Night-time Invaders

After completing one Diamond Art painting for my younger grand-daughter (which she loves and was hung promptly on her wall), I started another for the older grand-daughter whose bedroom theme is Paris. Keeping my hands busy doing crafts is my happy past-time, and the outcome so satisfying. There really is no paint involved, it is placing tiny plastic dots in the proper places filling an entire picture once done with shimmering color.

This spring is affecting me much more severely than other springs. My whirlwind thoughts don’t wake up and excite my body negatively till my head hits the pillow and the lights go out. It’s as if I must get up in order to fix things because ‘things’ are so bad.

Why aren’t these thoughts invading my daytime when there’s brainpower to think on it? But no, at night, alone, in the dark, fear hits my stomach like a hard rock. Fear of being me, of all the terrible things I’ve done in my life. Really? I did terrible things?

Questioning these rabid thoughts in the dark of night is enough to wake me up fully. Why? Why must these things trigger a full waking? My younger brother called thanking me for the flag I designed for his new ice boat that he had built. HIs birthday is the day after mine next week.

Sad thoughts of my poor and iffy relationships with the origin family magnify. Sad that there is no close relationship, then thoughts of ones who man-handled me though they there only teenagers themselves.

Doesn’t matter really, because the damage done to me is the same as if they were fully grown, but as teenagers it is hard to hold fury against them. And does it matter since three have died? Those three had the good sense to know they did wrong. Sadly it affected their lives too.

The fourth, still living, goes on with his life, interacting with the three brothers who never touched me that way. And that sullies any hope of my getting close to them. To me it says I’m weak if I interact with those who collaborate with the last attacker still living. It makes for a feeling of loneliness there in the dark of night left with thoughts of a past I wish wasn’t mine.

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