I M Perfect lady

Tag: childhood

  • Attend to me.

    In the past few days I have been tangled and untangled, in the present and in the past, with my mother and with my boss, young and then old, a child then an adult, feelings from the past trickling into the present, until I feel frozen in unknowing how to be, how to respond etc.

    The overall feelings I have is being neglected and under the rule if you will or under the care of a self absorbed person.

    My brother had me looking into The Presence Process book for a section he was curious about, and ironically or not, it was the words I needed to explain my past few days.

    I was perfectly set up to revisit the environment and the nature of my relationship with my mother, how she acted and how I then felt.

    It was so perfect, that even the home/office was falling apart and when my boss left the office she was replaced with a man who was irresponsible and a risk to be with.

    The choreography of the Universe leaves me shaking my head in awe.

    There is a line in the previous post that I took from the book, “An Unbalanced adult is an unattended child.”

    Looking back at my childhood, if I were to put one word on how I felt, it would be ‘unattended’, and I was given a tour back there via my experiences at work in the past few weeks.

    It’s re-creation was remarkable and my the feelings that surfaced were perfect little time travelers from the past.

    The resemblances between the two women brought to me the exact emotions I needed to feel.

    What kept me silent at work was that I was confused as to what now? I did question my boss about her choice making, and was met with defense, and even the defense was perfectly my mother.

    Each time there would be one more item from the past that completed a perfect picture of the dynamics that create the atmosphere where a child is left to its own devices.

    I could clearly see the shoes my boss stood in and why she made the choices she made, her inner constitution couldn’t take one more day in our office.
    It mattered less to her the kind of individual she left in charge or who was under his care, what mattered most was her rest and her sanity, she fled.

    And like my mother who ran away repeatedly in my childhood and in my teenage years she came back feeling better, not wanting to explain or hear my side.

    Feelings of resentment of her being able to escape and me being left to deal were perfectly felt.

    My mother left my father in charge, who wasn’t really a take charge kinda man, so I had to step up long before my age had this kind of responsibility tools.

    So, not only were we left alone with a pedophile, we are left with me, a unattended child taking care of unattended children.

    In a home that was falling apart or held together on a string, whose cupboards were lacking, mountains of clothes, piles of kids, endless disasters looming.

    As I sit here today, I am still silent and feeling.

    I know that the messenger/boss was delivering my past, that I am to feel my feelings releasing this fear of being unattended, and attend to me.

    What I love the most is that at the end of the day it is now my honor to attend to me.

    I am not stuck in the office, I am no longer a child, there are not children who are in vital need of care, I am not little girl who is unable to defend herself, it is not my worry if the furnace breaks or the water pipes freeze etc.

    I am able to witness and now see the scene before me and not feel that I am responsible and unattended.

    I am grateful for the set up for my boss playing the messenger, and for me being released from the fear of being left unattended.

    Unattended.

    Oh the ways I want to care for the unattended little girl in me…

    I will attend to me.

  • Boldly slips away unscathed.

    What struck me last night is that the definitions of good and evil in my childhood home were competing for the upper hand, that my father’s heaven was my mother’s hell, and visa versa.

    It truly is that one man’s heaven is another man’s hell.

    My father’s heaven depended upon my silence, and my mother’s actually too…she needed the image of his being just a loving dad, and he did too, both sides terrified of hell, if truth be told.

    I can see how easily it was to manipulate a child in our home, for the values contradicted each other, the front divided, two roads leading to hell if truth be spoken out loud and unforgiving.

    Life was much easier on my father and his pedophile ways, to have silence…it was much easier on my mother, for she didn’t have to know.

    She may have heard us tell our stories, but she didn’t have to believe. If you don’t believe the words spoken, you don’t have to act. If you don’t have to act, your life doesn’t change.

    It is by far harder to change, than it is to remain committed to the cause.

    The cause of us remaining all together.

