I M Perfect lady

Tag: family

  • Cover Your Truth.

    The phrase, “The Elephant in the Room” what does that really mean and how is it used properly?

    Have we been taught to not speak about things that are there, due to the reaction they bring?

    What are Elephants in a room?
    What is that?

    Is it a truth that is too much to bear?

    It seems to me that IF all know the Elephant is there and will not speak of it; we are all playing a game called, ‘lets pretend’.

    And ironically, it isn’t the Elephant we are pretending about but ourselves.

    A silent unspoken agreement that states, I will pretend to like you when I know you do things I don’t agree with, if you pretend to like me for pretending to like you.

    It seems to me that allowing an Elephant/truth to sit unspoken about is to pretend to pretend to pretend that there is a common ground that slipped away with the truth.

    And in order to maintain this false relationship, the Elephant/truth must not be mentioned, we skip around the mountain, and reach the summit of social niceties.

    We then form a new relationship that requires us to not go near the Elephant or truth.

    So what are we really preserving by being so courteous?

    Isn’t it just an old relationship minus the new and changing truths?

    This Elephant in the room that no one speaks about or entertains, to me is just dancing in denial with another.

    Being in a relationship that dishonors both.

    If truth isn’t allowed into a relationship, then I have no interest there.

    I am almost positive that the Elephant that arrived in the room with my father is he is a pedophile. If many adults in my youth had spoken of this Elephant, perhaps a few little girls would have been saved.

    It isn’t so much about the Elephant, but the ones who sit silently and allow it to be there.

    Elephants don’t disappear, don’t change, aren’t healed or treated in silence, nope, instead they continue to live out their sickness in full living color, while many courteously look on, being much to kind to speak of such ills about another person, to kind, to much into the social niceties, preserving a family, saving a father, sparing a brother, keeping sweet, that which isn’t.

    An Elephant in the room is showing you what is wrong and you will either see it and respond or look away.

    Pretending there is no Elephant is denial.

    And denial doesn’t heal, cure, erase, etc to the Elephant, it says much more about you than them.

    They are being their true selves; you are not willing to see it.

    You want to preserve a relationship of old, like good memories, and not willing to be present with who they are today, for it will crack, shatter, and explode the person you need them to be.

    At some point in time, it will be harder and harder to be in a room with an Elephant, it will simply cost you too much.

    My silence is not for sale, it cannot be used to cover your truth.

  • Peace with My Self.

    IMG_5198
    “Language… has created the word “loneliness” to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word “solitude” to express the glory of being alone.”
    Paul Johannes Tillich

    I love that there are two ways to look at being alone.

    I used feel much more alone surrounded by family than I feel now being separated from most, because at that time I didn’t know who I was.

    I was always lonely…lonely for me.

    What I fear more is being lonely with them, than being in solitude with my self.

    Being in solitude with myself brings me great peace; being with others who seem to misread me would leave me very lonely.

    Alone in a group and not fitting in…maybe you are only lonely in a group that isn’t a good fit.

    So, even if I was with my family I would be alone and misunderstood, which is why I find it much easier to be alone in solitude with myself.

    I am not sure if I will join the group of family, where I will leave my solitude behind, if there will come a time when I feel an opening that I can fit into, a space that will hold the new me I found.

    I really don’t feel lonely but rather that I am honoring my truths and enjoying them in solitude.

    In peace with my self.

  • The Quiet Room

    I am reading “The Quiet Room” by Lori Schiller and Amanda Bennett.

    What is so interesting is that her parents don’t want to accept her illness, and deny it by looking repeatedly for ‘normal’ behavior and are more concerned about how she ‘got’ this illness, they are fearful they caused it.

    Yet the mother had a mother with the same illness and didn’t know it until her daughter displayed the same behavior, then her mother made sense.

    She was mentally ill.

    I know how odd this is that you can’t recognize sickness, especially if you called it normal all along and it is only after the fact that looking back the red flags are waving wildly all about.

    Even Lori herself, believes we all have manic voices in our heads telling us to do things, bad talking esteem wrecking talk…and we do, just not to the degree she did.

    The first half of the book is about looking for normal when normal is nowhere to be found, how everyone wants her to not be sick while she is.

    How awful to have to live pretending or working hard to pretend, that nothing is wrong, how much kinder a ride to be a mentally ill person as you are mentally ill.

