From Cory- delivered to my door the day of…

Why has it taken so long to love life, being alive, and to feel freedom possibly for the first time in 68 years? Wounds that don’t air fester. They develop pus, gangrene, and worsen, sometimes a body part needs hacking off, or death occurs.

Pretend you care, but you insist, ‘don’t tell.’ One cannot heal from trauma when the trauma is vaulted in tightly. When air, light and the hope of healing is withheld. Wound after wound, does it matter after a while, or does each wound compound upon the other?

And that’s what families do, pretend… victimizing the victim. So much healing yet to do. To go deep to find the black rot still there, evident in the way others still are allowed to take advantage of me. Because feeling poorly about one self does that.

And though some light of self-love is beginning to grow in my core, there are more doors to open and windows to rise. Corners well-hidden where parts still hide, cowering in fear of what others would think if they knew… more importantly what my thoughts are of myself.

The forgiving of self for past perceived crimes, even if only a child, still fester. Because what’s done in childhood came along like a fungus affecting all relationships negatively, like pus oozing out.

The only thing that would bring me back to the hell my life was, would be to become a better mother. To have my sons forgive my mistakes which were many and sorrowful. When asking forgiveness for my transgressions they say they have none to forgive.

They do even if they don’t know it. And isn’t that true of most childhoods, that we must heal some of the damage well meaning parents inflict? But most importantly it is powerful and relevant to be better now, and for me to forgive me. Bring light to the dark pockets still existing. Dig deep, see the truth with acceptance, tolerance, kindness and love. Let the newly found love for self grow.

From Shane– along with a happy dinner of chicken pot pies…

Self-Loving Kindness

PHOTO by Patricia

One of many misfortunes of having the stomach stapling over 40 years ago at my mother’s urging, is this sensitivity to water and any possible contaminates in it. The last three days have brought me down with no apparent reason for a gurgling painful stomach other than possible irritants in the changing bacterial count from our public water.

It may not affect others, but does me, and sometimes drastically with an infection only dealt with by a prescription from the doctor to kill off the pesky organisms. It feels a bit better each day so it probably won’t come to that this time.

But it does, once again, bring up the hate for my mother. Always a testy relationship filled with love and hate all at the same time. Not something wished on anybody. Fury and warmth, clinging to any form of the latter but hardly quenching my thirst for love because it is only now that I’m able to begin to show kindness to myself and appreciate all that my being forged through.

Love from another won’t fill me up, love for myself does that. That quest is ongoing after a life of the opposite. But that hate? Mom wanting a thin daughter. Was it out of love for me, or was it because a fat daughter was not good for her?

Kicking at the ice topped snow while walking the white glistening meadow, it occurred to me as the talk to myself continued, that yes, she urged quite excitedly to look into that surgery which would magically change my life. But as a fully grown adult, the choice was mine.

True, yes, yet though my body was matured into the 30’s, my emotional being was stuck at a much younger age where all growth essentially stopped.

So the hate isn’t all for mom, there’s plenty for myself. But that isn’t the way forward. Forgiveness is, for her and for me. Hate won’t propel me onto the path of happiness, peace, and wholeness. Only self-loving kindness, a path that is softer and sought out with focus.

Through focus the old grooves can be tripped onto new ones by remembering who I am, where I came from, and how I moved through the necessary stages of life.


Some things are unforgiveable. Yet forgiveness has been crucial to my well-being, that of forgiving myself. Does a child deserve scorn for living through the terror of sexual attacks by the brothers she loved so dearly and trusted?

Yet it is scorn. It is betrayal. It is dumping a child off in the wilderness alone, though she still lives in a house of monsters. All pretending to love her.

Does this child ever grow to love again? To trust?

No. And yes in a way that is unusual, from afar. From a place that is safe, where you cannot hurt me. Or if you do it won’t annihilate me. Protecting the tiny flicker of hope and love that resides deep down inside. 

Forgiveness is, and continues to be work for me, to forgive me. Because being left on my own at age eight with the scourge of hands burning on me for the rest of my entire life, meant taking it in as my own evil.

Washing it away will never be complete, or moments of it can miraculously occur. It becomes part of a personality, blaming myself. Blaming the family cannot occur because it is necessary for survival.  

As an adult there is a home of my own internal and external that is safe, though the feeling is fleeting. All that was taken is not forgiven, though accepted… it happened, I was there. Forgiving myself for the misfortune of being born into that group is the forgiveness sought. May peace reign.