    My father’s hell was the truth.
    And actually my mother’s hell is the truth as well.
    They lived in heaven in silence.

    But for me, the truth has set me free.
    Hell is being quiet…Heaven is speaking out loud and often.

    I can see how many a child faces the same thing, that the adults in the room lose big time, if the child speaks, that the ones holding our survival need us to play along, pretend and hold up the façade.

    As my friend said, “what will people think” if they knew what was really going on.

    We are to act like it is heaven, while dancing in hell, going with the flow, following the lead of those taking “care” of us.

    Preachers preach of the evil on the outside, while we are imbedded in the camp of evil on the inside.

    What is up and what is down, who is right and who is wrong, or is our camp of evil far reaching?

    The compound has its own boundaries that reach far and wide.

    I know that when I first discovered the evil in my childhood, I quickly seen the churche’s evil, and then even the law of the land.

    Claiming to be the fighters of evil, while many are incapable to actually combat it when they see it face to face.

    When evil knocks at their door, some bless it.
    Some reduce the charges and set it free.
    Some open up their homes allowing access to more little girls.
    Some love evil as a way to heaven.

    The list is long and powerful.

    We are dancing with the devil each time evil knocks and we treat it with goodness, kindness, fairness, compassion, etc.

    Evil dances in our faces, showing us all that it is, an unruly force, taunting our weak defenses, it boldly slips away unscathed.

  • A Cracked Lady that is Imperfectly Me.

    I am trying to lay on paper the picture I present to the world; how I am learning about a life I lived unknowingly to me, mourning that life, while living this life today.

    The combination is insane at times.

    Finding parts of myself that were missing, living them, and then releasing them and mourning their loss, at the same time I am living in the present building a life and feeling this life, a combination of present and past, mourning and living, dying and being born.

    My broken past revealing itself and its corrections laid back into the foundation, rebuilding me and who I am.

    Like building a new foundation on a fully built house, taking out one brick at a time, without moving the whole structure, yet the whole structure eventually changes.

    Being a caterpillar while making a butterfly without a cocoon.

    Living naked in the midst of change.

    Each broken brick creates a past I tentatively embrace, knowing it changes who I am and how I live today.

    Like picking up pieces of a puzzle wondering what the final picture will reveal.

    Perhaps the whole change is who I am, that I am the combination of a life of denial, a life of destructing that and rebuilding.

    I am the pot, the crack, the broken pot, and the glued backed together one.

    A cracked lady that is imperfectly me.

  • Reality shows a hole.

    As I walked down the driveway to get our mail, my foot slipped on the ice and I did an impromptu triangle pose, stretching further than my muscles actually stretch, it was as if the ground shifted beneath my feet and caught me way off guard.

    You find your self in a position of surprise and pain, slipping out of control, trying to restore balance.

    That is exactly what happened when my mother’s request came in, it caught me unaware and it took me awhile to gather myself back into control, for it felt like she had snagged my life for a few hours, upending my plans by sidetracking my emotions and me.

    One minute you are walking along with a firm ground underneath you and zip its gone, replaced with rolling upsetting thoughts and emotions, going from a placid empty space to a state of turmoil.

    It is amazing that she still can tromp in and trash my space with just a few uttered words and make me feel that she has tampered with my child.

    The request is secondary to the position she inadvertently put my daughter in, playing monkey in the middle in a game of insanity, where it is impossible for my daughter to win.
    It’s the price paid for allowing my children to define their own relationship with my family, I knew it would leave them vulnerable and open to being a conduit for information about me.

    I just hoped it would never be used, or my children would be used.

    Being used is exactly how I feel my daughter was treated, my mother didn’t see the girl who she was asking to perform this act, she just wanted the picture and took the route easiest traveled, she didn’t want to ask me directly.

    I have tried hard to not use this access myself; I have tried to maintain a neutral stance as I witness their involvement with my family, allowing them to leave or stay as life unfolds.

