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.



The patterns of abuse run through me like lines in my palm, my arteries, my veins. These won’t change. I have fought, struggled, and tried to escape the bindings of the abuse, but there is no escape. The locked prison is my soul. I flounder around bumping my head, and when realizing there is no way out, I sit in peace and acceptance. I am so tired of fighting.

Tom’s ways became the ways of my daughter-in-law. Demean, pick away at, take down, but always do so in a way that others won’t notice, only me, and what’s left of my tattered soul. I stuff it by eating, saying nothing, or lamenting constantly to Samuel who will not hear, and never acts. I am alone.



photo by Patricia

A deep sadness has invaded along with the usual chronic tiredness. A sadness of how I am and why. The deepening sadness makes movement cumbersome. Present issues mimic the manipulations of abusers, and the rest of the family. During and after the sexual attacks 60 years ago they all stood in solidarity against me to shun me into submission and silence.  

Wanting their cleanliness meant washing off what was done to me as if it hadn’t been done… manufacturing a little girl mute. A shell of girl whose body grew, but all other components were left behind.

A child born lighthearted, speaking outright about injustice, made voiceless. No rights. Nothing. A body separated from my mind, from emotions, and most life threatening, my very own spirit or soul. It is a tenuous workload just hanging on.

I no longer existed. I am trying so hard to put the pieces together, but nothing fits, each part sliding away from the other as if sliced in half, more so shattered.

A life spent picking up the pieces…


The War Within

In The Adirondacks- photo by son, Cory

The scales have jumped so high in a manner of weeks, I can’t comprehend the numbers. My weight had stabilized for a long period of time, not up or down, but also not at the optimal weight. The trade-off was that the driven feeling to eat without true hunger had dimmed. More success at positivity had occurred, because it never has been about weight or food.

It is about issues of self-hate, solidified into my personality at age 8, or then on. So why this sudden period of extreme, rapid weight gain, which scares me? Negative thoughts, and poor self-esteem are not successfully being managed. The hunger is for that, not for food.

The food that comforts, cause so much more pain and self-hate. Yet my mother’s spoon of food that kept coming as a child, is the same spoon being plowed into my mouth now.

I must gain control, discipline, and most all, love how I am right now. This poor body which has taken the hit over and over again. My mind, spirit, and soul, so damaged from one brother, then the next, terrifying me, holding me down, telling me about love, then doing disgusting things to my body that I did not want and abhorred.

I cannot go back and kill them. And they are already dead. I can take responsibility now, and work harder at challenging thoughts that bind me into a black box of self-blame, self-hate, and negativity.

There is freedom in giving others the benefit of doubt. There is freedom in trusting that I am good, do good, and all those thoughts otherwise are a fallacy. Cast them out. Continue the work.

In the thick of winter this is truly a challenge, a war within. That I deserve what others naturally possess.

The Skin Horse

The cataract in one eye is becoming hazy causing a slight dizziness while walking. My ears ring as hearing dims. Joints ache, and age spots appear on my hands, just like my mother’s.

You are old, but you are loved. The thought rose while my boots crunched the frosty ground while an emptiness so wild in my stomach made me stop, bend, look up and finally cry.  Cory’s leaving left me displaced from my life, the dimming of it hard to accept. Depending on children so much to fill one up can’t be the healthiest way to go about one’s life.

What is wrong with me? Where is that settled, steady voice guiding me through my days? Where is that sweet groove experienced before his visit? Three days past his leaving the void begins to dissipate, and the familiarity once felt for the presence of my own being begins to own my internal space once again.

All my decisions to make the pain leave really didn’t magically work like a wand on my head saying there, all better. It took time. Time and attending to self and my needs. The voids in my life are many. Like a sealed bottle with a tight cork, not many people are allowed in.

Those I’d like to have in are held at bay without the ability to trust, like the three siblings who didn’t touch me sexually as a child. Though I blame myself for not allowing closeness, niggling beneath the usual self-blame is a rational voice declaring, ‘Maybe they don’t want to be to close to you fearing what each might hear. Maybe each of the brothers have their own ways of controlling the relationship and keeping you at bay.’ That feels more accurate and less harsh, yet the void remains.

And there have been many friends along the way lost due to my inability to speak up, have boundaries, and accept warmth. The turmoil inside swirling would ignite and blow them away— along with the friendship. I have learned to keep some these past few decades late in life, and maybe these are the ones worth keeping. But the very closest has been lost due to her death. I’m not out and about among others enough to find another one like that so close where we’d talk, email, and visit regularly. That void is great. How to remedy that?

My spirit felt bleak while walking under steely grey skies. Sunshine in this area rarely peeks out during winter. Negative thoughts need once again to be strictly challenged, like that harsh voice saying, ‘Your life is boring.’

Is it? No, I love my life, it suits me. The outdoors helped revive me. Then an outing in the car. By day’s end that void, still lingering, caused more food in than a body needs, but the old emotional needs are met. Feel stuffed, and no other feeling can be felt.

Adequate sleep in the night makes me wake this morning to try again to stay in my body, which includes waiting for real physical hunger. Emotional hunger will never be filled that way.

You are older now, but you are loved.



No Politics

My inclination is not political, but it is for what is safe. Voting another abuser of women onto the judicial bench makes me wonder how these senators view their daughters and grand-daughters. And how must Dr. Ford feel?

That the world is against her? That she doesn’t matter?


Broken Brain

photo by Patricia

It is an achievement confronting the most negative thoughts in the middle of the night when waking to use the bathroom. The best times are when it is easy, but with the challenges of shorter days, and what that does to my brain, negative thoughts bash at me like tropical waves.

In the dark of night demons come. You are not to blame for whatever present repetitive thoughts plague you . Your broken brain needs to keep you like a gerbil in a wheel, but shift the focus. You can be free of it for this moment. And my thoughts move on to more generic images.

Sleep comes, but it even takes work to sleep….

This post describes the dilemma so succinctly. 

Trauma Isn’t Lazy