I M Perfect lady

Tag: childhood

  • Reacted Like Me.

    Today I sat in the office of Detective Tom Rosemurgy, (Rosie to his friends) and we talked about sexual abuse.  Of new information and suspected abusers and how we can help victims share their story and how without their stories, the wheels of justice will not begin turning…and we talked about my father's case and how peculiar it seemed.

    He had my fatherā€™s file on his desk or most of itā€¦ and inside where pages of little girls stories, and the man they described fits my terror.

    My feelings match their pictures and they are talking about my father.

    I didnā€™t read this file until a few minutes ago.  

    It is odd to read them, knowing the girls, the house and the visuals they painted, all correctly describing our childhood home, the chairs, the places and clothing my father wore, and then the awful acts he subjected these little girls to.  Years worth of criminal sexual assaults rained upon the neighborhood girls, one after another, year after year, and what is so striking are the adults who know this all along.

    Insane.  Totally criminally INSANE!  

    What strikes me so blatantly horrific is the details of the girls and the knowing of the adults, and the longevity of his run, and then after all these DETAILS and TRUTH are given over to the Detective, the prosecutor who at the time was a member of the FALC, he doesnā€™t use their cases???

    OH MY GOD does this infuriorate me.

    It is like all these little girls carry my memories and they are left sitting on paper and only one little girlā€™s makes it to the court of the land. 

    IT is criminal what this prosecutor did to each girl who wrote her memories down.  He should be sitting in jail with Ray Huhta.  And instead both are walking around free as the breezeā€¦while the little girls are left to heal and deal the best we can.

    He raped, masturbated, fondled and had them fondle, he rubbed and touched their privates and them do the same to himā€¦FOR over 35 years.  And when the detective gathers this information, the prosecutor uses just one little girls???

    What in the hell is up with that???

    Here are some of the accountsā€¦just random sentencesā€¦fragments of their childhood experiences with my father.

    Chair that spun around,

    Back to microwave,

    Long johns,

    Red nylon long johns,

    Rocking chair by heatrola stove,

    Nice and friendly,

    Easy going,

    Strong,

    Kept my hand on penis,

    Rubbing my privates,

    Wonā€™t let me off his lap,

    Wife in kitchen,

    Other children in room,

    Sunday dinners,

    Father across talking,

    Forced hand on penis,

    Masturbating,

    Raping,

    Wife at church,

    In his bed,

    Wife at hospital having baby,

    Tent with friend,

    Pulling my pants down,

    Friends mother knew,

    Minister told, not believed,

    Child protective servicesā€¦heā€™s been under suspicion for 30 years.  Hide in bushes attempt to catch Ray in the act of abusing.

    It is all like a mad mad dream where nothing makes sense and the senseless wins.

    How the voices are ringing out clear as a bell as to who he is and what he has done over 35 years and yet it falls once again upon an adult who acts poorly, the prosecutor so totally dropped the ball on this, and you have to wonder why? 

    To think Ray only served a few weeks in jail is beyond what I can comprehend. And what startles me is that my mother read these same stories and at the end of his trial she drove him to Texas.  Imagine???  How can you read these and not react in revolt or in horror.

    The cry should have been to do what ever it takes to keep him locked up and instead it seemed that so many wanted him free. 

    Our voices on paper meant nothing. 

    Not sure if our trial, (for it seemed like it was a trial for all the girls who wrote a statement,) was unique or is this typical?

    Somehow the response to the words written by the girls seems to not bring forth the action necessary or one that fit the words.  It just seems all wrong.

    The words that should have adults springing into action and becoming fully enraged and setting about to seek justice, did the opposite.

    No real attempt was made or so it seems, just the very bare minimum required, the least of the leastā€¦and yet the stories are detailed and stretch over so many years.

    I just donā€™t get it. 

    Yet, while I always was accused of over reacting, I believe even I under reacted.

    Hindsight it 20/20ā€¦and I am not sure I could have convinced not only the prosecutor, my brother and the rest of the family, but it just seems that I missed calculated the amount of repeated abuse heaped on one child.  It would be bad enough if one girl had one incident, but it seems that most had years of abuse. 

    And he gets a few weeks in jailā€¦

    What strikes me the most now, is that for years now I have been criticized for being so dramatic, for over reacting, for not letting it go, etc.  And all I can say is that I certainly wish that others reacted like me.