    A phone call wouldn’t suffice, for she has hung up on me before when the words coming at her were not what she wanted to hear, so I will write a letter.

    A restraining letter.

    A letter that requests her silence between her and I, letting her know that my kids are not to be an open line for her to Use.

    This behavior of hers going to the second generation really boils me, asking others to do her dirty work.

    She knows without a shadow of doubt that if she asked me the path would be unfruitful, she wants what she wants and it matters not how the mission is accomplished, who she steps on and mistreats along the way, what she wants most is a complete set of daughter pictures.

    She wants no holes or vacant spots and she is using my children to patch the hole.

    My glaring open hole in our family will remain that way.

    She isn’t interested in knowing my life; she just wants my photograph to fill the hole in hers.

    The simple thing would be to fill the spot.

    That is what she has wanted all along, for me to get back in line, to rejoin the family, to not be standing out here alone, making her family look shattered, she wants to paint a pretty picture of all her children, to see them all unaffected and looking no worse for the wear, it will soothe her conscience, and make her feel like a whole mother.

    My refusal to slide back into position leaves her with a broken family.

    It is amazing that she wants a picture of the one who ran away.

    The striking juxtaposition of asking for a picture, when she has yet to ask in all these years, “How are you?”

    How are you feeling and dealing, how is your life going, how is it being abused my husband, how has that affected your life? How are you…?

    Nothing, silence…she doesn’t want to know or hear or wonder how I am, she just wants a pretty picture to fill her spot.

    The one sidedness of her world blows me sideways.

    Once again, she doesn’t see me or see my daughter, she sees us both as fulfilling a request.

    A request from a very selfish woman, who is so self- absorbed she is unable to see beyond the end of her nose.

    She doesn’t see the lives behind the pictures, just the pretty pictures; we have no life beyond what we can give to her.

    She doesn’t see the lives beyond the hands doing her dirty work, we have no purpose but what we can do for her.

    My giving days are over; I was done giving to this mad charity a long time ago.

    By keeping focus on the picture, you don’t see the madness orchestrating the life in denial.

    The picture completes a perfect set of six.
    Reality shows the hole.

  • The Wise Listened

    I only spent one hour in her presence and wanted to follow her home, and in fact we may have been behind her motor home as she left our town, I had the chance but turned off as our road appeared, allowing her to leave me wanting more.

    It wasn’t so much her story but rather the affirmations I felt as I listened to her.  I wanted more.

    Her story and mine shared some similar roads, and I could see how her courage was grown, how she shined in her individuality how comfortable she is in her skin, although I know it wasn’t always so.

    She spoke of her childhood in a tone of ‘this is what it was’ marveling with us and showing us how those steps were gifts that she used to become who she is today. 

    Dr. Maya Angelou.

    From an abused mute child to one who had us all sitting in rapt attention to each word, insight and profound wisdom she uttered.

    Maybe we can’t listen to another until they have something worthwhile to share.

    She has enough wisdom inside, and I feel I just got one little tiny peek.

    A peek of who I will be!

    She makes life seem only worthwhile if it is colorful; with characters and scenes that put fiction to shame.

    It’s like the more you suffer, the better the storyteller you will become and how much more interesting the story will be to tell.

    She didn’t hide the ‘shameful’ parts, rather she allowed them their truths to stand equal to the kinder parts, the happier times and she weaved them all together into one strand of self.

    The audience followed her as she led us on her journey as we sampled a few moments of significance that made her who she is today.

    A colorful woman telling us this isn’t a rehearsal, so get on and live life.

    Thanks Dr. Maya Angelou for taking the journey to come and speak to us today.

    We are just another spot on her journey, and she a spot in ours.

    A connection and energy exchanged.

    I left feeling she was giving us a hand up, as she reminded us of all who came before us, what their cost was, and how we don’t have the right to waste our time being less than who we can be.

     A wise woman sat on that stage and the wise listened.

