Here we are together. It’s been what, 27 years? How amazing is that? You look just like you did when you were ten. My heart melts the same as then, then when I thought you were a rock star in a kid’s body. You’re not wearing the tight blue jeans or the lumber jack buck boots with red shoe strings. You’re not wearing a white T-shirt as you cross the small bridge over the stream to the back yard where your chores are waiting. No, this time you’re in a huge house with its renovation nearly complete. You’re still shorter than I am but other than that you look like the little boy all grown up that won my heart first.
I know you’re embarrassed that I caught you in transit. You’re fresh from the shower standing in a towel. No eye contact, few words but plenty of tension. All reason says to let you pass but I’m so happy to see you I just keep chattering on nervously. Finally you excuse yourself then go in the bedroom and lay on the bed, towel half hanging to the floor. I wonder within myself why the door is only half closed.
When you walked away from me your oldest brother explained that despite our history together as children you as an adult are confused and frightened. He said not to depend upon the history we had together but to try and get to know the man you are today.
Continue reading ‘DREAM: I Will Take This’
The end of a relationship is like losing someone in death. it is so hard to grieve the loss of the living.
You know what? Part of me wants that crazy woman I was with for so long back because grieving her loss is too hard. I use to say “if” or “i wish” or “If I understood her more I could be different and more compassionate.” But really there was nothing and is nothing I can do to make us good and happy together. We were like bleach and ammonia …mix us and neither one of us can breath. We will both die an emotional death so fast we won’t know what happened until we hit the floor. Separately we can be handled safely but together we can not expect to breath. I am bleach, she is ammonia. Continue reading ‘Grieve The Living’
Sometimes I believe I can take on the world single-handedly and come off victorious. Sometimes I believe I have inner strength enough to walk through fire in ice soled shoes and will my feet to keep moving one cube at a time. I think this. It keeps me going but then the thing that knocks me on my butt turns out to be physical pain not emotional pain. I can will it differently but I can’t walk or talk or see without it first being filtered through my own private prescription lenses that let me see pain with 20/20 vision.
I think part of the reason I lose it so much and start thinking of killing myself at such high levels of pain is because of my issues with pain growing up. No matter how bad it got at home, no matter what instrument she hurt me with I still moved about day to day as if things were fine. I pushed that pain so far back I could no longer feel it once she stopped. As a matter of fact I even got up and danced one time when she was done. Boy was she angry! She came back for a second round. I never danced after again. I just created my own little inside orchestra that played music while she hurt me. She couldn’t turn that volume down for the world. They played louder than her voice. They played so loud they drowned out everything. I wish the same orchestra would play me a song today.
Continue reading ‘Make It So’
Monday my doctor asked me if you ever gave me anything out of love. Love? There was fire in my eyes when he used that word. I have not once felt loved by another human being, especially not by you. I remember feeling like I destroyed your life. I remember feeling like a burden to you. I remember asking you how it felt to have a handicapped child. I also remember the look in your eye and that you offered no answer at all. Perhaps you knew most of what I experienced you put in my head. I don’t know. I felt like such a burden. I apologized for it so many times, not out loud but in my heart. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry. My heart was heavy with guilt and I didn’t even know what I was doing to make things so difficult. I racked my brain, I swear I did but I never came up with one single answer all I knew was I destroyed your life. I also knew I was responsible for keeping what was left of you alive.
Continue reading ‘Letters Home: A Personal Savior’
She says to go in the room and wait. She’ll be there when she gets good and damn ready, there’s no telling how long it’ll take. She might go out with *R* for dinner then come back or she might come in right away. The room has a bunch of plants and a mix of African masks from various tribes. The blankets are mustard with a small flower on it. Above the bed is a horse whip. There’s a belt she puts around my neck. I don’t think of those, my eyes go around the room and look at things as if they’re new to me. The closets are filled with boxes containing old Reader’s Digest Magazines, old Life Magazines and religious literature. One box contains old McCall’s books, crafts and clothing she started and never finished. Ideas stored away is what they were. She was a big talker. “We’re going to do this. We’re going to do that.” Then she’d go out and buy all the stuff for it but we didn’t ever get to it. There was always an interruption. Those ideas got stored in a different closet. I remember thinking of how ugly the carpet was. A deep dark chocolate brown that
Continue reading ‘She Lied. She Was Wrong.’