     

  • Yours to decide, always.

    I talked to the Detective today and it was very enlightening.

    He is willing to help us help the children by giving us information that will educate us of the process. We know what abuse is, but not all levels and kinds, but we we want to stop it, but we don't know how to stop it… who to report, how to report or what to report. What is applicable, what is not, what is too old etc. 

    His focus is the victims and wants all to know that no matter if you want to report anonymously or not, he welcomes your story. 

    He and I both feel that the beginning of the healing process is to speak out, no matter how long ago your abuse happened, it will break the bond of silence.  He needs your help to help the children.

    His job is to separate the abusers from the children and in order to do this he must have courageous victims willing to share their experiences.

    What I believe most victims feel is that they will be met with the same kinds of disbelief or non-action that they have met thus far.  However, talking to him showed me that they listen and not only listen but they believe in you.

    In just telling your story you will feel so much better. 

    Tom Rosemurgy is willing to take your calls, to answer your emails or receive your letters.

    What I want most is for you who have been abused to have access to someone who will hear you.

    trosemurgy@houghtonsheriff.com  Is his email address.

    Or you can write him at,

     403 Houghton Ave.  

    Houghton MI 49931

    You donā€™tā€™ have to leave your name, but please leave your story.  You have been carrying it too long; it is time to let it down, to hand it over to someone who can carry it for you.

    Your power is regained in your voice.

    I am here and will help anyone who has a story to tell.

    The truth needs to come forth, for while it is kept quiet there are children in danger.

    I know our voices will make a difference in the life of some child.

    I send you courage and strengthā€¦I cheer you on as you wrestle with the decision to speak now or remain silent, and the choice is yours to decide, always.

     

     

  • Reasons to Spin

    While dialoguing in the comment section on the Post, ā€œWhere Your Best Interest Liesā€ a few posts back, I am feeling like I am a reporter trying to get my story out and they are working like crazy Spin Doctors or the Public Relations Department of the FALC to prevent that from happening. 

    They are trying so hard to convince me it wasnā€™t their ā€˜faithā€™ or the church or its members or any of that religious stuff, and that my abuse stands alone, like a rogue virus.

    I feel people are working so hard to spin my story off into this lonely little section called abuse where religion never touched it, blessed it or had ANY thing to do with my abuse. 

    There is abuse, AND there is religion and never shall the two touch each other.

    It is sounding like a political debate where they want there to be two sides. 

    And I am here to tell you in my experience, Religion had a huge part in keeping abuse in my family home.  It did not stay there on its own and without the knowledge of the church.

    There is no way I can speak of my abuse without including the church. 

    In fact, if I had good faith in the forgiveness of sins, I could have had a normal dad.

    If I had good faith in the power of the forgiveness of sins, the sins would be washed away never to be heard from againā€¦

    Maybe you all want to blame my weak faith on the fact that my father kept abusing little girls.  For damn it IF only I could have believed more deeply he could be washed whiter than snow and not hurt one more little girl.

    Do any of you know what it is like to call your childhood friends, now 40 years later and say, ā€œI wish you would not have been my friend, for honey it cost you way too much.ā€

    Have you?

    Do you know that I recall one bright memory of me being on a huge white pole swing in our yard on a bright sunny summer day, and my dad came to me crying asking ME for a blessing.  Why?  What did he do to this young young little girl whose feet couldnā€™t even touch the ground.  What???  I don't know if I did it properly…I was way too little. 

    Did I not bless him properly?  Did I not believe it, IS that why he continued on molesting, raping and fondling little girls?  Was my faith to weak in strength to erase it correctly?

    Am I going to hell for being a bad blesser???

    When you question my story, you are saying to me, that I am wrong. Tell me where I am wrong?  Tell me, please and USE your name.

    I believed in a father.

    I believed in a mother.

    I believed in the power of the forgiveness of sins.

    I believed in order to be good, I had to bless bad people.

    I believed wrongā€¦

    And did my ā€˜faithā€™ in the forgiveness of HIS sins spare one little girl?  Did it?  Can you put the blame on me?  Did I bless him wrong???

    Oh yeah my faith is weak now, it is actually nonexistent in the power of forgiving and blessing away the sins of the fathers.

    Yes it is.  I believe 100% that it does not work. 