     

  • Keeper of their Illusions.

    One more part that really stayed with me from Sickened by Julie Gregory.

     

    “I now feel ready to try and talk to a therapist again.  Most times I do not feel like a client, but an educator who pays to teach my therapist about MBP.  I answer her questions?  How did it slip past the doctors?  Why didn’t anybody notice? Didn’t you have neighbors?  Were you really sick?

     

    But still, in our sessions, I cry from the guilt of betraying my mother, for not keeping the shroud on her secrets when I held them locked in such trust.  And I feel terrible about my own secret.  I have been writing, writing about what it feels like to be cut open while your mother’s tight, thin smile mouths, “Doctor’s orders, honey.”  To be emptied and filled by your mother, just like the IV bag she’s arranged for you. And to believe you are genuinely ill because that is what everything in your world mirrors back to you.

     

    My therapist explains that my mother was cannibalistic.  That she wanted to ingest my living flesh, to tear chunks from my body. That the closest she could come to cannibalizing me was to lift me onto the serving platter for the men of the medical community to carve.  The longer I hold guilt for betraying her, the more I will keep climbing on the platter all by myself.

     

    And yet the hand that pushed me down was the hand that helped me up.  The one who beat me was the only one to save me from being beaten. The one who wanted to kill me was the one who would kill her self if I didn’t offer myself under the knife.  I was trained from the womb as an alibi for her innocence.  She would snuff out my life if I went against her, even in thought.  She brushed me this way as casually as you would slide a ling brush down a pair of slacks, to get all the grain running in the same direction.

     

    I still told myself that it was okay, it really wasn’t that bad.  A normal sacrifice for any child to make for her mother.  Words programmed into me as my own. Tangled in her web, if a doctor couldn’t decipher what she did, how could I?

     

    Until I turn thirty.  Then I see her almost as clearly as if I was standing on a windswept sea cliff and she was looking up from the sand below.  There is only one line that connects us, and it is wrapped around my waist; my hunger is tied to the most intimate, emotionally deep contact you can ever get: a mother’s touch.  Anything less that where she took me feels like not enough.

     

    And so it is for the people I bring into my life.  My relationships, like the one I had with my mother, turn immediately intense, sometimes violently invasive.  I start to see that I surround myself with broken people; more broken than me.  Ah, yes, let me count your cracks.  Let’s see, one hundred, two…yes, you’ll do nicely.  A cracked companion makes me look whole, gives me something outside myself to care for.  When I’m with whole, healed people I feel my own cracks: the shatters, the insanities of dislocation in myself.

     

    So I start over.  When I ruin something or when someone vines around me, I move on.  It is just another opportunity, another chance to interact with the outside world and not have it take me completely, utterly to the bone.”  Julie Gregory

     

    As much as her mother needed her sick, my mother needed me innocent.  We are the exact opposites.

     

    She was well and her mother needed her to be unwell.

    I was molested and not okay, and my mother needed me to be okay to hold her marriage, her life, and her world together.

     

    We both found out that what our mother’s needed had nothing to do with us, but rather we were the vehicles used to get her where she wanted to be.

     

    Perhaps we know what our unveiling will do to our mothers, we are wrecking purposefully her illusion, and we are no longer caring enough to sacrifice ourselves for their insanity.

     

    We know we are shattering their dreams to a million pieces… yet their dreams go on; someone takes our place to be the keeper of their illusions. 

     

     

     

  • Alive but unaware!

    What an incredible ride, what an awe-inspiring journey, I feel an immense amount of gratitude to be given the opportunity to live beyond the bubble, to find a life outside of denial.

     

    Unless and until you have been totally snowed under by a false belief, where you and reality are an ocean apart, you will not understand the enormity of dissolving denial.

     

    First of all you are the one standing neck deep in denial, and it is from there that you have to dig yourself out, not knowing what is real; your denial or reality. 

