SUCCOR

The creek in spring…

The person I was meant to be, doesn’t get a shot at living. That is mourned, and ever shall be. That was taken, ‘she’ was taken at the first touch from a dearly loved and trusted brother that was wrong touch wreaking of manipulation, guile, and evilness.

But this isn’t about them. It is about what they took. A life. This life created from the destruction of that child that I was meant to be, from the women I would have been, is who I became. But what lay just beneath is who I am.

And will you ever know her as I do? She is strong, confident, and sings for the masses, justice for all. She doesn’t bow down to criticism nor does she criticize herself for being herself.

And in my little oasis I can do that. Without others to doubt or bring me down, I can be at peace. Except when I can’t, which happens too much of time due to old voices taking hold destroying self-worth and peace.

Coming back to center, feeling the insides of my body, all the cracks, tiny spaces, and hollows, owning it, sleep comes, peace comes, self-liking rises. After so much work there is a presence underlying the critic, a she who loves me, that’s me. Warm succor waits right here at home, in my body of a home.

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My Passion

It is exhausting erecting boundaries where there has been none. My body feels limp, tired,, and as if run over by a train. The back and forth with my son, knowing that one of his responses was written at three in the morning, has also kept me up in the middle of each night with worry about him.

Worry about him, juggled with the need to take a stand for myself and say, NO! No I will not be talked into taking all the blame so that everybody else can feel good. I need to live and be able to care for myself too.

And somewhere along the line, he needs to find the voice to speak up to his own wife who takes, and takes, and takes. I am tired of her laziness trampling all over me. She is a very spoiled girl in her thirties. 

Exhausting. Until the day of my death, speaking up will come hard. It feels foreign and wrong. When a voice is stolen, it does not come back, not without a superhuman amount of effort coupled with exhaustion, and many, many tears.

Like a muscle unused it remains limp and weak. All the years of my life, I’ve watched others express anger in the moment. The longing for that consumed me with jealousy. Others hear anger from another naturally, as if unfazed and expected. When you’re hurt you say ouch. When I’m hurt, I stuff it.

To do otherwise will continue to be hard. To know when enough is enough, and take a stand is hard. Especially with those I love so much, but with anyone. It has always been that way since the day I was silenced at eight years old.

Telling Seth Danny fucked me as a little girl of eight? No one came to help. No one came to stop it. No one helped me heal Talking about it even now 60 years later with brothers who didn’t abuse me is not allowed. I have no family other than my sons, grand-children, and Samuel.

Writing my feelings is my air. Writing is how I keep alive as a whole human being.

 

No Fake News

Waking in the night the immediate PTSD strikes. Get up, save the world, or least your tiny corner of it. Every lost relationship comes to mind, with a regret of being a person unable to keep one due to trust issues…not having any.

Boundaries are disrespected because growing up meant even my own body was not mine. Assertiveness for my own needs are too often disturbingly unvoiced. The craving for closeness continues, yet I live with with a severe lack of it due to it feeling savagely dangerous. These constants in my life roar at 2 AM. 

The virus all week has begun to abate. The liquid clogging my head which made breathing labored especially in the night, isn’t pouring out as much. The issues left to contend with are the usual, the ever occurring PTSD striking most hazardously in the middle of the night. Just that. The stark nakedness of my being is lite full force, the aloneness, fear of it, even terror.

Then the voice of reason and wisdom. You cannot find what need from others.What you need most is in you. It is you who walks the earth as a single being right to the end… and beyond. The spiraling lusting for acceptance from other relationships faded as this truth and realization surfaced. It is you who needs to accept you, and be with you. Others already have.

So on-wards with the work of bringing the softer, kinder voice to the forefront. The one that allows closeness, caring and love. The one that encourages rather than rips down. The one that needs constant attention, and reality checks. No fake news. You are OK, and you are a ‘good’ person.