    I am living breathing proof. 

    Where do you all believe these piles of sins are?  Look behind you they walk with you everywhere.  It is only in your mind, that you think they are gone.

    Each and every action you have made is written down in the book of reality seen by Godā€¦nothing gets erased ever.

    The only thing you can do is do better when you know better. 

    In the past, I was a good Christian and spoke of it not, not my feelings of terror towards my father, nor my deep down resentment towards my mother, I sucked in and asked to be blessed for being such a bad child to feel unloving toward her parents. 

    I kept trying to be a better child, never even stopping to see if I had parents I should be loving toward. 

    When my fatherā€™s name was spoken as being the one to molest my niece, I became a very bad child.  I stood with the little girl and somehow I knew I was standing with me. 

    I stood in reality and refused to bless it away, like I even could.

    This little girl isnā€™t going to be ā€˜unabusedā€™ if I utter the magic phrase.

    I am bad, a bad ass, and a bitter, cold, vengeful woman some say.  I will be alone and lonely for saying what I say.  I will be ridiculed and not believedā€¦all the same things I felt as a child.

    As a child I believed them, now as woman who is speaking her truth I do not.

    I have faith in God and me.

    I have faith in truth.

    I have faith is using my real name.

    I have faith in others who can reveal themselves to me.

    The rest, I have no faith in.

    For if you canā€™t say your name, you are not standing with me, you hiding like my father behind the front of being normal.  Good people don't hide.

    Only those in truth will say their name.  This is my belief and this is my blog.  If you feel differently you can blog yourself and have a great conversation and sharing anonymously.

    Oh and one more thing.

    Someone mentioned I lost the faith in God.

    No honey, God has been with me all along.

    He was the one who erased my memory of the event.

    He kept me being a little girl with out such a horrific thing to remember.  And did however keep my truth in my body, to keep me from going near the man who did such awful things to such a sweet innocent BELIEVING girl.

    Your church doesnā€™t own God; he is not applauding your spinning my story to make it kind.  He was there and he knew I would not have survived life living in that house with a visual memory, sadly I would have went insane.  Only a child who didnā€™t know could support that family. 

    I didnā€™t knowā€¦ and I put my faith in the folks who were spinning my life to be normal.

    Now I am no longer fooled by the spins, I only see what is behind. 

    Only anonymous have reasons to spin.

     

     

  • Stories of Fiction.

    What they donā€™t tell you is that while you are finding out who you are, you will isolate your self from your old life; you will become a stranger there, while becoming your own best friend.

    My five sisters are gathering together this week, and not a whisper to invite me, I am too odd, and too weird, too nuts or insane, a myriad of labels, but a sister to be included I am not.

    There is a part of me that grieves for the loss of being included and my little girl self feels sooo misunderstood and so misclassified.

    It seems my truth seeking spun me into this evil creature that they donā€™t want no part of.

    The deeper I delved, the more I explored, the more distance I put between us all, my healing keeps pushing me further away.

    It is like I am set out to sea while they are on the beach having a party.

    I know intellectually, that my spirit and soul would have no peace with them, that I have lived too deep now to go back to be a surface dwellerā€¦yet I grieve.

    I grieve for what is, for what was.

    I feel being isolated for all the wrong reasons or so it seems.

    I didnā€™t sexually abuse themā€¦my father did; yet I am out for talking about it.

    I didnā€™t neglect them like my mother did; yet I am out for pointing it out.

    It is odd for my little girl to reconcile to make a nice neat understandable folder to put them all in.

    The girls I used to take care of, no longer care for me.

    By doing what is right I am wronged.

    I get it and I donā€™t.

    It amazes me that they canā€™t see the bad in my father and then see only bad in me.

    My son, when he was a baby, always said when he did something I thought was wrongā€¦ā€what did my do?ā€  With a face of innocenceā€¦he wondered.

    And that is what rings hollow through me, ā€œWhat did my do?ā€  What hurts the most is that I did nothing wrong. 

    All I did was walk hand in hand with the wounded girls, the girls who were all hurt by him, I never left my lineā€¦I never wavered, never veered off course, although there are times like these I wobbled.

    I wobble, shed a few tears, and feel the separation and the unjustness of it all, but I forge ahead.

     

    I forge ahead with the truth and bear the consequences.

