that can damage not only their confidence but also the closeness they are both trying to preserve.

Love cannot thrive on a steady diet of accusation. Relationships need room for disappointment and honest criticism, but they also need fairness, perspective and the willingness to acknowledge what the other person contributes.

Where conversations repeatedly descend into blame, boundaries may become necessary. These might mean being clear about what help one can reasonably offer, refusing to argue over every accusation or seeking the support of a trusted mediator or counsellor.

Such steps may not change the other person’s account of events, but they can help protect one’s emotional wellbeing.

That is often the hardest truth to accept: You cannot make someone tell your story fairly. You may never receive the acknowledgement you have longed for, and people who have heard only one side may continue to misunderstand you.

Daniel can continue to care for his mother without making his entire life a defence against her complaints. A husband can remain committed to his family while recognising that his worth is not measured solely by how much he earns or whether he can fulfil every expectation.

Each can examine his responsibilities honestly, do what is reasonably possible and acknowledge the limits of what he can control.

There may be grief in accepting that someone you love does not see your efforts as you hoped they would. That grief deserves room, too. But it need not become a life sentence of trying to prove that you are good, loving or worthy.

We should listen when people tell us they are hurting. We should be grateful for the care we receive and honest about the care we still need. We should also resist the temptation to turn every disappointment into a verdict on another person’s character.

A fair account of any relationship must make room for both what was missing and what was given.

When we repeatedly erase another person’s kindness from our version of events, we may leave them carrying the pain of being made a stranger to their own good deeds.

And perhaps the hardest part is this: You can accept responsibility for where you fell short without accepting the claim that you never cared. You can keep loving someone without spending your life trying to convince them that your love was real.

A lawyer and equity advocate, Lillian is the publisher of Law & Society Magazine.

She can be reached at Lillianokenwa@gmail.com X: @OkenwaLillian.*_