Dream Yearnings

Waking from dreams where time is spent with brothers who I don’t spend time with, causes questions while sipping morning coffee. Will I go to my grave with regrets of not reconciling, not forgiving, for having boundaries? Regrets that gnaw at tender flesh from inwards outwards? The kind of regrets that eat away one’s very soul?

A quiet counter voice tries to soothe, that voice arising many times each day to challenge the harsh voice; you came from such dysfunction, cruelty, and havoc. You cannot expect deep relationships with anyone, even those that didn’t attack. Because even the ‘innocents’ who stood by, are part of the group that pretends. Do not blame you.

Yet I do. If I did this, or that, or all the times the eldest followed me around in hospitals during adulthood when our mother was sick; the only times he tried to get close, like a creeping shadow, just like when he crept in the night to attack me.

Why can’t abusers sit down, write a letter, and mean it? Why does it have to be their way? To do it, if at all, in a cowardly way. To do it in a way that I don’t want because bodily closeness feels terribly threatening to me.

How do I forgive someone who never voiced true remorse? Only excuses and reasons. How do I forgive someone who continued a pattern of exclusion due to their wanting to be let off the hook without doing the work? 

Exclusion accompanied by sneering put-downs slickly delivered, and the others quiet tolerance of it set up a life pattern that damaged more that the attacks. That slow, ever present malevolence eroded my self-image more than all the rest of which there was much.

Maybe I will go to my death wishing for what never was after that first wrong touch, a loving, trustworthy family. My work is to die with peace that I gave it all I could.

I must learn to know that even after, I continued to try to love. But others must meet at least half-way. In spite of my rage, you must tell me you are sorry. No one ever did. Not one of 7. Not the abusers. Not the ones who stood by continuing brotherly friendships with the abusers.

You have made a family of friends, sons, and grandchildren. It is enough. It has to be, in spite of the yearnings in my dreams…

Mosaics in Progress for the Gardens


4 thoughts on “Dream Yearnings

  1. I get it. I’m so sorry.
    After my abusers death I’m finally able to breathe and tell my story. To hell with those who dont want to know.
    I finally feel I can hate.
    But I long for the home that never was.
    The home I have in my head.
    But I do love my home now


  2. I struggle with a bit of this too. Then I remind myself that my abuser has not done the work I’ve done to heal, and he never will. He has said he’s sorry, the breath after he answered my question of, “Why did you do it?” with, “I didn’t know it was wrong.” And even that is not completely truthful because I remember him exerting power over me, threatening to be quiet or we’d get in trouble. How convenient that his mind seems to have forgotten. It was a bit pathetic – like a child saying they’re sorry only because their parent has demanded they say the words. An abuser will never have the same consciousness as their victim without big soul searching and a big shift in how they see things.

    How can you regret not reconciling, when your brothers aren’t doing the deep work you’ve done? That’s a bit like staring at an elephant, waiting and expecting it to fly. Keep reminding yourself of your truth. You are doing great!

    Liked by 1 person

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