Hey Dana Jane

Category: Childhood Trauma

  • Unlearning the Lie: A Journey Out of Dysfunction

    Disclaimer:
    To my family members who may be reading this—this is not a personal attack. This is a raw and honest account of my experience growing up in a dysfunctional family system. This is the result of years of therapy, painful reflection, and personal growth. If this makes you uncomfortable, I encourage you to sit with that discomfort. These things happened to me. Your discomfort is yours to manage. I won’t be gaslit, dismissed, or silenced.

    For as long as I can remember, I lived in a house where appearances mattered more than authenticity, where silence was safer than speaking up, and where love came with conditions. The air was often thick with unspoken expectations, repressed anger, and inherited trauma, disguised as tradition. There was little room for individuality—only conformity.

    The voice in my head that doubted me, shamed me, told me I was “too much” or “not enough”? It wasn’t mine. It belonged to a chorus—my parents, some aunts and uncles, a grandparent. Their values were imposed on me like scripture: obey, conform, suppress, believe. I was conditioned to accept their version of religion, success, womanhood, and morality without question. I spent decades chasing their ideals, only to end up exhausted and empty.

    It’s taken five years of therapy—deep, soul-level work—for me to realize that voice was never mine. That guilt and shame? Not mine to carry. Those expectations? Not my responsibility. My therapist once told me, “Just because they handed you the script, doesn’t mean you have to keep reading from it.” That was the moment everything began to shift.

    At 46, I’ve never been clearer. I no longer pretend. I no longer force myself to align with values that don’t fit. I don’t exist to be a mirror for someone else’s version of the “right” life. I now extend the compassion to myself that I so freely gave everyone else. That’s the most sacred, powerful gift I’ve ever given myself.

    Yes, my philosophies have shifted. Yes, my goals and beliefs look different. And no, I will no longer contort myself to please people who can’t—or won’t—see me clearly. I’m no longer afraid to stand up for what’s right for me.

    And if this disappoints my parents, siblings, or extended relatives—so be it. That disappointment is theirs to hold. I was never equipped to be the manager of everyone’s emotions, and I’m done trying to be. I have finally stepped out of the shadows of who I was told to be, and into the light of who I actually am.

    This is my truth. And I won’t apologize for it.

  • Confronting History: Finding Healing in Grief

    As someone who spent years tucking childhood traumas into the deepest, darkest corners of my mind, I can’t help but marvel at the truth in Alice Miller’s words: “The aim of therapy is not to correct the past, but to enable the patient to confront his own history, and to grieve over it.” It’s a simple yet profound idea—that healing isn’t about rewriting the narrative, but about finally reading it with clear eyes.

    For most of my life, I denied the dysfunction that shaped me. My upbringing revolved around my dad’s tavern, where the clinking of glasses and the hum of jukebox tunes were as constant as the sun rising. It was a place of laughter, yes, but also a crucible for my understanding of relationships, self-worth, and emotional stability. Add to that the complexities of family dynamics, and you’ve got a recipe for a psyche riddled with cracks I didn’t even know were there.

    Therapy wasn’t about patching those cracks for me; it was about examining them. Each session felt like holding a magnifying glass up to my history, unearthing the silent resentments, unspoken grief, and buried fears that had quietly dictated my behavior. But the hardest part wasn’t just facing those moments—it was grieving for the child who endured them.

    Grief in this context is a strange thing. You’re not mourning a loss in the traditional sense; you’re mourning the life you didn’t have, the safety you didn’t feel, the love you didn’t always receive. You’re allowing yourself to feel the sadness, anger, and betrayal that you suppressed for survival. And let me tell you, that process is equal parts liberating and exhausting.

    I’ll admit, I resisted this grief at first. I wanted to be “fixed,” not to cry over memories I’d spent decades avoiding. But therapy taught me that grief is not weakness—it’s acknowledgement. It’s a way of saying to your younger self, “I see you. I understand now. And I’m so sorry you went through that.”

    For me, this grief brought clarity. It helped me understand why I’d accepted dysfunctional patterns in adulthood—because they felt familiar. It allowed me to set boundaries, to recognize that loving people doesn’t mean tolerating their toxicity, and to finally let go of the guilt I carried for simply wanting peace.

    So no, therapy didn’t rewrite my past. My childhood remains what it was—messy, complicated, and full of contradictions. But therapy gave me the tools to confront it, to grieve over it, and to move forward with a little more grace and a lot more self-compassion.

    If you’re on this journey, know that it’s not about erasing pain but about transforming it. You can’t go back and give yourself a different childhood, but you can give yourself the closure you deserve. Grieve the losses. Feel the feelings. And in doing so, you’ll find a strength within yourself that’s been waiting all along.

    And if all else fails, remember this: You’re not crying because you’re broken. You’re crying because you’re finally whole enough to feel it.

  • Naming the Darkness: How Neon Angel Resonates with My Experience

    Reading Cherie Currie’s memoir, Neon Angel, was a deeply moving experience. Cherie’s story of rising to fame with The Runaways and the darker struggles that came with it is raw, unfiltered, and deeply human. One quote in particular struck a chord with me: “Because there is a certain type of person in this world, a type that has something black inside of their soul.”