    To stand in the truth, no matter what truth you have to stand in is much easier, than trying to be something you can’t be.

    Even if her family didn’t accept it, it was there.
    She was expected to be the one to be the strongest to lead the way, while being mentally ill.

    Like having the blind lead, the deaf listen for us.

    I can’t wait to compete the story and see how she was finally able to see that she was sick and then to convince others of this fact.

    How much easier to just be yourself in whatever state you find yourself in…

  • Annihilate My Truth

    My brother wrote about the word annihilation and I had never looked at what it meant, yet I too have used the word, but now I want to see how it is applied.

     

    Words to me are much more than words, they seem to have power in and behind them, and it’s feelings that give words energy, not the word itself.

     

    We use words to describe feelings, to express how the body feels.  Words to me are secondary in living life; they are the running commentator to what is actually going on. 

     

    Often times it seems people’s commentators are liars and they speak the opposite of their feelings, in kindness, to spare another their true feelings, or to spare themselves making light of what is bad.

     

    When the feelings and the comment about the feelings don’t match, you are lying in words but your feelings are still there unchanged and unexpressed.

     

    "Annihilation is defined as "total destruction" or "complete obliteration" of an object; having its root in the Latin nihil (nothing). A literal translation is "to make into nothing"."

     

    When I spoke of my experience of fear/terror of my father, it never felt like it was taken serious and that I could easily transfer words back to make things right.

     

    And when I use the word rape and abuse, or pedophile instead of father, or neglect instead of mothering, I have the problem.  I am using the wrong words.

     

    The word annihilation is even a kind word for liar.

     

    My family prefers liars and will annihilate those who use the incorrect words.

     

    The word family covers up the feelings of incest, rape, neglect, and I am annihilated when I dare expose what lay beneath the word father.

     

    It seems the greatest error is to annihilate the truth, to make into nothing my truths.

     

    I am not annihilated, the truth is.

     

    To be a truthful commentator means you have to walk and act in harmony with your feelings.

     

    Which is why I had asked my sisters if they too recalled feelings similar to mine, for if they didn’t, I could greatly understand their comments of father.

    I am made into nothing due to being abused.

     

    Here is the choice, being annihilated by my family for speaking my feelings or becoming a liar.

     

    Annihilation is their action, being a liar would be mine.

     

    I would have to lie to return to the family and annihilate my truth.

     

  • Family is Relating.

    In the past weeks I have had sister relationships with ladies not related to me, yet we related. 

     

    And when I tried to relate to those related to me, we failed.

     

    What I failed to focus on were the ladies who related to me, and instead part of my head was with those who I could no longer relate to, struggling to find the words or phrases to make us match.

     

    I failed. 

     

    We don’t match.

     

    It isn’t them or it isn’t me. 

     

    They are fine alone and I am fine alone, but put us together and negativity pops out of them and out of me.

     

    We are not what some would call each other’s better half.

     

    Last night I was with two women who are not related to me, and we related beautifully. 

     

    We tossed conversation back and forth and held each other’s truths easily, we matched, I fit in their worlds, there wasn’t a struggle to find a little glimmer of commonality, and we flowed with each other effortlessly.

     

    It was as one said, ‘family that is not family’.

     

    I believe that we match or we don’t match and there isn’t anything we can do to force a relationship against reality, any more than we can stop one that grows organically.

     

    As I sit here today and look backward upon all the wonderful spirited wise individual ladies I have had the privilege to share my journey with, I am in wonder of these relationships.

     

    Some are just forming, others were formed a while back and are growing deeper and more meaningful to me, some seem to have gone ahead and were waiting for me to arrive with open arms and hearts.

     

    How grateful am I for their journeys that coincided with mine, yet years apart.

     

    Ladies of strength and willingness to participate in life fully not shying away when their truths lead them from their comfort zones. 

     

    Ladies of integrity, who use their voices to speak for themselves always, these are my sisters, the ones I relate to, the ladies whose footsteps I am following, who give me energy and hope.

     

    These sisters are bold and follow their north star no matter where it leads and who they have to leave behind; they are willing to let go to hold on to what they know is their truth.

     

    How lucky am I to have them sprinkled along my journey to share this experience, to enhance my life, to lighten my load, to brighten my day, to inspire me and cheer me on as I continue to build a stronger me.

