“carry the burdens of others” Telling Heavy Secrets writes in her comment of an excellent and excruciating blog. The ‘family’ causing the anguish, the same ones who extinguish a child’s light, continue to keep dark the horrors of her childhood throughout her adult life.
In their selfish need to maintain their own innocence, and the pretense of a family not riddled with the sadistic crimes of incest on an innocent little girl, they are completely willing to sacrifice that child’s life, her entire life.
Their continued lies darken her, and everything about her. If she tells the truth, they perpetuate their lies about their crimes and their persecution of her intensifies and escalates. They gather together against her. The truths she has to tell to save her own life… to live.
It is excruciating that when victimized so tortuously as a child, and the loved ones who are responsible, re-victimize their daughter again so grievously, so totally in adulthood, eradicating her; villainize the child now woman, reject the truth and her along with it, and abandon her for telling it.
Keep the lies, the viciousness of our crimes against you, just swallow it, pretend, wither and die…and we will love you.
Tell the truth? Stand up so you can live, not wither and die, become visible?
We disown you. We perpetuate lies about you, your sanity, intelligence, your worth as a person. You have none, less than none. We sacrifice you, and your life to protect ours. You are cast out, shunned, and on your own. Persecuted.
That permeates everything I do, each connection and relationship I have. How is what the other person is going through my fault, because my first feeling is that I am somehow at fault.
If I was happier, brighter, lighter, less serious, freer, more forgiving, less aware of undertones and motives, more aware of undertones and motives but able to make less of others faults, more there for them, hadn’t failed them in some way, wasn’t required to work so hard on my own needs daily, which far surmount what I make of them, or what the other person, or any person can really understand…including myself.
if I spoke up at the moment, better, or at all, if I was able to be assertive for my own needs without feeling ashamed or wrong for taking care of myself in the ways that are necessary and needed for a full and happy life, and if I held my head up high while doing it, without suffering guilt, regret or shame for caring for my own needs first…
I see others do it and it’s no big deal. They just say what they like and don’t like, what they need, and are respected for it. I go underground and it festers, disliking myself for holding it in, feeling stepped on, a doormat, then I just separate from the offending person who I initially liked, because they have stomped all over me.
And everybody does or will take advantage of you if you let them, even and especially those we care most about and are closest to. My ability to speak up has been severely impaired, non-existent- and is the one thing unchanged and damaged even now over 50 years later.
Yes I have made improvements. Maybe not in the moment, although sometimes, but later when I see and feel how my actual inner person feels and acts, my true nature.
…I’m sure I can think of many more reasons why I’m the fault for every angst, hurt feeling, disappoint, sadness, or every other negative, painful feeling or experience of another…, just give me a second.
And these tendencies cause such grief, angst and mostly hatred towards myself. It’s me who allows it. Though Samuel hears me rant and rave about how the other person has offended and disrespected me, it’s me who I am most angry at.
And that is where the love and compassion starts. Of course I am like that. It’s ingrained into the bedrock of my being. How could it be otherwise. With so much that was expected for me to stuff down into my little child’s body– love them. The ones who torture and terrify me. Love them. We are a happy family.
The expectations of carrying the grief and burdens of all of them went into a little girls’s psyche and body. Those same balls and chains, securely soldered in childhood, remain fused permanently– all through adolescence, early adulthood, middle age and now later in life, the same issues remain.
It’s how I handle them within me that I have the power to change. Rage at me? Or love me.
Sometimes I still rage. I became incensed over an issue yesterday. I had to take something to go to sleep. And try again today, calmer, more loving…more accepting…towards myself. (and my friend who caused it)
Yes, of course I’m like that. Though the change I’d like to see and have has not occurred, that’s not because I haven’t worked strenuously and for a very long time to change it. I have worked so so very hard at it. So it’s not from lack of trying.
I can work to ease up on myself. “OK, you did NOT speak up.”
I did not tell my friend that her 130 lb. dog who kept jumping on me, slobbering his tongue over me, then really scaring me as he stood there barking at me, to
“Please! Put your dog back in the kennel when he had been laying quietly! I beg you!”
All this occurred at my visit with her for tea and petit fours yesterday after my morning with my grand-daughter-fun, but exhausting. And my friend requires that I visit late in the day, when my energy has already been depleted. Most of the visit with my friend was taken up with her interacting with that horse of a dog that wouldn’t mind her, didn’t pay any attention to her, and dragged her around, not her him. Knowing she had no control over him really scared me.
So I could not get to sleep last night over such a minor issue that would have easily been remedied had I spoken up. Or better yet, hadn’t gone, because in addition to a shoulder than I cannot use these past few weeks, there’s been another death of a young person, a nephew, just over the weekend.
I did tell her quietly a few times, even possibly THREE times, that her dog scared me. But she seemed more interested in the dog than me. And I allowed it.
So this morning I start again to understand what I do, and why I put others needs before mine. And in doing so, realizing once again where it began, I’m able to slowly allow some compassion to seep back in–for me, for her.
Not easy, yet that’s the beauty. That’s where it counts. That’s where it has always counted, within.
Let the whirligigs whirl. I can remain calm and resolute. I can, I just have to keep working at it.