Though Cory asked us to stay longer, I could not. This past year has brought more troubled sleep than ever, which also comes with using Xanax more than ever used since prescribed by Raymond back in 1995. Yup, using it sparingly since seeing Raymond, a psychiatrist who lived on a little farmette with goats, chickens, and a horse. He even sold eggs.

It was under his tutelage that I dared return to college to earn my degree in nursing, but the anxiety of entering a world where my belief that everyone would hurt me skyrocketed. Yet even then my use of Xanax was sparse, not touching the height of my anxiety.

So, at Cory’s my use ratchetted to daily from every other day, both bothering me exponentially as using it all used to come much less often.

But sleeping, even if feeling drugged the next day, is better than not sleeping. Thoughts have been dismal, and the wise, gentle voice hasn’t been heard or felt much at all, abandoning me. Why?

The problem must be the combining of cannabis oil and Xanax, backfiring causing more problems, worse problems. So, the oil has been stopped. Several days later there are improvement along with coming home early.

It isn’t easy accepting my limitations, always wanting to take change with as much ease as others, like Samuel, snoring away besides me peacefully in a bed other than ours, moving from one state to another, with a new set of people and places as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Thank god for Samuel. There is one of us to keep us afloat with his calm and natural centeredness. Mine has been shredded.

Usually, it is when Cory comes home to visit then leaves- tears come, prodding that old empty nest loneliness. And when we visit elsewhere, at his house, camping, or a vacation retreat, then we all leave heading home to our respective places, no tears.

Back at home yesterday the questioning and self-hammering beat me senseless, and Samuel covered his ears. My doubts were vocalized as if on repeat even after he said to stop it, seeming to cause more to erupt.

“Why didn’t we stay?” I kept asking, over and over.

“Too late now,” he’d reply.

That is what I do, or used to, second guessing, wishing for perfect order, and a body that performs like others with a mind and emotions to match. But all of me has been shattered in childhood. It takes a life, or many to heal if possible at all.

Finally, one kind thought settled in deeply. Remember? Remember how hard it was? How hard I tried each day to soak in every moment with the 5, 2-year-old, and 4-month baby, the very first time holding her?

Remember just how much medication was used? And then a softness inside, a letting go, kicking out the critic who has raised its monstrous head this past year making me miserable.

A combination of medications can do that. In trying to relieve problems, it can backfire. Pot oil hasn’t been studied much, or enough. What we put on bodies affects each of us differently. In listening to my body, it will speak, and so will my soul.

The tears and self-pounding ended with self-compassion. Kitty purrs on my lap as we are once again united with peace, love and contentment, and loving Cory must continue from afar.


Book cover by son, Cory

Sometimes the thought of seeking therapy occurs, but doesn’t last too long. My ventures into that a few years back soured when she left me during a session to walk down the hall to the kitchen to get some treats for her dog that was caged in her office where I waited. Yup, really.

Any warm body that offered up some positive reflections about me would help because the mire blackening my soul comes within, from so many years of carrying the burden of feeling unloved, not cared about, or safe. Not feeling safe, a big one.

But then there is the question of ethics, or lack of ethics, and I’ve run into more than my share. Jack, who wanted to know if I was attracted to him. God no, he wasn’t Mr. America, also adding to the outrage of his statement that I was sexually abused due to my precociousness as a child. You go to school for that?

He was the first I would disclose the real reason for seeking therapy. His response was the very worst a person could say, uneducated and moronic.

At least my gut knew him to be very wrong. My search continued finding a very competent caring woman after that. But it’s tricky business, finding a therapist who isn’t stuck in their own idiosyncrasies or ego, in addition lacking morals/character.

It is that kind of job, where no one monitors you. Character is what you do when no one’s looking. And with a client it is like that–no one really is there of any importance or to worry about. Many, like me, lack self-worth and need to learn to have it which is why we go. So therapists can and will take advantage of that.

But without help survival might not have occurred. There was Raymond, now 30 years ago since seeing him. He did help. Maybe he pushed too hard, but successes occurred that went beyond imagination. Back to college to finish off another degree, then nursing school, but then he left, moving to Arkansas.

Isn’t that just great? But I finished nursing school and worked as a nurse for several years. After Mom died, I saw another woman who actually worked ethically with intelligence. But she retired not long after. She did see me through the worst of it so a long deep depression was spared.

It is a comfort to know therapists are out there if needed. It would have to get pretty bad to seek it out again. Muddling through things, learning on my own is OK for now.

Samuel’s photo…


The upside to enormous pain and struggle is the appreciation of what others call norm and are used to. Being whole, feeling whole, moving as one person, not a shattered mess of a being buzzing with anxiety.