    They say, ā€œwhat doesnā€™t break you makes you stronger.ā€

    I am being forged in grief it seems at times.

    How can my mind comprehend me being worse then they who hurt them, again, what did my do?

    It seems they have their story of me and a story of my father, both are stories of fictionā€¦

     

     

  • A dream for me.

    Some days are filled with contrasts that keep you from mulling anything, you go from event to situation to more incoming information, past, present and futureā€¦

    This ride at times seems to be moving at super fast speeds, going so quick it is hard to process one thing before the next hits. That was yesterday.

    I had a mission to talk to the Detective to help get a ball rolling, but he will not play catch with me.  I sit, holding my ballā€¦while life seems to be passing so quickly.  Another week has gone by and he appears too busy to return my call.

    To him I may be more work or I am not as important as what he has going onā€¦however he knows not what I know.  I feel myself bumping into a silent wall of rebuff.

    The information grows like a weed out of control and I am losing my faith or trust that even when alerted he will be unable to pull or eradicate this weed that is poisoning the innocentā€¦it seems that the garden is getting overrun while no one is looking.

    I have to have faith that it is all perfectly perfect, that it is going at the pace it should, even if not my speed.

    While I canā€™t gain his attention, I seem to forever bump into people who I feel are feeding the weed.  It seems so exasperating, like a poor cosmic joke, to see them everywhere and the Detective is nowhere to be found.

    Oh and the normalcy is worn like a costume.

    Letting all that go, I attended a speech given by the Author of the book, The Glass Castle, Jeanette Walls.  She lived her first 17 years in abject poverty, and went on to become a journalist living on Park Avenue in New York City, while her parents remained homeless.

    She spoke to the freshman class at Michigan Tech, and a few of us from off the street, eager to hear her speak.

    Her rough life taught her many lessons you canā€™t learn on easy street, and in writing it forced her to be with the reality of her life.  She learned about her self and respected herself more for telling her truth, than when she was hiding it from people around her.

    What I found that was different between us, is that as a child she could not hide her ā€˜shamefulā€™ life situation.  In her town everyone knew they were the poorest family, her clothes and body odor too obvious to hide, and so she wore her label everywhere and was treated appallingly in high school.

    Her very dysfunctional poor lifestyle was hard to not see. 

    And in my case, my outward appearance wasnā€™t too bad, poor but we did have running water and flushing toilets, although no shower until I was in middle schoolā€¦just a sauna lit twice a week.  And there was a dirt-poor girl who lived less than a mile from us, who was poorer.  A two room shack more or lessā€¦

    Anyway, Jeanette could not hide what shamed her, and I didnā€™t know the shame that followed me where every I went, I was ā€˜HIS daughterā€™ A story was spoken when I left the room or before I arrived, unbeknownst to me.

    I have often wondered what my childhood would have been like had I known that my father was a pedophile, how would I have walked into places and out of them, knowing who I truly was?

    I know that I was always treated like the daughter of a pedophile, yet I was spared because I didnā€™t know.  I felt I was just a girl from a poor large apostolic family.  I didnā€™t know that underneath me was incest, abuseā€¦

    I walked with confidence and not with mortifying shame.

    The mortifying shame came when I was 46.  And then I knew what the people of the church knew and yet not one approached me even then.  But, then they started to overtly treat me like a pariah.

    It seemed odd to me that once my truth was out they then began to treat me differently.  It still puzzles meā€¦we all know the truth and now they keep me at arms length, they turned down isles to escape meā€¦

    The only thing changed is I openly walked my truthā€¦and they now did not know what to do or how to talk to me.

    Isnā€™t it interesting that it was easier to be with me when I was not walking my truth, than it was for them when I was?

    Just yesterday it came to me that it is much easier to be with people who are walking step by step with their truth, than to be with folks who want to tuck a huge part of their lives under a rug.  I canā€™t be with a half person.

    So, Jeanette and I are the same, we both had rough childhoods, the difference is she knew it and I did not.

    Her father carried a dream of one day building them a glass castle, and she believed in his dream.

    My father never had a dream for me.

     

     

  • Wearing a Tag, “Family”.

    My daughter waved her hand above her head in a crazy type way in explanation to who I amā€¦ Nuts.

    Yep, nutsā€¦over zealous about abuse, that I will give up family for it, that I will sever relationships for it.  I am WAAAY out there… 

    Yep, thatā€™s me.

