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.

Waiting For My Father - original digital art

I can hardly touch the mother’s death, and pigs will fly before I feel a single bit of grief for the two aunts that upped their cruelty and betrayal of human decency. They’ve spent a lifetime as self serving abusers and have not changed, not a bit. Don’t you know to never betray your sister? Your sister lost her mind to Alzheimer’s and you betrayed her at her weakest moment. Do not betray your sister, even if she once had the temperament of Genghis Khan.

I could go on about that subject for hours. Like many survivors, I have a strong sense of loyalty and an exaggerated response to acts of disloyalty especially concerning my main abuser. Although I am no longer her captive, there is still internal struggle when I say negative things about her.

The Girl Who Lost Her Bird - available

I was trying to think the other day what object I’d associate with her that I could look to or maybe fill with letters in order to assist with the grief, but there isn’t one. I can’t think of anything that made her an individual. I know her favorite color and that she wrote poetry and sang with a beautiful Soprano voice, which outshined the singing voices of her 3 sisters.  I know she was highly intelligent but I can’t think of anything she connected with the way I do or the way my brother did.

I know very little about my sister as an adult but I can think of something I would use to fill the center with letters. When it comes to writing letters to me, the tangible object that best fits is a porcelain doll; the same choice for my sister only my doll would hold a dried sunflower.


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