That is the miracle, a feeling of wholeness standing at the counter, in my body, complete. The moments are fleeting, after all it’s been 60 years of fracture, so the glue hasn’t set yet.

But with work, years of therapy, energy to heal, then energy when there wasn’t any energy and pressing on anyway, some success has yielded.

Rage and Dissociation

Making brittle knowing an overweight body should not be consuming a cup of sugar, I made it anyway. This morning the rest was thrown out. The day begins with a super moon setting in the west, unable to capture it on the camera without electric lines through the shot. What a beautiful orb to wake to.

Going to sleep with the birds, means waking with them too. Sleep wondrously came despite consuming the toxic sugar. These blips off the path of health are not positive ones, but one must keep trying, and today is a new day.

Keeping connected is another anomaly searched for, tried for, and not at all 100%, but much more than years ago when coming to the present was a goal to have. It began with a therapist saying, “Just show up!”

My take on his words were that pulling myself out of the dissociative mist was enough. I was enough. At the time dissociation wasn’t a familiar word, but I spent a lot of time there, off in Patricia la la land.

It wasn’t until blogging when other survivors talked about it that I learned my disconnection from the present had a name. When learning how to meditate 20 years ago, staying present and feeling safe began to occur. From there it began.

It is in the present that Mother Nature heals me, daily walks in the meadow topped off with meditative time spent creek-side. The respite brightens my mood which on some days of late falls into a depressive state where anger flares into rage over political persons who have become something else besides human. Tamping down feelings adds to the sadness. Expressing feelings brings equanimity back once again.

“Samuel, for decades I lived with rage. It fizzled out during the years lived here. But I feel it again punching at the television with rage,” I said as he bent over the gardens pulling weeds.

“Mike said that too,” Samuel said, adding, “He wishes Trump would get the virus.”

“I do too,” I answered emphatically. “I wish he would get it and drop dead this minute!” Samuel nods his head accepting how his wife and friend feels, but a man too gentle to wish that.

There, it was said. Wishing a person dead doesn’t cause them to die. It is a place for rage to go. Not a real wish, but a fire to burn it in, the smoke trailing up taking my rage with it. I may need more of these fires…


Yin and Yang

photos by Patricia

When trust is lost as a child in a harsh traumatic way, no amount of therapy brings it back. Years and years of therapy didn’t make my teeth stop grinding at night when the monsters came. Monsters at night, people by day. Daytime people are just as scary.

Teeth guards for grinding. Toe dividers for bunions. Powders for areas on the body that are dark and moist. Vitamins for this, that, and the other thing. Drops for dry eyes, white noise for ear ringing, and on it goes as a body ages and needs more care.

And those things are tended to, but what about the psyche that craves things not found in a bottle or bought in a store? Things in my psyche broke early on and there’s no fixing them.

As spring waves in green overtaking the falling snow, my brain chemicals go awry and this is yearly, some years more frantic with upheaval than others. Tears roll down my cheeks as the harsh childhood voices break me in two, feelings of badness embedded into my personality booming as the ghosts of what my child suffered become real once again.

Bad, bad, bad. Looking around at others during that time when traumatic attacks were suffered by brothers loved and trusted, I felt ashamed wanting to hide. It wasn’t them, it was all me. Trash, rotten trash. And spring brings the feelings crashing in like a steam-roller.

Waking in the night with these thoughts of every thing done wrong in my life, returning to slumber was impossible. That made the day impossible with teary episodes throughout it. Yet magic still occurs when both sons call and their love is palpable.

When one son says after seeing tears that couldn’t be hidden, ‘Go out and get some vitamin D. Love you,’ with eyes intense looking straight into mine. (through the tablet)

And the walk was glorious on a crisp spring morning. Yin and Yang.



photo by Patricia

Therapy in years past was so scary. For the issues I needed to deal with, they were taboo. To talk about them by breaking the silence took great courage. And mostly I didn’t talk about my childhood, but instead the present, and all the challenging ramifications due to the severe traumas of extended sexual abuse.

Real healing began years later after my mother died at 91, me in my mid-fifties. I didn’t have to protect her fantasy idea of family, and spoke the truth of what my little girl had to endure that should have been attended to when it happened. Chapter by chapter rose up, and with it warm tears of relief.

Going to therapy all those years prior was terrifying; the fear of telling what wasn’t supposed to be told; but so needed telling, needing regurgitation. The black tar needed out. But it sat deep inside for decades.   

Family disapproval kept it locked down. How it would make the family look. No concern for me, just the reputation of the family. That has never changed. I have nothing, or very little to do with any of them.

Be pleasing, be quiet, be invisible. Don’t be here at all. I am here. I am alive, and I will live. I have lived these past years with more peace than I’ve ever known. It is still not easy, but so much better. In the telling went the shame. 

