Siblings abused

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Strange Sisters - Young Children in the Sun Well, that was heavy. I felt relieved after writing that story. Reading over it I'm able to see how close I stuck to reality. I'll put this to bed after I process why I said there's a reflection of me in each character in the story Tea for Christopher.

Content: Physical abuse of a young child. Processing the previous entry. No sexual abuse mentioned or discussed.

Christopher
I'm primarily Christopher in the story who tries to manage the unmanageable. I had Christopher leave home just the way I did, an unplanned exit on a night of routine abuse. I couldn't do it another night, not another second. I left Feb 2, 1992 at 10:30 pm and I never went back home. I went to a hotel that evening then got up to go to work. I never went back home.
Just like with Christopher, I did watch my little brother beaten with a dowel rod. Just like in the story, he was held down with one hand by my mother and beaten with a dowel rod until he was no longer even screaming. I walked away and left him with that monster. A few days later he was removed from our home by Child Protective Services. I felt so broken by that loss.
It is safe to say, the story Tea for Christopher was triggered by what happened the other night outside my window.

Ruby, the mother
It's interesting that the mother wasn't given a name until about the middle of the story. I realized I kept calling her 'his mother'. I didn't think too hard about a name for her but I immediately rejected Diamond. Now, the name Ruby seems appropriate only because of the color.
Why am I the mother in the story? I see how much my life revolved around creating situations that would appease my abuser while ignoring myself and my needs. An abused child is always at the beck and call of the abuser, there is no time for anything else.
I never told her, but I apologized in my heart for being a bad daughter. Though my mother left us repeatedly (a few days tops) there was a constant threat of being sent to the orphanage where my grandfather grew up. She was neglectful in criminal ways. Abandonment issues are still a huge problem for me. ...continue reading

My style is to just write and only correct spelling once I've completed it. Even the names of characters are made up as I go. I write until I feel I've released enough.

Content: After reading through it, I realized I'm all the characters, all of them, without exception. The story includes domestic violence, child abuse, the death of a child, blood from an accidental cut on the hand, physical violence towards a male teenage child. No sexual abuse is discussed in this quick write. Spaces are added to distinguish one speaker from another. I used a phrase taken from congressional hearings but left out all other sarcasm or humor.

"Christopher, your father will be here any minute, please set the table. Get his tea cups, please." Christopher rolls his eyes and says, "He''ll be here just a minute?"
"Not now, just finish setting the table, please."

He sighed heavily but very carefully pulled down four small, black Japanese cups with a red flower he couldn't identify. He sat them beside four square black plates and utensils he just figured out how to use. He's frustrated.... no, offended. His father will be home soon so his parents can begin their ritual of pretending to be happy. In the blink of an eye the tide will change from a perfect brew to boiling lava spilling from his mouth burning his mother to the core. She lets him and she won't stick up for her son. Her whole world is a man who comes home angrier each night and stays only to start another war. He leaves the carnage on the floor and goes out for the night.

Christopher's mother begins to bring the meal out to the table but upon seeing the settings she gasps and drops the platter. "Why would you do that? Why are you so cruel to me?"
Christopher feels the weight of what he's done and turns his head away from her. "Do it right and quickly!" she demands, but he's firm in his resolve.
"No. The table is set. You wanted a family dinner and I've set the table for us all."

By the end of her teenage son's sentence she has become a quivering ball of tears. "Why? Why would you do this? I just wanted a nice night for once. Help me clean this mess. Help me get this off the floor before he gets here." Christopher's eyes begin to well with tears, his breath is heavier and his heart has moved to his throat, but he leans next to his mother whose tears now mix with the ruined dish. He cleans the broken glass from the floor. Mother is still crying, heartbroken that she won't get it right, again. She can't seem to do anything right. She's a failure, a disappointment, again. As she hears the same old argument of worthlessness, she notices that Christopher's hand is bleeding. He continued to pick up the pieces one by one, leaving drops behind as a witness to his loyalty, to his love and exasperation for the woman he calls mother.

