It Is OK to Cry

I might not even know why. But if I settle into myself, sometimes tears fall. I let them. Better out than in. Tears wash. Saline solution is used to cleanse wounds. I used to hold them in, without knowing I did or why. Maybe I spun too fast to cry, away from myself.

But sometimes now when I feel the most settled, tears come. That’s ok. Maybe it’s because of what I gave up to move on. Or maybe it’s because life continues to offer new challenges.

A fellow writer told me once there was a sadness about me. That’s ok too. It’s ok to be however I am. Joy and love cause me to cry. The beauty is slowing the whirl to settle into me; the center, the soul, the spirit.

And whatever I find, I am just glad to be there, in me, the pieces together, even if the edges are rough, and where the pieces healed, bumpy.

Yes, I’m sad to have given up the pretense of ‘family’, those people born from the same mother as me. But I had to. I survived. And in the process, found me…

I’ve looked for a very long time-

Note: post from first month of blogging- August 2014

The Silence That Kills

The silence demanded from a child after she is sexually attacked by someone within the family system is where the most harm comes, not from the sexual attacks. A child can recuperate from those with love, help and protection from any further attacks.

It is the silence most children are forced to bear to keep the family safe from shame which kills, figuratively and literally. The family’s shame is too great, greater than the survival of the child. This mistaken belief, that all must be kept quiet to keep the family’s name and unit together needs to radically change to save our children.

Society would not approve, and that must reverse. We as a society must face that this crime occurs and occurs at an alarming rate within families; one of every four girls and one in every six boys.

Forced into silence at an early age, containing horrors that traumatize, a child grows into adulthood mute only knowing how to please others. She is sensitized to the feelings of others not knowing her own or even if she has a right to have them.

It is a constant effort to go down deep and access what is really there because it is still very much a mystery to me. I remind myself daily that I have the freedom and the right to have my own thoughts, views and feelings.

I could have healed and moved on from the sexual attacks when a child. My belief is that an entire family can heal and move on. But only if the attacks are brought to light along with one(s) committing them.

The child should never be alone with the attacker again. All in the family have the freedom to talk about it and to show anger toward the attacker but compassion for the child. Family and individual therapy must be provided.

Compassion for the child must supersede all else. Others are taught to love her even more and protect her from further damage. Then they are taught to work to forgive the attacker(s) but to never forget and always remain vigilant. 

It was the silence demanded that took away everything I had. My body was taken, and from that I could recuperate, it was the silence that took everything else.

Note: I name all childhood sexual abuse as attacks even though the crimes are usually committed manipulatively and quietly. Each one is a heinous, serious assault on a child’s mind, body and spirit.

A New Day…

A rosy glow descended buffered by excess food. The peace sustained possessed holes, that of disliking oneself. When my head hits the pillow or my eyes open in the morning, the first feelings of self-despising thoughts are habitually comforting in their discomfort. 

Reining in the part inside that craves filling the easy way, numbing by food, remains a constant job that takes daily effort. How easily that is forgotten. Does any addict stop working at it? Day by day, sometimes minute by minute, one has to talk down the anxieties, worries and fears that life may bring.

Numbing it out means numbing out feelings. Well yes, that’s the point. Yet a robot life isn’t much of one. Harshness towards self causes harshness towards others. Open, and allow what is there to shimmer and be shared…

Try not to be afraid of this changing thing called life, never knowing what happens second to second. The what if’s won’t stop. Relax into the moment.

Feed your soul with a food that fills all the cracks; stopping to inhale the sweet scent of the blossoms, tidying the kitchen and preparing a wholesome meal from the garden grilled to perfection over charcoal, or soaking in the sun as it rises over the trees.

Find ways to fill one’s soul in ways that bring meaning to each day, memories to fall asleep to, and adventures to look forward to when waking…

CONTENTMENT

“Don’t say anything negative,” I quip to Samuel laying down several green tomatoes from the garden. “I’m frying them the healthy way.”

He is quiet with a quizzical expression then walks away. Later he fills up his plate three times munching happily while watching his show.

Contentment enfolds me with warmth and coziness. There are no emergencies, and with my quirky brain an emergency is ever present. There are no relationships that need dire attention though there is always work to do on them. Everything is alright.

That’s not boredom, it is pure contentment. With the camera hanging from my neck the hammock by the butterfly bush beckons. It is so close to the blossoms there ought to be a few good shots. Today’s visitor is yellow.

Contentment is not something familiar after a life of adrenaline pumps several times daily. Cherishing it while also questioning it, the evenness needs reaffirming. It is OK. This is OK, accepting that it is also ever fleeting. Take it for now and basque in it. 

