i sketch without heart. not much of anything is getting done because my pain level has risen.
my therapist double booked for friday which means i won't go in. he called at 5:33 pm wed, 30 min after hours to say he doubled book friday. he doesn't work thursday's at all. he said to call the office thursday to see if i can reschedule that appointment for a later time on friday. i told him up front that i am not able to reschedule those appointments bc the person taking me has a very full schedule. 5 min of a call from him out of the blue, after hours, where i can't talk to him again until friday evening isn't good. i'm not pleased. i'm going to have to get ok with it in my head. it was a mistake. i can live with it. my body isn't allowing me to sit long anyway. i'll fix it in my head so that it doesn't feel like more than it is, a mistake.
i'm having a hard time sitting. i can stand or lay flat but sitting is painful. spasming has been a problem again. i just want to cry.
i was going to say that i don't care about stuff right now and that i don't want to do anything but not caring doesn't totally fit. i'm angry about a few things. i think most of it has to do with pain levels rising and not being able to sit longer than 10 min without spasms. i've come back to this entry 3 times now to finish it.
i'm raw at the moment bc i'm getting closer to the date to see my new general practitioner. this month seems extra full of appointments, stuff i can't get out of. i'm going to the very last dental appointment which i'm not looking forward to.
i'm raw after finding out that its my brother my sister feels guilty about. i can't believe i actually thought she could/would feel anything for me other than contempt. i wonder why i allowed myself to believe she's capable of feeling anything for me? why did i again put myself in front of a speeding bus then ask why it ran me over. is she always going to be a dangling carrot? the type of temptation i just can't resist? i feel so stupid. what was i thinking?
yesterday someone wanted to adopt all three of my fire belly frogs. they are now with a larger pod in a much larger terrarium. this means my only frog is Pete the African Clawed Frog. i don't want any more fire bellies. they're adorable but they aren't for me. i want a land frog not semi aquatic. the good thing is that i've got the correct set up for frogs here. i never sell of major equipment i know i can't replace. tanks are easy to replace but other equipment may not be. ah... snails. i thought all 5 of my little baby snails died but it appears i have one little guy. he's adorable. i tried to out source getting a snail but it hasn't worked. now i have to out source even further and bug my friend one state over about putting a snail in the mail. i just don't know enough people willing to dig in their yard for stuff. wow, the things a girl does for pets. anyway, as long as i have a few live things to fuss over and care for then i'm good to go.
oh yeah, my web mistress is working on the rss feed and the issue with commenting from the wordpress reader.
I racked my brain trying to think of what it is my sister can't forgive herself for. At first I thought, does it have anything to do with me? I wanted there to be something she felt for me. It's another slap in the face and another dose of cold reality.
It sounds absurd now, to think she feels anything for me other than contempt. Why did I even think she grieved over me to the point of believing she is no longer worthy of life? I guess because I thought I'm the only person who hasn't used and abused her. I'm her younger sister. I'm still alive, the other members of our immediate family are not. Our mother and father are deceased, my brother is gone. It's just me and her. ...continue reading "Hate in Cement"
Tuesday I'm going to pick up a fountain pen to use when writing letters to my brother who called himself the Vivaldi kid, among other things. I'm not really working on grief associated with him, but I am writing letters to my Vivaldi Kid, for the violin.
It occurred to me that not seeing him at his funeral makes taking his death hard. I didn't get to say goodbye. What did they dress him in, or did they cremate him? I was never told. Where is his grave site? Did anyone bother to take photos of the site? Is he in New York or here? He should be in New York. What happened to his body? If cremated, did they even collect his ashes? What did they do with him after his death? Did he have arrangements in place? What I mean is, did he have last wishes for his properties? ...continue reading "Letters to the Vivaldi Kid"
Content: Discussion of childhood sexual abuse. Processing a life of lies and abuse that leaves us unable to connect to others. Being raised by a female sadist.
I hung up from my therapy session and tossed it out of my head. These sessions have been too hard to deal with.
The main thing I got from therapy was that I am able to stand back and look at a person's track record and see that person as multidimensional instead of having just one characteristic. The reason that's important is because it makes me better able to see myself as the sum of my experiences without defining myself by just one.
If you ask me, my mother was primarily an abuser. She was a self centered, me first, sadistic abuser. If my mother was an abuser, what does that make me? The immediate answer is, guilty. Was I guilty of being bad and that's why my mother abused me? Can I really back up that claim? Even if my heart fears I am bad, I know for a fact that being abused had nothing to do with who I was as a child or who I am as an adult. My heart can deny that truth but it still stands firm that it was about her needs not my behavior. No matter who was born to that household, they would have been abused. ...continue reading "Therapy Review: Wildflowers"
Content: Heavily emotional. Being labeled heartless is the main topic but I also mention the death of a grandparent and a grandparent complicit in abuse by his silence. There is extreme child abuse listed in a noted paragraph ***.
I read a blog entry this evening concerning a survivor that worries she may have a heart of stone because she can't cry. Follow her blog here. The subject has come up before, survivors that don't cry at all or don't cry easily may feel they are different from those of us who have found the vulnerability of tears less triggering.