His mother grabbed his hand and looked at him, "You're bleeding. Honey, you're bleeding. Don't you see?" He dropped his head and shook it in disbelief that she for once saw that he too bleeds. "Christopher, what are you doing, go wash your hands, you're hurt." Christopher pulls back and continues to pick up tiny shards of glass. He pauses and says, "You never make special tea for me."
"What? What are you talking about?" She's confused. I mean my goodness, her husband is going to walk in the house and they'll both be on the floor cleaning up her hundredth failure of the day. Her mind is cluttered, she tries to prioritize. Clean this up, get something else, get a reason for the delay and stay calm.

Christopher places the last of the glass on top of the pile of broken pieces. His hand drips a steady stream and shocks his mother back to the person standing right in front of her. She says nothing this time. Still crying she looks at him bewildered then holds his hand, wiping the blood away with her dress, the one she put on for her husband who will come through that door any minute. She wipes away the blood, but can't stop his steady stream of tears. "What's going on with you? What's all this about? Tell me." ...continue reading

Watch over Our Children - original digital art

There is no update on the eviction threat or my sister. There's a temporary resolution to lack of transportation to see my therapist.

As always, I think of my sister every single day, just not every single second of every day.

I realize I focus on my brother's death more than my mother's. It reminds me very much of being a child who felt it was too dangerous to be angry with the abuser so she chose the safest route of blame and anger.

I can't touch my mother's dramatic exit without trembling. At least there are words to describe how I feel about my brother. I wasn't prepared for the changes his death would make in my life, but I'm not short on words, not by far. I could easily fill the heart of a violin telling him how it feels to be left this way. ...continue reading

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black tearsI told Dr. D that I realize I don't trust as fluidly since my brother died.

There is a sense of betrayal by him because of committing suicide.

I vomited out my heart the day he died.

We talked about getting some old violin so I can write him letters and put notes in there about things I remember we did together, about when he discovered he was HIV positive and when he picked up and left the state, did his thing with music, went to Spain, went back home to New York and died. There's a lot I'd like to write and put inside the heart of those strings.

My favorite instrument is the cello. I'm a strings girl. He was a violinist.

I want to tell him I was at his recital when he was 15. He gave it at the Children's Museum here in Indy.

I want to tell him I'm proud of him for not accepting that a man with large hands can't play the violin. He grew to 6'5. When he began to struggle he hired a man to help him learn to play at his size. He loved the violin and he was bound and determined to play and play well.

...continue reading

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There's a blog magazine I read called What's your grief?. It helps me process some of what I feel in a more tangible way. Recently I saw an entry called 64 Things I Wish Someone Had Told Me About Grief and immediately honed in on number thirty, “The last 24 hours of their lives will replay in your mind” and 36, “You lose yourself, your identity, meaning, purpose, values, your trust”.

I knew I'd go all over the emotional scale with grief. I knew I'd be in disbelief. I knew I'd sit shocked and trip over myself. I knew I'd bargain, that the world would look different, that I'd have memories so real it felt like I was standing there with him again. I knew these things, but I didn't know my ability to trust would be tested. I wasn't expecting that. I wasn't expecting to feel betrayed by the entire world for having the audacity to continue on without him. I was offended. How could you? How could you possibly keep spinning as if nothing happened? It's an insult.

...continue reading

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The timing of this crisis with my sister is one that has been brought to my attention more than once, but I reject the idea that I should see this upset as anything other than coincidence. She hates me, she's not going to manipulate a person she hates by saying she's going to kill herself. She's not reacting to the entries I wrote about letting her go. I reject the idea that she feels anything at all for me so that she would act out because I said I no longer hope in ghosts. People can say what they want, the timing of this is coincidental, but my stand is firm and decisive.

I sent her a letter to go under her door. Her apartment is the last place anyone saw her or heard from her. I sent the letter because I had to. How could I not? When I realized I could possibly contact her I sent a letter through a friend of a friend.

My every waking thought is her but that's not how it was two weeks ago. Two weeks ago I felt ready to walk away emotionally. I felt ready to move forward and let the past stay the way they created it. But today, she's all I think about. She's all I think about.