Dear Me,
Maybe that’s not why his eyes were milky white. The doc said it burns like acid when in the eyes but he didn’t say that’s why his eyes were milky white and dilated. What he did say was there’s more going on under the surface than shows with a physical exam. I don’t know anything at all about acid burns nor do I know why the eyes turn milky white and dilated. It is guilt that put two and two together. Had I checked the spot on his face the fluid wouldn’t have spilled in his eyes, it wouldn’t have blinded him and I could have brought my dog home. There is a possibility that the eye burns were after the loss of eye site. I think you also have to consider the fact that for 3 days your pain level maintained a level ten. When you thought he rolled in something and had a small patch of grease on the side of his face that small spot (easy to wash off later) took second place to hardly being able to walk. Austin, you went to bed because you couldn’t stand to be awake because you were in so much pain. You did whatever was needed at level 9 but were understandably down for the count when you maintained a level ten for several days. Austin you missed therapy because you could hardly move. That isn’t something you just toss to the way side either.
If I can be so blunt here, you’re use to putting your needs second for things that don’t really matter but when it comes to things that do you try your best to be there. Hell, you even over do it….a lot I might add. You need to eventually understand that laziness and lack of concern played no part in the loss of your dog.
Continue reading ‘Dear Me’
Dear Sister,
I have to leave you alone now. This letter will be jumbled because I’m not use to feeling what I feel when I think of you. I’m use to singing your praises. I’m use to telling others I couldn’t stand the way you screamed but never have I felt so angry and so hurt when I think of you. I use to just be sad and long for you but in the last few months when I think of you all I want to do is bend over and cry.
When we were kids, though I didn’t understand you at all, I figured we had something big in common and that gave us a secure bond. I thought the abuse was enough to bring us close together so we could out wit the mother, stay one step ahead of her together, be each others confidant. I thought we could be friends. I saw you in nothing but light. Despite being disgusted by your reactions it never changed how I felt about you. I was disgusted by your reaction, not you. That issue is my own and I know why and I’m trying to deal with that. But I want you to know it never made me think you were anything other than the source that hung the moon.
Continue reading ‘She Hangs The Moon’
Dear Mama,
If it weren’t for the fact that I’d never get your filth off my hands I’d wrap them around your neck and squeeze the fuckin life out of you for what you put me through. I’d hold your fat body out of the window and show you how it looks six stories up. I’d show you what insanity looks like when I hold you in a corner by the scruff of your neck with a knife to it. I’d do that if it didn’t meant touching you. I’d slap you until my hands were numb. I’d tied you like a hog like you did me and I’d leave your fucking ass in the wet, moldy basement until I got good and damn ready to go down and get you. I’d tell you just how disgusting you are. I’d let anyone and everyone have a piece of you because you’re just property, you’re owned. But most of all, I’d just show you what it means to be at the mercy of another human being. The only mercy I’d offer is that I’d kill you. How horrible of me to let you live after having put you through those things? I couldn’t do that to you. You’d have nightmares. You’d fear everything that moved. You’d never have a meal you didn’t feel guilty for eating. You’d put on clothing and still feel naked, exposed. I’d have to kill you after putting you through a glimpse of what you put me through. It’s the right thing to do, killing you after this.
Continue reading ‘Dear Mama’
Recently I’ve run across two letters written by a survivor to their inner child concerning their feelings about that inner child. They were quite revealing, very emotional and something I’m sure survivors can relate to. I figured I’d give a go at one.
Dear Little Me,
Back then, I wish the adult me could have been with you. I would have told her she couldn’t treat you that way but I would not have stood guard by your room to watch over you or picked you up when she threw you down. I would not have given you food from my plate or held you when you feared her most because we wouldn’t have stayed. Had I been an adult with you back then I would have used resources available to me to walk out of there and manage on our own.
I know very well that living with her was hell. I know how afraid you were. I know how tired you were. How on earth could you sleep in her house and rest? The song she sang, the one she sang when her heart wasn’t on fire and she wasn’t in the mood to hurt you, that song was never heard enough and I’m sorry for that. I just think that even though your heart could rest when she sang that song that it was wrong to need to hear it just to assure your safety. She was wrong. Continue reading ‘From Me to Me’
She treated me as if I was the worst child in the word. She treated me the exact opposite of who I really was, accused me of things I never even thought about doing. It was like she was talking about some other child while looking at me. Some people say that I’ll never really see the good in myself unless I take off the “bad girl” glasses. I also believe that my mother will never see the good in me unless she sees me as someone other than a threat to her…unless she sees me for who I really am instead of taking out on me the anger she feels for her own mother not loving her. It trickled down from my great-grandmother, to my grandmother, my mother to me…we were all victims of the generation before us. They never saw us for who we were and we were forced to pay the price for the lack of love given to them. With each generation the anger became stronger and stronger and so did the abuse. It was like my mother was raising a shadow daughter as did her mother and my grandmothers mother. We were not those people. We did not commit the crimes they said we did. We were not the person they were looking at. I strongly believe they saw themselves in the little fearful body that shuttered before them. In that little body of weakness they found disgust and lashed out. They never saw the real child that they gave birth to, their anger only let them see shadow daughters. Continue reading ‘Shadow Daughters’
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