SLEEP!

In the teens with a fine mist of snow sprinkling down like glitter through the rising sun. The fire warms me as birds peck at the suet cakes in the feeder outside while the cat curls up next to me in the rocker. The wave of peacefulness envelopes me disturbed only by my thoughts which wonder when the next crash of chaos consumes me. Because it will.

Take the brass ring when it’s offered. Winter in its slowness allows respite. Periods of grace in-between the other, when even with no reason my insides simmer with over-activity. But not this morn. Turning in bed sleep found me again, then again.

The long snooze lasted almost ten hours. Oh how I love that! Not having a thing makes me love it all the more with gratitude and great appreciation. Sleep, oh blessed sleep!

Holding my Own Key to Happiness

Forever at the root of my core resided the belief of being bad, wrong, and always the one at fault. That is the feeling turned fact at age eight, growing every year becoming rock solid.

And that belief did solidify. How could it not with no one to tell me differently? No one to hold me, rock me, tell me that what they did was wrong, that they would be punished, that it wouldn’t happen again.

Because it did keep happening, and happening, and happening.

This is a time of peace, a time when that belief has been chipped at, questioned, and challenged. A crack has evolved where warmth seeps in, or oozes outward. Ever so slowly, bits of comfort float up where once only animosity to self had been. It is a change that could have occurred fifty years ago.

If only someone had the courage to hold my hand and take a stand. No one did. But I do now… tentatively, fearfully as if I’m doing something wrong in liking myself, for showing acceptance towards my own being, like the axe will fall for doing so.

No axe falls. Taking that step towards kindness and self-love after so long is freeing. The origin family collectively used subtle tactics to sustain low esteem to keep me silent. But my true nature includes persistence.

Baby- steps, tiny fissures are pried open wider using words of encouragement and uplift rather than harsh criticism. Treasures are found never enjoyed before: peace, openness, self-acceptance, joy.

Freedom is savored, the freedom to choose to (learn) to love myself. And each day a reminder to embrace gratefulness for making it through the hazards and treachery of all the years past. Where self-hate ruled in a mixing bowl of adrenaline pumped anxiety, confusion, self-doubt, and a total inability to connect with my own soul. 

To come to a place others never lost, is now found for me. A delectable experience not to be contaminated by bitterness towards what was. My choice is to enjoy the miraculous now.   

 

Winter’s Color

It’s going to be a snowy cold day. During yesterday’s reprieve, feeling almost spring-like, walks lengthened into almost double the usual until legs grew weary. My hand went out tapping the pines like old friends. A beaver came to shore nibbling on grass, or old wood, swimming away quickly after a long stare at me.

Try not to be down because of the dead, dull environment, look for excitement anyway. Hard to do without color. Butterfly bushes needed trimming. While working the sun appeared as if to say, Spring is coming, I’ll be around more to soothe your soul.

Memories of the ease of warmer weather are mixed with reminders that PTSD issues stay even in summer. Feast on the idle hours in winter. They can be enjoyed too.

Little Girl Me

Dusty corners remain that no one knew, or wanted to know, what little girl me went through… not even me. If everyone else chastises her, so will I.

Tears leak out, trailing down my cheek, like squeezing a sponge dry during a period when nothing is stressful or bothering me, yet something is. A memory is provoked, perhaps by the quiet, empty house with a feeling that a sudden scare is impending.

Like Chet bursting out from behind the shower curtain with an evil joy at terrorizing me. He’s been dead three years. I check behind it some nights while brushing my teeth, lately more often than others. What, am I ten years old?

Much of my life is like that, something ready to happen to crack the peaceful silence keeping me always on edge. The exception is when I’m outside, unless Samuel approaches without offering a clue, then I jump with a yelp of fear erupting. Usually he remembers to signal his coming near when I’m resting by the creek after a walk in the meadow. That took years of reminders before he took heed.

This unaccounted for stress is of course due to early trauma(s). So nothing could be bogging my life down. Gifts of good sleep, good health, and all loved ones doing well… still tears come with a good dose of sadness.

When to know gentleness and acceptance of what’s there, and when to exert the discipline of pulling myself up attending to things with a brightness that is not really there. The debate loses out to the tenacity of a feeling of sadness that stays. Patience with what I’m feeling instead of brushing it aside. 

The sadness of what was done, how deep it goes, and how much destruction was caused. To be tender towards myself and the little girl I was. No one bothered to know her, not then certainly, and now? Now it needs to be me. Those parts are speaking, and I’m listening. 

While meditating the thought comes, he held me down. He held me down. And there is one tear, two, then done. Enough to appreciate the feelings and why. To know what has been driving me to eat in ways abhorred, that hurt. Hating myself just like my little girl felt hated by all those around her.

