I M Perfect lady

Tag: incest

  • 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!

     

  • Wrong Places.

    "Love is the ability and willingness to allow those that you care for to be what they choose for themselves without any insistence that they satisfy you" Dr. Wayne W. Dyer

     

     

    What I want to know is what will satisfy me as far as my mother goes?

     

    Funny, I thought I would be satisfied if she were to show all who she is, now today, and who she was all those years ago.  For her to show her insanity.

     

    She can’t be more visible, yet unseen! 

     

    What I failed to appreciate is that what I call insanity some see as sane! 

     

    Her actions are typical for her, so they see that their world hasn’t changed, they see their normal mom. 

     

    They find comfort in her unchanging ways.

     

    What leaves me breathless is that no one seems to care that she is staying in the same house with my father, the pedophile.  That this choice of hers isn’t insane.

     

    Their fabulous mother is simply stopping off in Dallas for a spell.  A normal event in their lives.

     

    How can your really overlook, look pass and around the fact that her husband wounded so many little girls?

     

    How is she not seen as insane or incredibly blind and disconnected for being able to be in the same space as him? 

     

    Two birds of the same feathers…

     

    My inability to shed a glimmer of light to show how off base her actions are leave me voiceless.

     

    How in the hell can I utter one word that will outshine her very own actions?

     

    Sadly being satisfied that your mother is insane doesn’t feel good, knowing that she is okay with the man who raped you leaves you reeling in thoughts and feelings.

     

    I wonder if us kids of incest are forever seeking to be satisfied in a way that is impossible to have?

     

    Is our own sanity jepordized by the fact that we still want something from our insane parents?

     

    Isn’t insanity trying to fix a problem at the same level at which it was created? (Einstien)

     

    If my satisfaction will only come when my insane parents make sane moves, I will be forever waiting.

     

    Accepting their insanity has been the hardest thing to do.

     

    Or is accepting that no loves lives there…

     

    Perhaps we are always on the look out for that little drop of love, just one little tiny dot.

     

    And all we see is more and more reasons how they don’t.

     

    How sad we subconsciously are waiting in hope.

     

    “Looking for love in all the wrong places….”

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  • Freedom in Healing.

    Yesterday I felt the sorrow of not going back, of being forever outside, being stuck in a new life upon which there is no return.

     

    That my inner truths and feelings will not change, and I don’t have the magic to make it happen, they sit there rock solid unmoving, unshakeable.

     

    I felt like I was riding shotgun to these feelings, like I am riding along behind them and have to act accordingly.

     

    Even if my inner wishes and desires are to go against them, I am weak where they are strong.

     

    These truths are not of my making, I didn’t dream them up to make my life difficult, to stay away from weddings, and forgo all family activities.

     

    The makings of these truths came in ways not many care to know or acknowledge; they forget that I am not the maker of these truths, but the carrier of them.

     

    It is like I am carrying a disease that I didn’t invent, but yet seen as the magician and the creator. 

     

    That I am the one who started this whole thing and now that I have had my ‘fun’ with it, just get rid of it and be ‘normal’ again.

     

    It still catches me unaware that they still think it is me that is the real trouble, that if only I would just stop sprouting this garbage than a normal family I would have.

     

    Then once again I could rejoin them in celebrations instead of wanting to be in exile.

     

    That I am the one who wants to stay away, NOT that there is actually something to stay away from.

     

    That I am enjoying this new role, this new life, the knower of my unchangeable truths, that I prefer to live estranged, that I decided this is a new me choice for me.

     

    If only that were true, that one day I simply decided that my old life didn’t work anymore and I set out to find a new me.

     

    What they fail to appreciate is the fact that I was unaware and blind to the abuse in our home, that I built a life upon a false foundation. 

     

    When the foundation crumbled, so did I, I had a break down of me.

     

    In the million pieces of me that lay shattered, I had to find a way to make a new me.

     

    The last five years isn’t an experiment or fad, it isn’t a temper tantrum or something I can set aside for a wedding, it is the way I healed.

     

    I healed inside by setting up boundaries.

    I healed by acknowledging my abuse, my abuser, and those who support abuse by not standing against it.

     

    I healed myself putting myself in exile.

     

    And exiled from this family I will stay, it is the choice of being healed or abused.

     

    I felt the sadness of this exile, the aloneness, the being seen as different and difficult, and it is.

     

    Yet I no more can go back into abuse than I can let go of the freedom in healing.

     

    "I must be willing to give up what I am in order to become what I will be."
      ~ Einstein

     

  • Shoes Custom Made For Me.

    This morning I awoke from another dream, a dream where I left two young children alone, sleeping, and I was at a lake enjoying the water, the air, the sunshine, and when I realized what I had done, I began going back to help them.

     

    In the dream, it takes a really really long time and the whole while I am worried about what trouble they have gotten into, if they are safe, could I be lucky enough to get there in time, and how did I forget and how could I be so irresponsible, who will know, will I be in trouble, berating myself for not doing better, and in sheer panic will they be lost.

     

    Now, just like the ‘Affair’ dreams, these child dreams pop up often a couple of times a week.