    Growing up in my dad’s bar, those words resonated on a level that’s hard to describe. As a teenager working behind the bar, the threat of sexual assault wasn’t some distant fear—it was an ever-present shadow. I was only 14 when I started bartending, and by the time I was 16, I’d seen the worst parts of human nature far too often.

    There were always those regulars who had my dad fooled. They’d come in, shake his hand, and laugh like they were the picture of respectability. To him, they were “upstanding citizens,” good for business and trustworthy. But once a few drinks loosened their tongues, their true nature came out. They’d flirt, they’d grope, and some even tried to manipulate me into being affectionate with them.

    It’s difficult to explain what it’s like to be in that position, teetering between fear and self-preservation. I never felt safe around those men, yet I also understood the stakes. My dad’s business depended on these customers, and I didn’t know how far I could push before accusations would turn into drama—or worse. At 14, 15, 16 years old, I had no idea how to navigate that fine line.

    How much do you tell your dad when you’re that young? What if he doesn’t believe you, or what if he does and things escalate? These questions swirled in my mind constantly, leaving me feeling isolated and unsure of how to protect myself. I learned to smile politely, sidestep advances, and deflect with jokes, all while keeping my guard up. Looking back, it was a survival strategy—but it shouldn’t have had to be.

    Reading Cherie’s words about the darkness inside some people’s souls brought back those memories in a wave of understanding and validation. She’d seen that darkness too, felt it closing in, and fought against it. There’s a strange kind of comfort in knowing you’re not alone, that someone else has faced the same shadows and named them for what they are.

    Her memoir reminded me of the strength it takes to confront those moments and the importance of shedding light on these experiences. When I think back to that time in my life, I feel a mix of emotions: anger, sadness, and pride. Anger at the men who thought their behavior was acceptable. Sadness for the girl I was, navigating a world where she didn’t feel protected. And pride for the woman I’ve become, who’s not afraid to speak the truth.

    Neon Angel isn’t just a story about music and fame; it’s a story about resilience. It’s about naming the darkness and refusing to let it define you. For anyone who’s ever felt that shadow looming, Cherie’s words are a reminder that you’re not alone, and that your voice has power. I wish I’d known that back then, but I’m grateful to know it now.

  • Full Circle: A Reflection on Penny, My Childhood Bully

    Life has a funny way of coming full circle, doesn’t it? As I sit here reflecting on my childhood, one story stands out—a story that I’ve spent years processing, only to find it has a twist ending that even I couldn’t have predicted.

    Let me introduce you to Penny, the girl who turned my junior high years into a battlefield. Penny and I met in 5th grade when she transferred to the same elementary school. At first, we were friends—two girls navigating the awkwardness of pre-adolescence. She lived in a trailer park with her mom and younger sister. I visited her home a handful of times, but there was never much adult supervision. Her mom worked second shift at a nursing home and would often head out to the bars after her shift, leaving Penny and her sister to fend for themselves.

    We spent summers walking around the trailer park—something I now realize was dangerous given the sketchiness of the area. Penny loved chasing boys and flirting, a hobby that didn’t sit well with me. But things shifted in 7th grade when Penny decided I was a threat to her relationship with her boyfriend. The accusation was absurd—I had no interest in him—but that didn’t stop her from turning on me.

    The insults came first. She called me ugly, accused me of stealing his attention, and declared I’d never be good enough for anyone. By 8th grade, she’d recruited a posse of mean girls to back her up. I was shoved into lockers, my head slammed against walls, and mocked with the nickname “Tuna.” They tried to make me feel ugly, unwanted, and disgusting. And for a while, they succeeded.

    Their cruelty stripped me of my confidence, leaving me feeling small and helpless. My father, furious at the treatment I endured, told me to steer clear of those girls, calling them “derelicts and deadbeats.” Over the summer before freshman year, I took his words to heart. I realized I had nothing to prove to Penny or anyone else. I learned to stand up for myself and started to see their behavior for what it was: jealousy.

    They envied the life I had—a stable home, loving parents, and opportunities they couldn’t imagine. I was more than just the girl-next-door pretty or the friendly face in class. I had potential, ambition, and resilience.

    Fast forward to now, and here’s the ironic twist: Penny is a bartender at my family’s tavern, a job she landed during a period when I was no-contact with my family. When I first heard the news, I laughed. The girl who once tried to make me feel small is now working for my family. Imagine being a single mother of five, no education, and needing to ask for a job from the family of the girl you tormented in junior high.

    Is she laughing about this, thinking she pulled one over on them? Maybe. I’m almost certain her thinking was, look how dumb the Jurgellas are, they know I bullied Dana and hired me anyway. But I can’t help but see the poetic justice in it all. Penny, who thought she was untouchable back in the day, is now slinging drinks in a bar owned by my family.

    Meanwhile, I’ve built a life I’m proud of—a college-educated professional with a fulfilling career, a loving husband, and three wonderful kids. I live in a home filled with love, a far cry from the chaos of her trailer park days.

    Penny once tried to make me feel like a loser, but life has a way of revealing the truth. I didn’t just survive her bullying; I thrived despite it. And that’s the ultimate victory.