You don’t need great ups then downs. Like the cat lying in the triangle of sun sprawled out like a long furry rope, then moving with the sun to the doorway to soak up the sunshiny luxury again, you too can follow the sun and move with it.  

Watching the sun rise, then late in the day go down while sipping iced tea with fresh picked mint, the rocker on the porch creaks and I’m settled. Where once there was restless, deep cavernous loneliness, there is now centeredness and contentment.

Something very important inside has connected. When the hide tide with waves takes me to hurricane seas there is a sure way back home, an internal place of peace, contentment and joy. Now to master it even during the storms… 

 

Joy in the Mundane

As the frost melts the mundane tasks of life bring joy. Usually one to start a task then before finishing start another, my scattered brain takes me to a third and a fourth. Slow down! Dammit fucking hell, as the basket drops from the shelf and scissors slip from my hands.

The broken brain is on overload. Slow down, breathe. Taking in air slowly the feel of the metal pan with warm sudsy water is sensed by my fingers and the breeze coming in the window… a caress.

Oh how I’ve missed the sweet joy of just being in my body and noticing the miniscule daily occurrences that bring sweet peace and joy.

It is in the mundane where life excites me; my body and mind at peace so the spirit is free to explore, dream and grow. Oh, how I’ve missed this thing called ‘life’ while forces out of my control took hold and I went someplace else.

Being back home in all ways brings quiet satisfaction and joy.

Go to the Light

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There is a part of me craving for family of origin. I dream of them, including Tom. Night after night ‘family’ enters my dreams, the wanting, the craving, the good parts of the past. Stories are concocted in the dreamworld that mimic my needs, stories that bring love and closeness. The yearning goes beyond my control into sub-consciousness. 

They interact with Tom, the abuser, more than with me in the real world. Two sister’s-in-law have acknowledged my pain, but none of ‘them.’

And they won’t. I am kept at arm’s length for a purpose, to shut me down and out. Niceties are shown to prove tolerance, a show of kindness, but no realness, no talking.

It is hitting a wall repeatedly because the wanting of family will exist till death. But my head hurts from the bruising. Go to the light. Live your life with those who want to live it with you.

The positive energy is not found from those who shut you down but those that bring light. Flagging self-esteem inside drives me to those who negate me. If you accept me, then I am alright and have finally made it. Step away from the black hole of a dark endless pit,

go to the light…

let go

AGAINST THE WIND

The little girl sexually abused. She knows loneliness far before any other child, a loneliness that scrapes and claws from the inside out. A loneliness she runs from in countless ways, as many ways as there are children abused.

A little girl sexually abused now woman. She remains alone in a way no other knows and she is unable to describe it because others wouldn’t understand. Her ways of running have become more destructive because the pain and horror of what she endured was kept inside her. Her family bade it that way.

Her family bids it that way in her womanhood too, her middle age, her retirement years, and to her deathbed no one steps up to wrap her tight and say, “I am sorry.”

The ones that knew and kept silent shun her. She is shunned in subtle ways, not outright, but seedy and cowardly, like the attacker. Acting supportive like cake icing, others in the so called family really exert an undertow of control instead of true love and support. Each looks after themselves. Each interact with the attacker(s) as if nothing happened. No one wants to hear or know different.

She cries alone abandoned. It has been made to look as if she has not been abandoned. She has been… all along she has been.

It was easier to control her in childhood, to keep the secrets of what her attacker(s) had done. If out in the open it would shame them. They knew and did nothing. Or they didn’t know, but know now but nothing changes because the shame still causes them to re-victimize the woman still terrorized into silence. If I speak I will be abandoned.

That truth remains and it feels terrifying. No one will admit that this control is being exerted and no proof can be provided because each is as manipulative, hurtful, and subversive as the attacker(s) they interact with.

The one who suffered the horrors in silence knows. She knows, and she also knows she cannot talk, not now, not ever. She can never be herself around the ‘family of origin.’ She never could, could she? Once attacked, once silenced, the child she was, the woman she became, hid so far away she will never show herself to those she once called family unless it’s safe.

It never becomes safe because the shackles and chains of silence still restrain her. Her beauty goes unnoticed, worse put down. Whatever tactics it takes to silence her are tightened down until the blood of defeat flows. Your dignity or your silence?

Her only relief is to stay present in the life she has built with those not threatened by her past. Those who truly love wholly with no reserve or feelings of selfishness of what her truths might do their fallacies.   

No one came to her then. No one comes to her now. The sadness like an undertow in everyday life threatens to steal all that she has built, all that she loves. The rage of injustice can drown her. She must chart her course and not lose sight of her soul. Against the winds she will find all that she needs because she already has it anyway.

Sail steady…