    I felt she had me pegged completely; there was no argument there.

    While perhaps I would not categorize myself as insane, when it comes to dealing ā€˜rationallyā€™ with abuse, I guess I am nuts.

    I will not tolerate it at all.  No matter from whom and especially when it comes to my kids.  I am overboard certifiably nuts.

    I tried to explain to her my viewpoint, but it is near impossible to explain, it is the old adage, you had to be there. 

    While I do believe we had a reasonable conversation, I felt she tried to come over to my sideā€¦ it was impossible for her, and I am grateful.

    In order to see abuse like I see abuse, you would have to have been abused like meā€¦she never tasted abuse like I haveā€¦her abuse was delivered to her by me.

    I told her the only abuse she has ever had came from me.

    I was irrational, unreasonable, and way more nuts when they were young compared to how I am today. 

    She said I am okay now, unless it comes to abuse, then I go nuts.  So, I have changed.

    In the past I was okay with abuse and went Nuts in the normal day-to-day living.  I love this.

    Do you get it?  I am seen as being nuts for going insane about abuse, by talking of it, warning others of it, writing my way free of it, seeing it when it appears, I am focused and relentless when it comes to abuse. 

    She said, you go way out there and am unreasonable about abuse, and I smiled and said, ā€œyes that is me, I do do that!ā€

    I tried to explain to her that her grandmother was ā€˜reasonableā€™ with abuse. She didnā€™t want to lose her family so she was kind and ā€˜rationalā€™ with abuse. 

    That I am okay being nuts when it comes to abuse. 

    I truly donā€™t mind the name calling and the finger pointing, the shunning and anger that is directed toward me as I staunchly remain unreasonable with abuse.

    I told her it matters not how they see me. What matters the most is that my children see a mother who will not sit down and be friendly with abuse.  I want them to see how to treat abuse by watching me.

    Abuse is not my friend.  

    I will lose relationships to step away from abuse.  I will not put ā€˜familyā€™ above it.

    Meaning that just because my father was family, I should over look his abuse. Just because my mother is family, I should overlook the years she overlooked abuse.  Just because my brother is family, I should overlook his supporting abuse.

    To see family first ā€¦is what abuse is relying on.

    For if you see the family first, abuse slips by unnoticed.

    I am nuts about this, I refuse to let abuse slip by even wearing a tag ā€œFamilyā€.

     

  • Save your soul.

    The biggest hurdle in stopping abuse is stopping being a part of the family it is within. How easy to report abuse in another family but where it actually counts is when you see it and respond in kind within your own.

     

    To stop treating a father as a dad and see his actions of being a pedophile and putting him away and out of reach of other little girls.  My family failed at this big time.

     

    The authorities brought him to court, but the family set him free.

     

    I wish this was an anomaly but sadly, most will defend the father and not even let it get as far as ours did.

     

    There is this thing called, ā€œUnconditional Loveā€ that keeps this from happening, and another thing called, ā€œForgiveness of Sinsā€ that does as well.

     

    We all think that the biggest thing we can do is report pedophiles to the authorities, but that is only a small portion of the job.

     

    The biggest deal is to take a family and rip it apart seeing who really does what, what are they doing, bringing and being, to bring in consciousness where before blindness lived.

     

    The key components a pedophile needs the most is your undying faith in them, your unconditional love and your willingness to continue to bless away his bad behaviorsā€¦for you to be relentless in this and NEVER changing.

     

    What most fail to realize it arenā€™t the authorities that are to blame but the families of these perpetrators.  Well, I believe the law of the land needs a big wake up call and to see that they are allowing dysfunctional families to call the shotsā€¦

     

    For as it stands now they are asking blind people to see and act clearly.

     

    Most often, and in my case it is true, that I wasnā€™t the first one abused, but rather just one of a long line of generations worth.

     

    This was normal behavior.  A mother who was unable to discern abuse for she herself never healed from her own abuse.  Her abused self worth and image attracted a man who operated at the same level.

     

    I am finding out that my brother and I are very much changelings within our familyā€™s heritage, that every now and then one comes along and switches the family traditions, but in order to do so, you leave the family.

     

    What most want is to stop abuse, but what few will do is stop being part of a family.

     

    You will have to go against generations of folks, relatives in order to stop abuse.