     

    Different scenario, but same theme; children and me being irresponsible leaving them in a precarious state or children out of control and me being responsible, either way I am losing.

     

    I wondered why I was dreaming so much about young children, little kids that couldn’t take care of themselves, needy children, really needy children and their parents would be off to the side oblivious.  Or I would find myself babysitting way too many kids and not know how that happened, the dream just starts with me in charge of way too many little kids, so many I can’t keep track.

     

    The feelings of these dreams are what strike me; how they depict feelings I had when I was such a young girl, feelings of being in control but irresponsible or responsible and not in control.

     

    No matter which way you look at it, it was never right.

     

    Saying it was never right, is right.  I was too young to be expected to be responsible for the things I was left being responsible for.

     

    It is the feelings that are trying to be expressed.  In my dreams I am expressing my lacks, my efforts up against the odds that were stacked high against me, the moments of being free, to only realize I was left in charge and I left, which plummets me into panic.

     

    My mother used to say I was a second mother, which maybe I was, but what I really was was a little girl who couldn’t be a mother.

     

    I was too little to be doing what I was asked to do, for I was still a little girl, one who had to put aside little girl dreams, little girl play, little girl life, and try flopping around in mother shoes.

     

    The mother shoes were too big, held too much responsibility and no matter how hard I tried, I never was able to pull it off.  I failed at being a mother, and while trying so hard to mother, my little girl life slipped away.

     

    This is the catch 22 that I have lived. Not a mother and not a child, sitting in the nowhere land between.

     

    Expressing myself in my dreams, recognizing the awful place I stood upon in my childhood, I don’t believe at the time, while resentful sure, I still didn’t fully comprehend the states I was left in, the age of myself and the ages of the children around me, and the absence of the mother.

     

    In the years I should have been a carefree child, I was burdened with a heavy load, add to that load the horrendous incest from my father, it is no wonder I didn’t skip along in patent leather shoes.

    My childhood shoes and the feelings attached to them are the strings that are being undone.

     

    I feel like now I can take off those floppy ill-fitting mother shoes, and find a pair that suits me.

     

    The little girl shoes will no longer fit, the time has passed for those, you really can’t go back.

     

    It is time for me to find my own pair of shoes, ones that are perfect for me, ones that will fit my age, my soul and my journey, shoes custom made for me!

     

     

  • Uncontested.

    My brother and I have been writing about our feelings or the lack thereof with our father, there is still something I am missing in our dialogue.

     

    When I wrote the second time, I was addressing the fact that my brother was disappointed with the kind of father he had.

     

    We also talked about my usage of the words dad and father when speaking about this man and it opened up another point. 

     

    What is the meaning of dad and father?

     

    Dad – an informal word for father.

     

    Father – A male person whose sperm unites with an egg, resulting in the conception of a child. b. A man who adopts a child. c. A man who raises a child.

     

    While reading them, the last part is where he failed; he didn’t raise us, he lowered us. 

     

    My brother would like me to write the word dad (dad) to emphasize the lack of being one. Or perhaps use biological dad.

     

    For the past 4 ½ years when I would speak of my father I would call him by his name, I could no longer referenced him with dad.

     

    It would be nice if there was a new term for this, for a man who lowers his kids, who makes them less than who they are.

     

    The word dad was like a swear word to me, like a mouth full of disappointment, and my tongue couldn’t form the word to slip it past my lips, it had broken my heart.

     

    His formal name came easy, it ripped the title from his back.

     

    It seems like a betrayal to yourself as a child, to use that name for someone who hasn’t acted like a dad, but rather used the dad term for priveledges of a sick disease.

     

    In fact I had read somewhere that pedopiles who abuse their own children are seen as lazy, for they don’t even have the energy to leave their homes. 

     

    You see some pedophiles don’t have home grown little girls, they have to construct elaborate ways to have the opportunity to be with little girls.

     

    I guess that makes sense and it makes us seem like we were grown for a set purpose and then became residual garbage.  No wonder my brother feels so useless, he wasn’t even ‘special’ for a short period of time.

     

    I felt this odd jealousy or a oneupmanship between my brother and I.

     

    Is it better to feel used, abused and damaged or to never be seen at all?

     

    About six years ago I read a book, “The Hidden Messages in Water,” by Masaru Emoto and here is a portion of what he says.

     

    I have the impression that the act of looking at water crystals is an act of creating life.  This is because when you look at the crystals, the water changes its appearance moment by moment.  Your gaze has a special energy of its own, and while a gaze of good intentions will give courage an evil gaze will actually take it away.

     

    A family that subscribed to our magazine conducted an interesting experiment.  They put rice in two glass jars and every day for a month said “Thank you” to one jar and “You Fool” to the other, and then they tracked how the rice changed over the period.  Even the children, when they got home from school, would speak these words to the jars of rice.

     

    After a month, the rice that was told “Thank you” started to ferment, with a mellow smell like that of malt, while the rice that was exposed to “You Fool” rotted and turned black.