     

    When I began this journey, when my bubble burst, I thought my reality changed, when in actuality it was my denial that had sprung a leak or collapsed, leaving me without protection.

     

    My husband said that I was like a scared rabbit, and I was.  I had no place to hide, to run to or escape, all I saw was the harsh reality in front of me.

     

    Actions that I had previously denied stood enormously obvious!  I had no choice now but to see and to feel what each action felt like.

     

    Living with all your nerves exposed, with no shield to protect you, a turtle without its shell.

     

    What I believe is while you are in denial; you deny your emotions a life.  You can’t feel them.  They don’t exist in the bubble, for that is why we built the bubble to escape feelings; they were far to terrifying to feel.

     

    Emotionally immature is how we get left. 

     

    We left our emotions behind and our bodies grew. 

     

    Emotionally stunted we live awkwardly in this world.

     

    The picture I now have, the overview and the application of denial, the land that we build and live in, leaves me in utter disbelief.

     

    Abuse while hurtful to the physical body, is nothing compared to being sentenced into the land of denial.

     

    What I am now seeing is that some get a life sentence and some 40 plus years. 

     

    I do not know what makes the denial bubble burst, how some have a stronger bubble than others, but denial is built from the inside out and I am thinking that it is the only way out.

     

    The one who built it is the one who takes it down.

     

    I sit in awe, I sit in gratitude, I sit in reality bubble-less.

     

    The definition of denial, refusal to acknowledge existence of something: a refusal to believe in something or admit that something exists.

     

    What we have to admit to is the bubble we live in and not the reality that has always been there.

     

    What we ultimately deny is our self.

     

    Alive but unaware, that is denial!

     

  • A broken Heart.

    Remnants of a long conversation linger in my head, dragging out more ideas and different slants on fear, truth and death.

     

    I wonder what some would fear most, facing their truths or facing their deaths.

     

    If you truths were real vanilla and uneventful, of course death would loom large and scary, but what if your past was scarier?

     

    What if you were being asked to look upon a past filled with trauma, then how would your death look?

     

    Death seems like an escape hatch a welcome slide into oblivion, compared to having to feel, deal and heal a wound of abnormal proportions.

     

    Today I was exploring the depths of psychosomatic symptoms in the body and this is what I read.

     

    “Yet even when a patient accepts their symptom is being caused by an emotion—an exceptionally difficult barrier to surmount—the trauma that caused the symptom in the first place is often shown to be so ugly that both patient and doctor can readily understand why the patient’s mind converted it into a physical symptom in the first place:  even the mind itself believed the emotional trauma to be easier to handle that way. 

    Physical symptoms often get better with a pill.  Emotional traumas often take years to heal—if even then.  The technology we have to heal the scars caused by some traumas—as advanced and helpful as psychology can be—still lags behind the technology we have to treat ailments with purely physical causes.

    But we shouldn’t be discouraged.  We may all experience psychosomatic symptoms to some degree, but when our symptoms are shown to be so and we accept it, that acceptance becomes the most important step toward resolving them.  After all, how can we find a contact lens we lost by looking near a lamppost when we lost it in the shadows?  The real work begins, of course, once we start looking in the right place.  Dealing with somatization only requires us to bring to the table one quality:  courage.” (Alex Lickerman)

     

    Isn’t it amazing that the mind can convert trauma into a physical symptom?

    How interesting to read and understand more how emotional trauma affects the body.

    And I love how courage is what we need to bring to the table. 

    Courage. 

    Courage to face our truths, our past and our hurts, and especially if the truth hurts the images we held of our family.

    Courage, wow, I think they forgot a broken heart.

    IMG_2624

     

  • The Girl She Was Meant To Be.

    I found myself seeing myself but with my old perception and then with my new perception could see my old self.

     

    It is like looking in a two-way mirror seeing your self on both sides. 

     

    Amazing to see such contrasts between the two.

