FAMILY

Tenderly, like rocking a child, cuddle the little girl left alone terrorized by those she loved. You forgot how it was, how it is now, because others groomed you to. Be like it never happened because the shame of those that did those things to you, and the others doing nothing to stop it, or help in any way, is too uncomfortable for so called family— then, and now.

So alone I am. But do not abandon myself. The loneliness comes because no one stands witness to what happened. The story goes that others have so many other hurts, so how can I just think of myself? More honestly, they want family, even if those remaining are holey, not holy, but full of holes like a tattered old shirt blowing in the wind.

My gut pulls for family too. It always will. But just get on with life which is one I created of great beauty. I do so much better being apart from it, yet like a moth to flame still try.

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JOY

People have always been fearsome. How could they not be when childhood was fraught with brothers who held me down, manipulated, lied, and broke trust so completely it never comes again? The snakes, bees, and killer bird are much more easily dealt with on this little plot of land called home.

And it is more home than ever was, because in it an internal home has also been found. Luckily the feeling of wholeness that others take for granted has occurred in me. First, writing the book, where the child in me let loose like a steam pot exploding.

Each week a chapter arose, one week joy, the next, severe pain. And most weeks included tears sliding down my cheeks sometimes in rivers. Sometimes needing a choking rain, but always healing in ways the word was meant to be.

Others in the origin family will interact with me, but only if the game of secrets is played, and only on their turf or in groups. The insanity of this brings upheavals of anguish, the mental confusion bringing only pain.

No one wants to know me as me. And I get it. We each have our own hell and cannot hear the other’s or let it in. Yet the façade of invisibility won’t wear on me anymore. It’s not that I want to talk about the past, just not be chained from it as it relates to my life now.

But you don’t want to know me, just own me, control me, and have me be a puppet. No. The craziness of this tips me over and I can’t have it. No.

People scare me, even those that call themselves family. There is a piece missing in me that has been lost forever. And these souls needy of their own take advantage of the hole. That is how it is.

So take joy in the life created, and know it is OK. You don’t have to fix what is not fixable. It is OK. You are OK, in fact beautiful.

 

To Every Season…

So much of my life has felt like being bumped from one obstacle to another, the path treacherous, scary and lonely, making me crave connection and acceptance by obliging to what others wanted.

Living by my head, and the pain that drove me, slowly dissolved as the peace on this little plot of land stilled my interior opening up the real Patricia. Words come from below, not my head, fluttering up like butterflies. Wow, where did that come from? A little known place hardly used until these past years.

It goes quiet when fear invades. Covered up like a grave. Digging down deep beneath the usual humanness is a heavenly green, a richness of being which transcends ego. Where giving is more a gift than receiving, including gifts to the self where doubt is replaced by the surety of acceptance.

Jealousy is replaced by the knowledge that each being is full just as they are… including myself. Peace comes when given a place. As the grasses dance in the breeze, the balm of mother holds me in the morning while sitting by the creek, and warms me as the sun sets at night.

A chaotic life can calm. The work done, the fight over, let the sun shine in…

 

WORTH

Thoughts swirling about this and that, all about others and how they feel, what they might think. The old ways grab at me pecking away. Then the voice of reason which abandoned me all those years of suffering over others that came with feelings of wrongness and badness in every encounter and situation.

You have a right to feel your feelings, but first you must find them. After a childhood where my body was not mine, and certainly not my feelings or anything else, at this late stage of my life the search goes on. Centering into my core by meditation is not just helpful, it is necessity. Otherwise I go blithering off the stratosphere, thinking I’m grounded but being anything but.

You have a right to feel your own unique feelings and own them. Be brave and live your life. It is easy to sink into another’s perceptions because I had none— no center, no core, no me. There is a me, and there is beauty there. Go there, find her, be her.

FRIENDS

Tinted, like looking at the world with dark glasses. When the growth of a personality is embedded with feelings of ‘badness,’ feeling abnormal, even dirty, it separates a being from others in so many ways… emotionally, spiritually, and intimately. Closeness is feared.