     

    It isnā€™t a simple task, for 99% of the abuse is from someone you know and trust and of the 99%, 50% is from someone who is your blood relative.

     

    It is like turning against your own selfā€¦and is.

    You will have to take all you have ever known and begin yet again.

     

    I get so incensed with folks who tell meā€¦I would never or I donā€™t stand with abuse, while they are still having relationships with people who abuse.

     

    It is insanity.  You are being just as abusive to the child by having a relationship with the person who hurts little children.  The child sees who you are aligned with and KNOWS you are not a safe person or one to help them.

     

    This matter is far more complex than it appears.

     

    Abuse is an infection that has spread through generations of families and will continue on unless you walk away. 

     

    You have to leave the infection called abuseā€¦ IT will not leave you.

     

    It will not one day change from hurtful abuse to wonderful love, stop pretending time will heal and change things.

     

    You have to leave it in order to be free of itā€¦and then you have separated your self or isolated the infection to just you and then the real work starts.

     

    You have to see it in all your thoughts and beliefs and have to start working on each one to right it.

     

    To change your old definition of unconditional love to love that is free of abusive effects.

     

    You have to change your mind about a million things.

    You have to be willing to not know your self or those you ā€˜lovedā€™.

     

    You have to be willing to walk a walk against family and ā€˜lovedā€™ ones.

     

    I walked this walkā€¦and while it was extremely tough, it is well worth the effort. 

     

    You will not walk alone; you will have the guidance of the Universe if you are a seeker of the truth.

     

    You will be changing your very DNA and the legacy you were born into.

     

    I will help anyone who has been chosen to walk this walk.

     

    So, go ahead and report, but mostly start the dialogue in how far would you go to stop abuse, would you go the whole way, would you forsake the world to save your soul?

     

  • I am allowed to feel…

    I lose control of me, when I feel I have lost control of others, and it puts me in a very immature action, where my voice gets higher and higher the more I feel I am losing.

     

    What I canā€™t understand is why I want control in the first place, when life is showing me I have none, nor will I ever, nor is it mine to have.

     

    Being a mother tests this in ways you would normally not have, or perhaps it is in relationships too, but for me it is in mothering where I lose it.

     

    I lose my decorum or any spiritual idea of being in love, peace and joyā€¦it evaporates quickly and in its place rages an out of control woman who wants control of the uncontrollable.

     

    My sonā€™s life is saturated with folks I would rather he keep his distance from, and this fills me with anxiety that explodes unexpectedly for both of us.

     

    It seems so simple to him, let me be with my friend, let me work for a cheating man, let me hang with friends from a cult like religion, just let me be.

     

    And to me it seems I am knowingly allowing him to engage with folks who are confused at best and due to this fact alone, will not hold his best interest at heart.

     

    Yet my hollering is not helpingā€¦and I have no other response.

     

    While I lay in bed after he happily was off again, it came to me to let him go, as he is long gone already.  He has always been there; he hasnā€™t left just because I have.

     

    I somehow missed this, that when I left, I felt I pulled them all outā€¦even when and if reality and life are showing me different. 

     

    I fear losing them, and instead they are already gone.

     

    I guess I didnā€™t want to know I walked away from the crowds and places they are comfortable in.  I didnā€™t want to know I left my children there, but I did.

     

    I raised them with the ideas and thoughts and beliefs of the cult like religion, being comfortable around dysfunctional people, and now I appear like the madwoman as I rant in fear because they still enjoy being there.

     

    I seethed in hatred for living here, for that bunch still having an influence over my children, and I knew that my hatred was directed at me.

     

    That what I rail against is not about them, but about me.

     

    I hate me for the dysfunction I brought to my children.

    I hate it when they show me over and over what I taught them.

    I hate to see it and I hate to own that it came from me.

    I hate that while I became aware, I canā€™t change my children, I canā€™t stop the train I put them on as children.  I hate that I now must find peace in allowing them to be where I planted them.

    I hate that I have no control, that I canā€™t rip them out of the dysfunctional gardens I planted them in and transplant them in a space that is much more kinder to their souls.

     

    I hate that I have to watch them grow there.

    I hate that I am aware in moments like these.

    I hate that loving someone means letting them make choices that are not like mine.

    I hate that I hate that which I cannot change.