     

    It dawned on me that I am a crazy, daring, bold lady, a woman of courage who tossed aside 46 years of rules and regulations to follow her own truth. 

     

    I am in awe of the distance between these two women, and they both are Me.

     

    The lady I used to be didn’t break rules, she followed along obediently even if she didn’t want to, people pleasing was her full time job, and choice making wasn’t her strong suit, her sense of self was gotten from the multitude of labels she covered her self with.

     

    My new lady tossed out all the rulebooks, and set out on her own, using her own body as her guide, for the first time ever.

     

    I remember stating, “It was like I was going to find myself, I didn’t know who I was or even that I was missing.”

     

    And it was the truth.

     

    I left my old me and I walked away, for the old me was a combination of other peoples ideas of me, their needs of me, their wishes of me, I was a me of their dreams, but not of my own.

     

    The old me was built up for reasons that had little or nothing to do with me.  Even if I didn’t know who I was, I knew for sure who I wasn’t.

     

    A child molester once said, “I changed who she would have been,” and he is right.

     

    A little girl who has been molested loses her way, her passions, and her spirit. 

     

    Her life is only about surviving.

     

    In this two-way mirror on my journey I see how the same courage she had to survive, she used to set herself free. 

     

    From the wide view I see a fearlessly bold lady who has taken her life back.  Who will no longer just survive, but she will live.

     

    She will live her own dreams, have her own ideas, make her own wishes and suit her own needs.

     

    Self lovingly at last, she is free to be the girl she was meant to be.

     

     IMG_3200

  • Look the other way.

    “There are two ways to be fooled.  One is to believe what isn’t true; the other is to refuse to believe what is true.”

     Soren Kierkagaard

     

     

    What is denial?

     

    Of course I had to look it up.

     

    Denial.

    -disavowal: a statement saying that something is not true or not correct

    -refusal to allow somebody something: a refusal to grant something desired or believed to be a right

    – refusal to acknowledge existence of something: a refusal to believe in something or admit that something exists

    The refusal to acknowledge existence of something: refusal to believe something or admit that something exists.

     

    I am wondering the difference between women who stand by an alcoholic husband compared to one who stands by a husband who is accused of being a pedophile.

     

    What seems to be easier to see is the alcoholic, for he comes home with the evidence written all over him, he smells like a drunk, walks like a drunk yet that woman is not condemned for standing by him.  Why?  Why is this one ok? 

     

    Now in the case of a woman whose husband is accused of being a pedophile, the only evidence is the child.  What did the child say?   More often than not, the man isn’t found with his pants down by his ankles, so the woman then has to believe the child over the man.  And the child has to be the one to speak up, to bring up this bit of information. 

     

    The man himself takes great care in covering up his evidence, he is actually a smooth operator, a con artist, a master manipulator, and we expect the woman to scout this out. 

     

    When he comes home you do not see his evidence.

     

    Instead you have to find his evidence on the children within range of him.

     

    People look at him and instead they need to look for evidence among the children.

     

    The question comes to me, more often than not, “where was your mother in all of this, what did she know, or how could she not know.”

     

    Now I am not defending her, but instead trying to sort out how it is that grown ladies seem to act so “stupid” it seems when it comes to the man they love.

     

    I am not certain what happened with my mother, it could have been a combination of many things.  One that she never experienced him as a pedophile, she never was a victim of him.  Second she never caught him in action.  Third, she had to believe a small child speaking.  Her day-to-day evidence didn’t support the allegations.

     

    When I suggested to her, that she danced with a monster whether she knew it or not, her comment was, “I don’t dance”.

     

    She couldn’t see him as a monster.  Yet in my case my body knew he was.  So I had evidence of this in my body.

     

    Do you have any idea of what the cost is to seeing someone different?  Do you know what it takes to replace a rosy picture with a nasty one?  Do you know what will be expected of you if you ‘change’ your mind?

     

    I do.

