The sun came out, yet cold. A long repose by the creek in the morning’s warm rays soothed achy legs, and my ragged mind too often on a tangent wild. A heart that aches looking back at what could have been, at brothers loved who made mistakes that I still suffer from. The ache that also caused them, that need not to have been.

The noon whistle blew in the distance as time went by. Something splashed in the creek as bird melodies wrapped me in song. After a thorough rest in nature’s sauna it was time for a leisurely stroll back to the house.

The rushing sound made me stop to look up at why. There was breeze, no wind, yet it sounded windy. Aha, the leaves are growing, and that is the whistling of currents through them. After days of rain this pause in nature was so needed as each muscle relaxed, and my restless mind calmed.


The Child

Too easily she is tossed aside, that child in me, forgotten, abused and alone. There she hovers quietly afraid because I forget her too… don’t want to be her.

Wrapping my arms around my core, as a friend reminds me, “take care of her,” warmer feelings arise to envelope me.

Treating myself as I was treated, ignored and tortured, because to a child abused sexually it is torture committed with brutality, even if no force is used, because the cajoling, syrupy, sweet words take all that is innocent…

There she is abandoned and alone unless I accept her, and all her fears, take her to play, keep her safe, and remember she is always there needing comfort and love.



photo by Patricia

My head knows what my heart does not. When a child is sexually abused by loved ones, her world turns and does not recover. My head knows the blame is not mine, but the soul, my core, became damaged in ways that won’t be undone.

People my age die. It is not uncommon. The growth so far may have to be. That is the way for everyone. We keep growing until we die. And mine is enough. I cannot have what I would have, but I can have now with hope.


Learning Love

It’s been a long time, almost 60 years of treating myself like my brothers treated me. Hating me like they did. Suppressing all that is me for the rest of the family’s comfort, and in doing so mistreating myself every day of my life since the age of eight.

Always running from what is, and the truth, whether it is overeating, shopping, keeping overly busy to make up for being born ‘bad,’ all the many war tools to keep the truth in even from myself, has done so much damage to my mind, body and soul.

And much cannot be undone. Part of me moved forward like a warrior. Other parts bled, couldn’t keep up, won’t heal and need managing with care, love and a great deal of attention. It is time to start treating myself with all the love possible, not how ‘they’ treated me.

You are never too old to make dreams come true, have a goal, reach it, and to make the magic of finding your true nature. At the end of the day when darkness implodes with negatives catapulting into me, it is time to employ defensive measures to counteract the part of me who learned to survive by making me the ‘bad’ one.  Stay connected, feel my body, be in it, don’t escape, it is OK. Learn to be loving, not hateful.

Dig Deep My Love

So much talk about being in my body, making friends with both my body and psyche… Really, I am very disconnected. It isn’t something to add to the list of what to bang myself over the head with, though the ‘critic’ is ready, always ready, always LOUD, and always upon me to crush the life out of me.

It is another loss to grieve, and to be oh so gentle with. Of course I don’t want to be in my body. This body betrayed me by responding to some of the evilness done to me by a brother whose attacks went on for more than a year, more like two.

Though violence occurred only the first time, all the attacks after were still violent because I did not want them, or want any part of them finding it all vile and disgusting. But there was no one to tell who would listen. My mother put it back on me, my other brother went about his life as if I never told him.

Yet my body did respond to some of it. Bodies are made that way. But it left me hating myself and my body for life. Another life sentence for the child sexually abused.

This needs healing, forgiving, love and understanding. It won’t be showering down from above, but has to come from me, a place most of the time dry, cold and abandoned. How does love grow in the frosty dark? How does love grow in soil that was never nourished?

These are not easy quests, one has to dig deep in the soil until finding warmth and a place to grow. At age 66 I am still digging.


photo by Patricia- sunrise on the creek

Denial even 60 years later of the harm done to my psyche after brothers, 4 of 7 attacked me sexually. Denial, or maybe more true peeling yet another layer, or looking more closely at just how severe my injuries were and still are.

Trust? Closeness? No, not even with Samuel. A tear or two falls with each footstep in the dewy path. Even with Samuel there is fear of being too close, not just physically close, but close as in letting you in my interior space. That is safe only here in written word, spread to the universe where nobody knows me in the physical realm, but all those who read know me most.

Safe. That is safe. That is my community. And that makes me sad. Grief is not something moved through and done with. It re-visits as the real damage is looked at deeper, the losses, the brokenness, the who I could have been but will never be.

This is it. This is my life. Acceptance of it never comes to stay. I’m always running, never staying. Always looking, wishing, and longing, but it will not come, the life I wish I had. The life I want now. It doesn’t come and won’t.

Pick up the scattered pieces and put them gently in the basket. There is enough.


The Sun Will Come

Three or four days of a peaceful lull, good sleep, warm sunny days, a deep feeling of tranquility. Then every thought goes awry, or more so feelings are scattered, negative, and self-defeating. Tears come without knowing why. It reminds me of spring’s past, always a waterfall of tears often with no source known, they just come, and come, and come.

We sit by the creek watching the action. Weasels slipping, sliding, and playing in the water. A brown duck sticks her beak out of the box high up on the pole in the reeds. The flower bulbs planted a few years back have quadrupled in size spreading their glory in the wild gardens around us.

“You think too much,” Samuel says quietly.

“Evidently I don’t think enough, because I can’t figure things out,” I respond slightly defensive.

We sit some more, neither of us getting too revved up like in prior years when just about any comment from him would set me off. Sometimes a gem of a comment leaves his lips, but mostly another human being cannot grasp the wildness of a heart and mind fractured by one sexually abused as a child. Then living with it suppressed inside where it festers, grows, and breaks every part of her. The effects of suppressed trauma takes its toll, takes a life. No one around me knows about that.

Desperate for a reason to explain these blissful periods that typhoon into hyper negativity then tears… there is no real reason, though my squirrel brain is busy coming up with zillions of them, all my failures, shortcomings, and mistakes.

Or it may have to do with my younger brother calling to ask to stay for a visit in May. Also to get together with the other two siblings in the city. This get-together stuff is a basket of snakes because finally now I’m included? Do I want to be? It feels dangerous and toxic. 

Raymond would say that is personalization, making every negative thing somehow my doing. Personalization: Cognitive distortions are simply ways that our mind convinces us of something that isn’t really true. These inaccurate thoughts are usually used to reinforce negative thinking or emotions — telling ourselves things that sound rational and accurate, but really only serve to keep us feeling bad about ourselves.

A good therapist would be helpful when my mind goes in tangents, but? Then there’s going, and talking, and allowing another to really know me. It wearies me to think of it. But another call was made recently to see if she has openings. 

There might not be any reason for the turmoil other than the change of seasons, from darkness to more light which causes havoc in the balance of brain chemicals… every year for as long I can remember.  

It is in spring that tears flow seemingly out of nowhere. It is best to let them. All the jumbled up feelings, thoughts and emotions that were managed over winter blizzard into a hurricane of confusion. The most that can done is to ride the waves trying to tame the harsh voice into a kinder and gentler one, and wait for the sun.

When sadness comes and you don’t know why, make a cake for a friend. Brighten someone’s else’s day. It didn’t help me fall asleep last night, but it did move me through an anxiety filled morning planting me firmly in the kitchen doing something useful. And who doesn’t like the aroma of chocolate?