...continue reading

Holding Back the Light - unavailable
Holding Back the Light - unavailable

I hugged the lady very tight. She knows my sister. She gave me an update. My sister has locked herself in the apartment and there is still no movement, no contact, nothing has changed. They do know she was last seen in there. No phone activity, no FB activity.

I hand wrote a letter to her. I said nothing negative at all. I said she doesn't deserve to die and that I understand a lot of what she's going through. I asked her to rethink things, to let her support system do what she gathered them to do. She sought out good, solid supporters.  I know 2 of them personally.

Of her friends, I asked them to have patience with her. She's a 50-year-old woman who doesn't know what to do with herself. She has to be told what to do and when she's told, she will do exactly as she's instructed. She won't do more or less. The lady kept looking at me like it should be simple for her to function because she's a 50-year-old woman. I said, she's not a 50-year-old woman who has matured. Being on her own is culture shock. She has no clue what she's doing, none. I shared the story that tells exactly how she thinks. I told the story about the garbage bag that my mother told her to get. She got the bag and then waited to be told to put the trash in it. Her friend put her hand over her mouth then said, that's exactly what she does. She waits to be told what to do.

I asked that they be gentle with her and understand that her eye sight is limited, ...continue reading

The Last Laugh - available
The Last Laugh - available

Content: Spiritual abuse. Emotional and psychological abuse, homelessness, covert sexual abuse

Mother taught me that if I do the little things right I'll do the big things right. She taught me that a strong foundation must be laid but that all foundations start with a grain of sand. Their grains packed together to support materials much stronger than a grain of sand standing alone. To build up a solid foundation we must do the small things right.

My mother taught me that I have no foundation and that my presence was like a sledgehammer against her house.

My mother taught me a scripture that says, "By my God I can climb a wall" and a scripture that says, "If a tree gets cut down it will sprout again."

My mother placed walls around me I felt I could never escape. Inside those walls she did her best to root out willfulness, individualism and hope.

My mother taught me that I can only trust her and that I don't have the intelligence to live without her. She said I'd never survive out here in the world, that she alone could protect me.

She said to tell her if anyone ever touched me wrong. It was her hands around my mouth, my neck. She touched every aspect of me and left me ruptured.

My dear mother, my poor mother is food for worms. How undignified. I hate that.

...continue reading

I keep going back and forth between anger and anguish, but I have not felt depressed over this. I realized something some time ago, when I'm angry I'm active, when I'm depressed I'm down for the count. We talk a lot in my therapy sessions about how I respond to my emotions. It appears that anger gets the most physical action. I stand up and gather my guns, my resources.

When I feel lonely I become desperate and irrational. Fortunately I haven't had the feeling of chronic loneliness in many years. Loneliness can break bones.

When I'm embarrassed I kick into humor but humiliation makes me rage against myself which leads to wanting to die. Feeling humiliated is a strong trauma trigger that I don't do well with at all. I stop hearing what's real and want only to bury or destroy that feeling. This is an ongoing issue.

When I'm depressed I stop taking care of myself. Everything seems to be a huge ordeal, including taking out a frozen dinner to put it in the microwave. When depressed I over think everything. The longer I feel depressed the more my environment and appearance deteriorates.

When I feel vulnerable or feel as though I have lost a certain amount of control over my life I begin to obsess. Obsessive thoughts are accompanied by obsessive cleaning and organizing. I start trying to control every little tiny aspect of my environment.

...continue reading

Today's therapy discussion focused on family matters: mother's thorough brainwashing and effective divisive tactics, scapegoating, emotional boundaries between myself and all birth family and a recap of nightmares from a few days back. After writing this entry I was reminded of the paintings "Resilience Tree," so I included them in the entry.

Resilience Tree

I was awake all night and until around 10:30 this morning. I had my session to go over the graphically violent and blood dream about cannibals and going to a psychiatric prison for the mentally insane because I was guilty of murdering my child self, the inner child of my sister and the inner child of my brother. I'll pick up more on that topic later.

We talked about the complete lack of protection from my mother: physical, emotional and spiritual responsibilities were ignored or out right withheld.

...continue reading