Anxiety arises. Any interaction with another human makes it pop like hot mercury. Though much of that has lessened, anxiety and the customary feeling of wrongness, or badness, are still issues dealt with daily. 

Living in a bubble is not my desire, but my needs require an environment that includes a great deal of solitude that is steadily familiar. Upsets in equilibrium interfere with my health setting off a reaction that is out of my control. But outings are still pleasurable.

A friendly gathering offered a place to really talk. Later at home the harsh voice began banging, “You monopolized the conversation. Can’t you see what they have been going through?”

Then a softer voice quietly budged in, “Give yourself a break. It’s OK to share. It doesn’t mean you aren’t aware of their struggles or pain, or that you don’t care. Let yourself off the hook. Think of the supportive things that were said, like, you are a good friend. Remember that?”

Remember that.

SLEEP

photo by Patricia

A wind burst blew, a splatter of rain, thoughts of closing the windows, then quiet. But not my thoughts which begin to race over worries that don’t intrude so much in daytime.

When complaining about my nocturnal waking’s, Samuel says, “Wipe the slate clean.”

Tears come because it is as if he blames me too. As if I have control over a rat brain that rolls through in the night-time at will crushing any power over it at all.

“You don’t understand,” I lament at the check-out in the store, wondering if the cashier can see the tears leak out and roll down my cheeks even with my head down.

“In the middle of the night, I don’t have control. Worries take over and some nights it’s no use. I have to get up,” I said.

“Well, that’s how I do it. Maybe it’s different for you,” he said hardly convinced.

Another bat to beat myself with? I don’t believe it. I believe damage was done. That holding in trauma for decades has done a great deal of damage to all systems of my body. Samuel cannot understand, nor can another who does not deal with PTSD. Gentleness, understanding, and acceptance is needed, and can only come from within. Forgiveness too.

Because in the middle of the night, all my ‘crimes’ come back haunting me. No one but me can give what I need which is a forgiving nature. When applied to myself it then can bloom outward.

Laying there awake and rising, the clock said 3 AM. Oh, that is too early and back into the warm bed covering up sleep is waited for. But it takes an hour and half for my squirrel brain to calm down before sleep comes.

Awaking to a brilliant day without the sleepy hang-over from a sleep medication, nor over-eating in the middle the night because of feeling sorry for myself for having this problem, the day yawns ahead with its usual challenges… challenging enough without being over-tired.

Worries feel more manageable with energy for a reasonable inner discussion about which ones to try to work on, and which ones are out of my control. This is not something doable in the night. This is a condition to accept with more love and understanding than Samuel seems able to give. He takes his ability to sleep for granted.

Humpty Dumpty

photo by Patricia

Waking an hour early, restless, my mind too awake to allow for more sleep, I rise, closing the half-opened window which allows just enough fresh air for comfort during the night. Clicking on the heat in the dark hall-way, disappointed that my rat brain woke me, plodding to the kitchen grinding coffee beans, a flicker of deep red is noticed through the stained glass above the sink; the moon, a crisp fat finger nail moon burning red through the pane.

Too glorious a night not to take a look, I pad out to the patio with camera in hand. While stars flicker, a few birds tweet good morning while waking from their nest. Missing yesterday’s chance at an impromptu visit because I didn’t want to ask my son to stop when he called to say hello caused a hollowness inside me that won’t go away.

I don’t want to be a pest or press him when he has so much on his plate. The sun had come out on a bright, cold sunny afternoon. But the opportunity came and went, and then it was too late. Instead they rode in the car with him while doing errands, but could have been here playing with Samuel and me, even if only for a short while.

It seems a little thing, but it is enough to keep me awake when my eyes open. A missed chance gone. I don’t shake things off like that well. The best remedy is to invite them all over with the surety of a visit to be counted on for next weekend.

Telling myself how tiny a problem this is, applying lashing after lashing while lying there trying to sleep, such as how can you let this interfere with sleep, is no help, and doesn’t put me back to sleep. Beating myself up for not doing something, not saying something, not being assertive for my needs, not, not, not…well, who can sleep with that kind of thrashing?

The fractured me is constantly being put back together, like Humpty Dumpty, breaking all over again each day, each night, each morning.