So often I think therapy would be helpful now; a soft place to fall, a place to unload. But then the reality of having to go. Night to night, I never know if it will be a night of sleep. Last night, all it took was an extra trip to the bathroom then a sudden unusual noise making my heart leap. A towel had slipped off the rack. 

That extra jab was all it took to bring me fully awake. It had nothing to do with my failure to control my thoughts, though the tendency is always to do that. It is damage done that won’t be undone. All bodily systems were taxed beyond endurance after the abuse because it went unprocessed, and some of it cannot be repaired. So I limp along, at times blossoming, at other times managing somewhere in-between.

Breaking through to the truth was my path, a very long journey that keeps unfolding with both beauty and pain. 

When I Die

photo by Patricia

If writing helps just one other person, that is enough. If it helps only me, that is also enough. Even now, in this age, childhood sexual abuse isn’t talked about much except that much more has been exposed in the news. Still, that person, once a child, holds it in because others don’t want to hear, and certainly families don’t.

So she is there alone in her pain. Pain so great she often wants to die. To hear another speak the unspoken gives hope. Just as the little books only found in the city’s tiny women’s bookstore helped me thirty years ago when I dared to begin to look at what was done. In those books women spoke the truth of what was done, every word, every vicious transgression that a little child suffered, and held in.

I wasn’t alone with that tar inside me that threatened taking my life. What my brothers had done. But it wouldn’t be until thirty years later, after my mother died, when I didn’t have to protect her delusions of a happy of family, that I too spoke my truth, and the tar slowly regurgitated out; the details of what had been done. One chapter roiled up after another, what happened as a child held in. Interspersed with the treacherous pain was joy. Joy, that had been imprisoned in the thick, black tar. 

Until the day my mother died ten years ago, we had a happy family. One where I spun in circles with anxiety like a whirling dervish, or fell into depressions so bottomless that climbing out wasn’t possible without therapy. Dark days, one after the other, and a wish for death every day. Oh, I had spoken some of what happened, but everyone ignored it and went on as if I had never spoken of the traumas within.

And factions broke off here and there. Yet we all continued to pretend. But after her death, after my swooning over her grave time and again mourning her loss, the words began to come. The words of truth over what had been done. The words no one still wants to hear. 

Some days even now death doesn’t sound so bad. It is that hard, and when the time comes I hope I’m in that frame of mind. Not really wishing for it, though maybe I might, but realizing I’ve done all I can to overcome the abysmal obstacles put in my path. Die at peace. When it’s time, I want that feeling of satisfaction when I let go.

I want to live every day ready. Ready is wholeness, a connectedness to my being. And liking being there. For much of my life I did not have this, what many others take for granted. For me it is a miracle and a blessing.


The Poignant Battle

Reading other blogs often takes me back to my own struggles. The desperation of those times are not missed and compassion fills me by the words of others who traverse this path, compassion and abiding deep sadness.

One needs to fight for life. It is not fair to have to fight for life but perhaps we all do at some point or another. This battle though is unique in its depth of pain. A child left alone with traumas committed against her body and spirit with no one to help, protect, or come rescue, carries its own brand of devastation.

To seek help begins the fight. To do so goes against what her family has taught her; to be silent.

It is terrifying. To seek help means to tell what was not to be told. The fight begins, and it feels like every interaction is a fight from then on; a fight against the evils done against her. Because now she knows even at that young age what humans are capable of. If those she loved and trusted could attack so will others, no one is safe.

artwork from the web

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.

The Vital Truth

today’s blooms

If the adults around the child sexually abused turn toward her at the time of the attack(s), allowing expression, offering love, protection and sympathy, the child can move forward without the strictures of self-blame.

In most cases, or the majority of them, because it is a family member who has attacked the child, the shame of the family silences the child. In their silence, and shaming her to remain silent, she takes it in. Shame becomes part of her. Her personality is formed around that black boulder embedded deeply in her psyche… and there to stay.

As an adult I can go to therapy and hear the words, “you are not bad.” So intellectually that fact is known, but not felt. In my core I learned otherwise. Shame is the bedrock of my being.

“I am bad, it is my fault, because of me this thing happened…” always my first response in every situation even those that have nothing to do with me. I will find a way back to what I could have done that would have prevented a negative outcome.

Raymond, a previous therapist, called it ‘personalization.’ I call it a life-long albatross to lift up daily and throw out.. A child can survive the attacks. It is what comes after that kills. No intervention comes.

A child can heal and move forward if helps comes. Everyone in the family can. 

The attacks in childhood leave me with a lifetime of work challenging that very damaging concept.