     

    My whole world flipped around, all my family lay in a discarded mess off to one side.

     

    What you are asking of these women is huge.

     

    I have no experience of living under the influence of a woman whose husband is an alcoholic, but I can tell you what happens to grow up in a family of a woman who couldn’t change her mind.

     

    Somehow I think that in the ‘old days’ it was admirable to stand by your man, and in fact doesn’t the traditional wedding vows claim, “in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad…” so a woman is made to be better if they stick around even when times get rough.

     

    What I am now beginning to understand it is much more admirable to step out, to walk away, to stop being victimized by someone who is lost behind a disease, to divorce your mind from the rosy image.

     

    What is the difference between my mother not being able to see her husband in a bad light, and a mother who refuses to see her child addicted to drugs?  They both want to keep the innocent image, to not have to deal, to not change their minds.

     

    What is it that keeps us so mentally dysfunctional when it comes to those we love?  What has us blinded so that we can’t picture them in another light?

     

    Is it more about us than it is even about that other person?  Was my mother’s story and self more at risk than anything else? What was she to lose? 

     

    What was the cost inside of her?  What would she be required to feel?  What pain would she have to endure?

     

    To live painless is to not deal, not see, not be aware of what is wrong, instead work like hell to make what is not working work.

     

    Become very good at putting on a social face of normal, while underneath the truths get pushed to the back and out of the day to day running of life.

     

    Is that denial in its application?  Isn’t that what it means  “The refusal to acknowledge existence of something: refusal to believe something or admit that something exists.”

     

    It almost seems like such a gentle word, “she was in denial” like she was lying on the couch.  Yet that one little word allowed a man to continue on doing what he did, continue to be a monster in our presents, because she failed to acknowledge the existence of a monster, she refused to believe.

     

    Each monster needs a woman in denial to operate.

    Each addict needs a woman to co-operate to work.

     

    The application of not seeing works to the benefit of the disease, to the benefit of the addiction, to the detriment of the children in the house, even to the person locked behind the addiction.

     

    You are not helping your loved one by blinking this away; instead you are helping the disease.

     

    Imagine the shock and horror each ‘caring and loving’ mother/wife would be in, if they knew that by not seeing the disease they were actually abusing the child/husband and loving the disease.

     

    Who could know that your love slips onto the disease!

     

    Just by denying the disease doesn’t make it disappear, even if you want to hold on to the image of pureness, the disease lays over the top.

     

    My mother’s biggest crime was not seeing him as a monster, period.

     

    She failed to acknowledge its existence.

     

    How many ladies are out there that fail to acknowledge the existence of alcoholism, or drug abuse, they simply want to retain the innocent image.

     

    That is their crime, or fault, they are incapable of seeing something change for the worse, to crumble and fall, they fail to see the pain in another to see one they love in a different light.

     

    My mother isn’t that unusual.  I am witnessing the application of denial and it comes in all shapes and sizes, it doesn’t discriminate, it is an equal opportunity for all.

     

    Denial is the legacy my mother gave us, and oddly enough my father told his truth.  He was the monster; she just could not see it.  He walked, talked, and breathed who he was.  He did is part well. 

     

    Who is more authentic in their case? 

     

    I can see why each of my parents did what they did.

    My father was abused as a child and he went forth and replicated what he felt love was.

    My mother was abused a child and she went forth and replicated what love was.

     

    Both were the perfect match to undo this wrong.

    Neither one could begin to unhinge the wrong.

    All it takes is one person to see.

    One person to stop this pretend dance, one person to acknowledge the existence of what is.

    It takes just one.

     

    To me they failed to see their life lesson, they failed to heal their childhood wounds.  They became ‘adult children’ of abuse; they literally failed to right a wrong that was done to them!

     

    The legacy of denial, the legacy of abuse, maybe the legacy of denying abuse exists.

     

    All it takes for evil to win, is for us to look the other way.