Those that did it, those who did nothing- everyone, even the school nurse who was my aunt, and she knew. The silence to me as a little girl sent the message that I was nothing, hate-worthy, not loved. The only way though this is with love, a sword that cuts.

Love is not welcome, love is tainted by force and evil. What love is left shelters deep inside, only flickering with warmth on occasions of safety which is rare. Because monsters are everywhere, even alone in the silence of my own home.

I have known since age eight what people are capable of. And since loved ones are capable of such evil, everyone is.

The only way through is with love for little girl me.

Monsters Don’t Die

Monsters don’t die, they live in my neurons ready to attack. A sudden sound, even Samuel entering a room without hearing the approaching footsteps makes my adrenaline shoot clanging the warning sirens. In the quiet alone, the vast stillness in the house waiting…

Monsters don’t die, they live on. Chet’s kidnapping of my freedom, a toy, a thing, a little captive now grown still trying to untangle the chains of childhood. Shame kept me silent, and he knew it. Though living in a house with seven brothers and a mother, his attacks were as if thousands miles away trapped in a hut with only his disgusting manipulating force.

I want to kill him, though he is already dead. No one to save me, no one would help me. Hostages grow close to their captors. His death did not undo that. They are never gone, the ones who attacked me. They lie waiting to destroy, even as worms eat their rotted flesh in the dirt they are buried in.These are the feelings denied all my life because my mother insisted on niceness— sugar without spice. 

They are never gone. The most violent attack by Dan remains repressed, inside deeply subconscious, yet there in all its horror. Raymond once said, “So what if you don’t remember?”

So what? What is that if it came up all the symptoms of PTSD would magically disappear. And of course that isn’t true. The cure comes in kindness towards self, so hard for a personality shaped by believing my needs don’t matter or even exist. A fake life forced with the silence, the authentic one still rising. 

When a child is sexually attacked by loved ones, the ones that know, and the ones who committed the crimes do not want the child to talk. No one provides attention or care, not even medical care. The shame that one of their own has done this means sacrifice the child, controlled by more manipulations and implied threats of abandonment through shunning. The life meant to be gone.  

I learned what happened didn’t, like painting white over black. Life was dazed by trauma and terror, and still I lived with the monsters who attacked in the night. I was to love them. Love was never to safely come again, not for adults. Rare moments occur with children who have not yet learned deceitfulness, and all pets. Pretending became my reality. 

Progress is made in recognizing my needs with compassion, though numbing also continues  without knowing why. 

 

WORRY or SLEEP?

 

It is so easy to follow my mind into the pit of worry, but no, whatever might be a problem, it is not my problem to solve unless it is about me. Caring is one thing, injecting my input into another is not. It happens with kids and grand-kids, especially when my head hits the pillow.

Detach. It is their time to deal with their problems if they exist, because my mind can go places where nothing really is happening. Yet my gut also is aware of things that others are oblivious to. So don’t throw out concerns that may be valid, just don’t lose sleep over them.

If they are there, they are not mine to solve. Sleep did come, deep and long.

PEACE

The morning brought an odd sensation of aloneness though Samuel was around. Record temperatures of warmth were reached pulling me out to slop through the wet fields for a restful, peaceful walk. The pines whispered while passing by, like welcoming statuesque friends in a row branches extending for a handshake.

Choosing the elliptical in the basement over the coldness outside, made it  quite awhile since walking the meadow. It was sorely missed; the soothing quiet, interrupted by a few chirps, the whistle of the train brought closer with the wet air, and sounds of silence enhancing the respite making me linger a long time.

Yet a feeling unnamed there in the background wavered with a hesitancy to force it away. But conversation internally tried wedging it from its roots touting gratitude over loss, aplenty over scarcity. The little bit of blues scattered with the breeze while walking back to the house.

Inside a message on the answering machine bleeped red, my son asking for a callback.

“Um, just wondering if you’d like to take the kids this afternoon? We are thinking of doing errands then eating out afterwards. We’ll pick up the boys in the evening, but Cindy would like to stay the night,” Shane asked.

That was what was missing. Kid care, my devotion to my children, now their children.

“Oh yes, of course!” I responded delighted with anticipation and excitement for the fun day ahead.

Samuel drove me to the store to pick up pizza and ice cream after William’s basketball game. All was happily scarfed down later after a raucous afternoon of joyful activity with the three of them. Sometimes just what is needed comes along. No pushing, trying or scraping for more. Instead, patience, time, and living the best life that I know how, and learning to be the best person I can be.