     

    Thanks to each of my soul sisters for the relationship we have, the braveness you show in sharing yourself with me, and the inspiration your story lends is hope to me.

     

    Family is relating.

     

    My chosen families are those that relate to me.

     

     

     

     

     

  • Held On So Tightly…

    I awoke at 4:00 am, with my right hand tightly clenched, my arm sore.

     

    A dream flooded my awareness.

     

    I was at a beach, and saw a young girl pour gasoline into the front seat of my car, I hollered, and she looked at me and continued to pour.

     

    When I arrived at the car, she was still standing there smiling and pouring gas in my car, I caught her hand.

     

    And held on.

     

    We were connected for hours, while I tried to call the police, while we waited for them to arrive, while we waited for them to do something.  For the whole long day, I had to hold on to this unruly defiant child, this young girl who did everything in her power to get a way.

     

    I went from hanging on tightly with one hand to at times keeping her in a double arm hug/hold.

     

    She had friends who came by and made snide comments to me, while they tried to get her free from my grasp, yet I held on tighter. 

     

    Her mother and family also happened by, and the mother said, go ahead see if you can do something…

     

    All day long this longhaired, thin as a rail girl and I were joined, she wanting so desperately to get away and I as so determined to hold her.

     

    When I awoke, I realized this is a great metaphor for holding on to wishing someone would change.

     

    It took all my energy, attention, concentration, to hold on to this girl who wanted to no part of what I wanted, and I wouldn’t let go.

     

    Neither of us allowed to be free.

     

    All it takes is one person to change their direction of struggle, it only takes one and we are both free.

     

    As I look upon the last few days, and me trying to get my sisters to see my point of view….this struggle depicts it perfectly.

     

    I am trying to convince them against their will.

     

    When I went to bed last night, I recalled how my mother always focused on who didn’t arrive; who didn’t send a card, who didn’t treat her well, and then wasn’t able to be aware of who did. 

    Her habit became my habit, I too lose many hours of precious time focusing on a segment of people who are in my mental mind’s opinion, not doing what they ‘need’ to do.

     

    I felt a long line of misunderstanding unravel last night as I lay in bed, and then the dream filled my sleeping hours.

     

    If you are so busy working with those struggling against you, you can’t play and enjoy those with you.

     

    I am letting them go…

     

    In my dream, as the long day ended, when we were both tired, I took her information down on how to reach her, and I let her go.

     

    My last sight of her was her walking away free, adjusting her clothes and shrugging and correcting herself, like a dog shaking its self once free from a leash.

     

     

    And I sat there rubbing my hand that had held on so tightly….

     

     

     

  • Steps towards mine.

    My online conversations with family are so enlightening and disturbing, confusing and clear, and they show me who they are, and how they see me.

     

    What continues to surprise me is that they hold me up to an unattainable standard and then have no standards for themselves or the rest of the folks they spend time with.

     

    Their willingness to hang on to my father and let me go leaves me forever puzzled.

     

    My latest infraction is that I knew my mother wasn’t with my father, but I said it for my benefit, for my stories benefit.

     

    I lie for the benefit of my story?

     

    My story is torrid enough without needing one drop of falseness.  They don’t make Hollywood movies that are as tainted and twisted and long-suffering as mine.

     

    I willingly admitted that I assumed wrong, and that wasn’t believed. 

     

    My mother was in my father’s new town, but refused to see him, she would get dropped off before his house and wait while they delivered ‘stuff’ to him.

     

    She was near, but not with him, sorta like when she is up here.  She is near me, but not with me. 

     

    So what does that mean?

     

    We have not had a reunion any more than they have had a divorce, it seems she lives in between.

     

    Between the ending and a new beginning, a no place.

     

    It seems to me it would be easier to end it once and for all, to complete the relationship to finalize it, like ending a contract, for until then you are nowhere, not married, but not divorced.

     

    Separated with space, living in a hammock between both lands.

     

    Her not being near him hasn’t brought her closer to me, I wonder why? 

     

    Where is she really?

     

    No steps taken to sever or to reunite.

     

    What kind of life is it to live in between, to live in the space that isn’t either side, to be free of making a choice either way?

     

    Isn’t that standing still?

    Undecided?

    Unknowing?

     

    I see her as unchanged, for even if she has left my father’s side, she hasn’t made steps towards mine.

     

     

     

  • Upon His Knee.