I know a lot of people think crying is a show of weakness. If we didn't, we wouldn't hide our faces or apologize to others who see us cry. There's a need to protect others from our emotions so we shield them from our tears. Here in the West, tears in front of others may include guilt or it may suggest weakness. Weakness in relation to automatic emotional response is what I want to talk about.
When I was younger I figured out that my mother was looking for a reaction to her abuse. She was looking for shock value, for panic, for pain response. I knew when she hit me with dowel rods, when she assaulted me at all that she was looking for an emotional response. She looked me dead in the eye and I looked back. I learned with each session how to withhold her prize, a response. I held my ground. I refused to scream, to panic, to beg. Absolutely not! That's what she was after and that's what she would never get from me. Now, my sister, a totally different kind of survivor, one with her own adaptive skills, would scream when the mother was looking for a scream, would express pain from torture when that's what my mother was looking for. And she's shed her tears when the mother was looking for a response after humiliation. I realized it was all about the response and once I knew that, I refused it. I locked it up and I refused it. Admittedly, it wasn't all at one time. Being able to control outward emotion matched the effort taken to force it. ...continue reading "Child Abuse and the Sought After Reaction 1"
Content: Heavily emotional. Being labeled heartless is the main topic but I also mention the death of a grandparent and a grandparent complicit in abuse by his silence. Bullying and cruelty goes with the territory of this entry.
I learned I was nothing, expendable and a burden to happiness, all before the age of fifteen. I carried that with me until someone spoke up for me.
In 1985 my maternal great-grandmother was in the hospital dying. The family gathered because it was believed she would pass at any moment. They decided that the youngest cousin was too fragile to see her. I'm not certain about other cousins or my sister. I do remember my Aunty S saying I could go in because I'm heartless and could handle the sight. That's when EVERYTHING changed for me. A man complicit by not stopping the abuse was the person who changed my way of thinking. When I was called heartless in front of my entire family my maternal grandfather spoke up and said, "Don't be fooled by her silence. She has a heart."
Now, why did that mean so much to me? It was his wording. Fooled. Silence. He knew I'd learned to absorb without expulsion. Someone else knew I should scream my head off, cry, beg...BUT I didn't. He knew I was not born with a defective condition affecting worth. Ich war nicht missgeburt. It only took once, a voice from someone who truly knew the horror of what was happening, to stand up and say, at such a critical moment, you're wrong, she has a heart. ...continue reading "Child Abuse and the Sought After Reaction 2"
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.
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 happenedthe 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 "Thoughts on Tea for Christopher"
I never felt a connection to my grandparents house. There was never a corner that held secrets I wanted to know. Yes, the house was impressive, but it was of no interest to me. Nana (now age 90) was adopted early on but reunited with her biological mother in her adult years. Her biological mother's home was very intriguing. That's where I first came in contact with a massive doll collection in cases that lined the wall. That's the home where I was served meals and dessert on my great-great-grandmother's china. Unforgettable.
I wanted to know everything about Nana's mother's house and the things in it. I wanted to know the story behind the jewelry box, behind my great-grandmother's physical scars on her back. I wanted to walk through her pantry and see all the stuff she had. I watched her make bread and pies. I was intrigued by the radio that was built in the wall in the restroom. The restroom was amazing as it glowed a soft amber.
My great-grandmother gave us permission to explore without restriction. I was able to walk the land and see fruit trees, flowers, the lemon trees and more. She had apple trees, a pear tree and cherry trees, too. There wasn't a dull moment in that house full of history.
I didn't know that grief would be accompanied by desperation to fill empty spaces. I used to require silence. It helped keep me calm so as not to be overwhelmed by stimuli. I now need to hear some type of program, film, theater, something. I need background noise to break the silence. Now, in silence, my head goes on and on. I go over all my mistakes and failings. I think and think some more.
It's not just that I need noise in the background to break the stream of thoughts, there's a specific noise I need. I need to hear a male voice more than a female voice. My anxiety remains sky-high and my attention span is short so I do well with 45 min TV shows and such. Two hour films feel like a commitment. Most of the time I don't sit and watch the show, I'm up tinkering with this and that, cleaning, pacing.
I didn't realize how much blame is added to his death. It's humorous that his grandmother (not my mother) feels no guilt for the cruelty she slapped him with before he died. She's smoothed it over in her head. Nope. You can't cover that up. It was profoundly immoral. ...continue reading "Grief: Didn’t you know this would break us? 1"
I can't call my aunts or my sister or cousins to share the grief, to encourage or be encouraged. I often feel alone with this. I feel broken. I've vomited out my heart. I no longer have one.
I tread waters of criticism when I say I can think of a hundred people who should take his place in a coffin. I have a hard time thinking that he's in a box decaying. My brother!!!! My boy is decaying!!! Really? Somewhere I read about a woman blogger whose mother died. She talked about how undignified death is. I can't remember which blogger it was, but she talked about how her mother's autopsy discussed her in ounces and pounds. To think there was an autopsy done on my boy is mentally terrifying. You cut up my boy? You weighed him like a pound of meat, sewed him up, put him on display, locked the lid then put dirt over it. You left him to the bugs. I'm mad that such barbarous acts were perpetrated against my loved one.