3:30 AM? Fuck, turning over knowing sleep would not return after my trip to the bathroom. Negative thoughts take me hostage. Try. Meditate. Nope.
It is early morning news and a groggy day ahead.
After my chat with my younger sibling, whose guilt drove him to invite me two weeks prior to Labor Day Weekend after my inquiry about renting a place, an email from another sibling arrives. Coincidence? Or more guilt that the three were gathering without me.
These thoughts take over. When sleep won’t come in the middle of the night, often something needs attending to. Something needs to be done different than how it’s been done for most of my life. Something needs to be done that aligns with healthy growth for my soul, not pleasing others… not to tend to other’s feelings or my perception of other’s feelings.
Never wanting others to feel how I feel.
But where do my needs come in?
The second sibling’s email is put away because it’s curious and out of place. That night sleep comes for 9 hours. Then the email is answered in a friendly newsy way, which includes a sister-in-law and the third sibling who were copied in. And no sleep will return when waking.
You could have just let the email sit in the trash where you put it. It is OK. But cordiality drove me. The hope and chance to finally feel included, knowing full well that may never happen. It doesn’t stop me from trying.
Pathetic and sad are the hopes for something that may never come. What is it that drives me inside with a craving unfulfilled? What is it that’s wanted from any one of them not yet forthcoming?
Something sits in the cracks of cordiality stifling any real contact, and my fear is it always will. Call it my stubbornness, call it pride, or a calling from the soul to survive.
That is how families operate after sexual abuse occurs by one of their own, whether two minutes after or fifty years later. They never talk about it. Nothing worth talking about is ever talked about. No one really knows another, not how they feel or what they think; not directly, only innuendos and odd behaviors, with no keys to unlock the mysteries.
Outcast then at the age of eight, a dinghy cut loose from the mother ship, alone. Though it seems others were there all along called ‘family,’ really, my journey has been all on my own.