    It would be nice if it were all lies, just a made up story, a figment of my imagination, as an email suggests.

     

    ‘you are FEEDING your anger with LIES. Just to carry on the hated/evil.’

     

    The lie I told was that my mother stayed in the same house as my father while in Texas, I guess I was wrong.  She was in the same neighborhood, just not the same house.

     

    I don’t know if she spent time with him or seen him or anything, all I knew is her destination was the same as his.  Okay, I get it ….  I was wrong.

     

    I was wrong about that.

     

    Yet what they fail to realize is that I am not looking to be fed, nor am I creating lies to fuel an evil to carry it on, the evil is being carried along by them, not me.

     

    The wonderful technology of Facebook reveals to me in pictures that don’t lie.

     

    My father is posing with his granddaughter, grandson and newest little great granddaughter, with captions of ‘grandpa’.

     

    The sender of the email is standing at his side.

     

    What they fail to notice is that THEY are the ones who allow another little girl in his presence.

     

    I am not the one who is allowing this, but the one who is trying to tell them not to trust this old grandpa man.

     

    I sent an email to the lady of the house where my father lives, informing her that I will be contacting the Family Independence Agency in their town letting them know, a child is in danger.

     

    The family can’t see the danger and while they are blind to it, the danger continues on to another generation, the third. 

     

    I thought they knew who they had in their homes, the picture tells me they have no idea.

     

    They think I am the one, who keeps this sordid tale alive, that I am the creator of this sad little tune, but little do they know; they are the ones who sing the chorus line.

     

    They think I drum up new little lies to keep their world a mess, while they are looking at me, HE is looking at his newest littlest victim, waiting for her to ripen to the perfect little age.

     

    My anger, my hate, my evil they believe I carry is the opposite.  I care enough to try and wake them up.

     

    Hate me, be angry with me, and lose your respect for me that is fine, I will do my best to keep his hands off another little girl.

     

    The picture is the picture of denial.

    Denial is seeing a grandpa where a pedophile stands.

     

    He looks the same.

    Harmless.

    Old.

    Familiar.

    Himself.

     

    What I needed the most way back when, was someone to alert the family, someone to protect me from this man.  I can now be that person to the newest little girl to join our family tree.

     

    I will be the one who tries to stop the spread of his disease from touching her.

     

    Perhaps her grandmother will now take heed, pay attention when it is her first grandchild who sits upon HIS knee.

     

  • The Disguise

    One man's junk is another man's treasure, applies to people too.  It is amazing how two people can view an individual in two contrasting ways.

    Now the question is which person is right?  Does the individual change depending upon who he is with, or is 'beauty' really in the eye of the beholder?

    What draws us to a person or repells us away?  Is it possible that however deep you are, you then are able to see deeply into their lives.

    As I unpacked my childhood wounds and all the subsequence parcels, I changed the way I now look at people.  I see courage in those who fearlessly unpack and sort through years of feelings, emotions and pain, learning and correcting errors of their ways.  And that leaves me with nothing to say to those who have yet begun to unpack.

    The unpacked souls run, are restless and anxious, forever moving to keep from feeling their pain.  Their overly flowerful praises are slung back and forth in hopes that they will dress up what lays beneath, like window dressings on a prison.

    Unpacked, unshackled, unloaded, I am silent in knowing.

    I see beneath the disguise.

  • A New Language of Me.

    My laptop lost its way to the Internet, no connection can be found, a wonderful tool that sits in solitary confinement.  I can type upon it, but it lost the means to communicate.  It felt so odd to have it sitting there without the flow of giving and receiving.

    Tomorrow I hope to call the Internet people and reconnect, how easy it is for a machine.

    How much harder it is for us.  I even have the capabilities to speak and to hear and yet I lost the connection with my family.

    Perhaps it is not the connection that is faulty but the words that pass between us.

    I say things they don't want to hear and they say things that make no sense to me, it is like we are separated by a language problem.

    You wonder where the words come from.  From fear or love?  Do they know?

    Is there a way to fix this and how can it be done?

    Who has to change the manner of speaking?  Is it me and what do I need to say?

    I know it is me, I gave up the language of our childhood and began speaking a new tongue, a new dialogue that is unfamiliar to them, truth.

    My new language had me walking a new path, my connections with my family were severed.

    I am unsure where there will be the opportunity again to connect.

    Until then I walk along learning a new language of me.