 

A New Year

photo by Patricia

Do better, be better. And, or, allow for my humanness which provides softening in one’s soul, a soothing that all is OK even when it’s not. Because it never is all alright. There is a pull of tension then the relief of satisfying peace. This ebb and flow is a part of life. Acceptance rather than fighting offers the peace you seek.

Why does one relationship drill me to the bone causing pain that keeps me awake in the night, even nightmares that ring in my brain days later? Is it the other person, or is it my reaction to them? It is only my reaction under my control, yet the same old reactions occur year after year causing the inevitable feeling of failure that I am not in control of at least myself.

If it’s me and only me that I control, then why can’t I do better? Why can’t I go with the flow and let the silliness of what’s going on fall off me like shedding water?  This dilemma doesn’t seem to soften or improve. Or if there are improvements, I’m not noticing them. Maybe this tension filled relationship is just here to stay. Lighten up. You’re not alone. We all have those who we learn the most about ourselves from.

It is not easy. It is often painful. But the work needing to be done is the same work everyone works on, to grow oneself. To expand, dig deep, and do better.

 

GROWTH

Living a reclusive life doesn’t mean no opportunity for growth. No matter how I hide it comes knocking, and knocking me down. Those closest offer the greatest opportunity at overcoming long standing behaviors that keep me from my best self.

Instead of pouting, turning off and away with coldness from loved ones who hurt me, the pain and tears come. And come some more. Old wounds not healed, (can they ever be?) are easily made to open causing today’s hurt to compound into pain that doubles me over.

So this is healing. Tears, pain, then more of both. The damage done was that much.

And after the tears, though more leak out over time, there is a lightness and forgiveness for those whose insensitivities caused so much pain. Pain that did not match the circumstances. Pain that went much deeper.

Why does this affect me so? Going there, opening the wounds, allowing the tears even if I don’t at first understand them, frees pain to surface. Bitterness and vengefulness dissipate as each tear falls. 

The path is excruciating. There is a girl still hurting… a girl abandoned, a part of me locked up reacting today to anything similar.  It is only in going back to take her hand that all of me is present today, deepening the rooms where I dwell, offering a place within that feels good to be in. 

Yes, I Can!

My denial of winter’s annual take down will not chase the low mood away. The tendency to seclude myself even further, along with the inability to sleep as well, accompanied with the temptation to stuff in food to fill the holes, are challenges that increase without invite.

The lure of the once sun-warmed patio with soothing sunshine upon me is craved, remembered, and thirsted for. The full spectrum lights will have to do, and the morning ritual is adhered to with more regularity.

Winter depression is real, and though your harsh voice tells you that you are being a weak baby, you are not alone, and you are not weak and whiny. Wouldn’t you be sympathetic towards another who suffers it? And accepting that it is real?

Health has returned and with it gratitude for a body strong with mind and emotions stronger too. The ‘yes, I can’ button is on, though it may take a while to find it.

 

Keep It Simple

To go against the flow of other’s expectations according to how I’ve acted in the past, to make changes that are in my best interests instead of putting the wishes of others ahead of my own… it takes great energy and courage. It is scary as if the ground is shifting beneath my feet.

The uneasiness is unsettling, not a feeling to get used to, yet is a feeling worth identifying and managing because the changes are healthy ones. All eventually benefit from it though they might not know it now. The forces levied to keep me in my ‘place’ are difficult to resist, yet the instinct driving me is reliable, authenticating my being.

The more I change the more others resist too, and the pressure increases to keep things the same. Eventually, if I keep at it, my growth will be accepted, acknowledged and respected. I am the one that must do that first.

The mire of confusion this brings makes my brain weary with too much thought. In prayers to my earth mother I ask for help and guidance. The conjuring, or attempts to conjure a oneness with the universe in a form that feels safe to me, offers a minuscule bit of warmth. Contentment flows in with the surety of the whispered words, simplify, keep it simple.  Follow your whispers as they are your soul’s words of guidance and can be trusted.