    In hating it keeps me from accepting, but accepting at times is a hard pill to swallow.

     

    I am granting me time to hateā€¦like a mourning process.

    I am allowed to hate until I accept.

    I am allowed to not like that which I donā€™t like.

    I am allowed to feel out of control, when I am out of control.

    I am allowed to feel…

  • Wanting me to disappear.

    I found it interesting that my motherā€™s voice still echoes in my head, that it rings out loud and clear each and every time I veer off her well-beaten path, my fear of disappointing her screams louder than the thrill of doing what I love to do.

     

    These echoes have traveled with me a long long time, and they are laced with fear that freezes me in my tracks if I even begin to ponder doing things differently.

     

    This underlying system was created when I was very small, and the definition of self was built upon this very odd system, where my ā€˜goodnessā€™ was mirrored when she was happy and my ā€˜badnessā€™ when she wasnā€™t.

     

    It had nothing to do with what I wanted to do, but had everything to do with her.

     

    This track was laid down within me by how my mother reacted to life, and making her happy was my only goal, for her happiness meant her loving me. 

     

    It had nothing to do with the actual things I was doing, but the withdrawing of love dare I venture into a place that made her frown.

     

    I wonder if this is how all children learn about life, that we simply follow the smiles and steer away from all the frowns, that we never learn to steer by our own smiles, we learn to navigate through life by others happiness.

     

    Living in this backward system for 46 years, the last 6 have been spent learning how to live from my inner smiles and standing strong against their frowns.

     

    Learning that I am not responsible for other peopleā€™s faces, that it is not my job, has been a full time job, undoing the tracks from childhood, taking them down one piece at a time.

     

    I can see how people lose themselves while living with themselves, how they get pulled into the lives of others simply for happiness and love.

     

    What is so debilitating is that your life disappears while theirs seems to thrive.  And how is that love if you disappear?

     

    In order to be loved by my parents, I had to disappear.

     

    My needs had to disappear, my wants, my desires, my happiness, my joy, my love and my life.  I learned to disappear for love.

     

    As I walk forward learning how to love myself, her echoes come back to remind me of where else I let my self go, where I lost a part of me, where I buried myself and now where I can reclaim that piece.

     

    I didnā€™t know I buried her in so much responsibility. 

     

    I find now, when I feel so stuck, so angry without a choice, I am tugging on a piece of the old track, and it has nothing to do with what is going on today, but instead what I have learned a long time ago. 

     

    A voice from the past wanting me to disappear.

    1Shared Wisdom closeup 
    This quilt represents my inner wisdom and the young artist…. I am so happy that this one didn't sell!

     

  • Mine.

    As I was reading Chapter Two of The Artistā€™s Way book by Julia Cameron, I found similarities between finding your artist self and leaving toxic relationships.

     

    She is leading you forward suggesting ideas and things that will focus on self and in doing so you discover where you are standing and how you have been living and who has had their hands on the reigns of you.

     

    Unblocking the Artist is like opening the eyes of those in denial.

     

    Julia speaks of poisonous playmates and crazymakers and I see them as the dysfunctional family I was lost among where there was no space for my self.

     

    She makes reference between giving up toxic thinking as giving up drinking.  And those still enjoying the toxic beverages and the toxic mindset, will not be your cheerleaders and in fact will weaken your resolve.

     

    The Artist Self is the self that is untouched by otherā€™s influences, but whose sense of being comes from within and is connected to the Universe. 

     

    She is looking at this process from the self outward, where I was looking at leaving the mess of dysfunction.

     

    I wasnā€™t trying to find an authentic artful self, but rather fleeing from the abusive family that I felt had stolen my self.

     

    And it had, a pattern maker or follower had replaced my own artistic creative self, I had no personal connection to the Universe, I was plugged into an extension cord. 

     

    My sense of self flowed not from the Universe; it came from my mother/father/brother/sister/friend/anyone but the Universe and me.

     

    When everything that was holding the definitions of me was shown to be very dysfunctional, I then seen my own dysfunctional self. 

     

    I saw what the extension cord was plugged into, and I unplugged them all.

     

    It was the unplugging them that freed me to be available to hear the Universe, to pay attention to my body, my feelings, my emotions, to connect me back to me.

     

    The definition of Universe is one song.

     

    I am now singing one songā€¦ mine.