     

    I wrote about this experiement in the book that I published, and as a result hundreds of families throughout Japan conducted this same experiement for themselves.  Everyone reported the same results.  One family tried a variation of the experiement: like the others they said “Thank you” to the first bottle of rice and “You fool” to the second bottle, and then they prepared a third bottle of rice that they simply ignored.

     

    What do you think happened?  The rice that was ignored actually rotted before the rice that was exposed to ‘You fool.’  When others tried this same experiement, the results were again the same.  It seems that being ridiculed is actually not as damaging as being ignored.

     

    To give your positive or negative attention to something is a way of giving energy.  The most damaging form of behavior is withholding your attention.

     

    I think this experiement has the potential to teach us a very important lesson.  We must take care to give our children our attention, and to talk to them.  Speaking words of kindness and love should begin from the time of conception…..Masaru Emoto.

     

    This book came to mind immediately and I recalled this experiment, but what I didn’t recall was the one jar of rice that was ignored.

     

    So in the oneupmanship, my brother wins.  He rotted first.  I never knew that they hurt worse.  Wow.

     

    Being abused you get attention, which is better than none at all.  I know this has to be why we feel guilty, for we wanted the attention so bad. 

     

    Imagine what we do to just get attention, to just be seen, just so we are not ignored.

     

    Neither one of us can call him dad, we both feel the title doesn’t fit, I just wish there were a title that did.

     

    What do you call a man like our father?

    What term can possibly fit that?

    Estranged father?

    Ex-Father?

     

    I looked up divorce from father, and while glancing at the different sentences, one word caught my eye.  Uncontested.

     

    What I feel most is that he didn’t contest his worthiness as father, he didn’t protest at all, how sad to find not one place where we could call you dad.

     

    The scales tipped uncontested.

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  • A no to you is a yes for Me!

    If someone said to identify yourself how would you do that?

     

    What do you consider your identity?

     

    We can’t use our bodies, or our titles, but our own inner identity, what would that be?

     

    How do you explain your own inner identity?

     

    I am sure self has to be connected with identity, or otherwise we would be describing something outside of us.

     

    It is not our bodies, it is not our brains, our thoughts our minds, is it the heart of who we are?

     

    Is it our passions, our joys, the things that make us smile, laugh and do what we do?

     

    What is our identity that gets stolen with abuse? 

     

    Dr. Robin Smith spoke of this on her radio show about addictions.  That little children who get abused lose their identity.

     

    What happens to us at that time, what leads us on a life of addictions, of being cold and treated like an object? 

     

    I have been trying to write about this, but damn this seems like a puzzle with no answer, that the more you look and the more you twist the less clear it becomes.

     

    If I can’t use this body to identify myself, then how do I do that?  My actions?  Do they point the way?

     

    What is taken out of us so that we are left a barren vessel that we will use and abuse trying to get back what was stolen!

     

    When a two year old learns the word “mine” is that how we begin to identify ourselves?

     

    But usually the child is referring to an object that she wants.

     

    It seems we have many ways to prove who we are by credit cards, driver’s license or social security cards, but does that really tell us our identity, for when a small child is abused, she has none of that, so how do we identify our self?

     

    Stolen identity is when someone creates a false life using our identity.

     

    Did my father steal who I thought I was, and replaced it with his idea?  Did he take who I thought I was and make me into a new thing?  Did I go from being his daughter to something else?  Is that what Dr. Robin means?

     

    Did I change from being a little girl into a thing that no little girl can describe, but a little one who is used for things that she can’t comprehend? Is that how it was stolen, my young little innocent girl identity was stolen from me?  I then became a part of a twisted dance.

     

    Instead of seeing myself free to be me, I am now an object for him. 

     

    How did I let my identity go so easily to be replaced by something so sordid?

     

    Why was I so easy to convince that this new me was a better one?  What did he do to win my approval to make me lay down my own sense of self?

     

    Did he threaten me, shame me, blame me, did he convince me that this is what I wanted to, to be this new me?

     

    It seems hard to go back to that point in time, to the innocence of a being such a small girl, to put my big lady self back there, in that land that is even hard now to view.

     

    We have to picture an innocent girl doing acts that are way beyond her years and understanding, with a man who holds the label father.

     

    Maybe his identity is what really changes, maybe he no longer looks and acts as a father should but convinces me it is.

     

    Perhaps Dr. Robin is partially right in that we lose our identity, but we also lose the father’s identity too.

     

    He no longer acts nor behaves like a father, but instead of changing our identity of him, we change ourselves.

     

    Is that what is meant by our identity getting stolen?

    That being a loved and protected daughter dies, and is replaced with one who is damaged.

     

    Not loved, not protected, no longer good enough to handle with care and compassion.

     

    So the loved and protected part of me, the trusting part was stolen and it was replaced by the opposite.

     

    There is a small book I picked up a few years ago called “when I love myself enough.” 

     

    After living 40 some years in a body without love of self inside, I now am able to speak of what I need, what is good for me and what I want.

     

    I am free to move away from people who hurt me and treat me like an object, I no longer see myself that way.

     

    I see myself as love.  So the identity inside is Love?

    When love disappeared, I lived in Fear.

     

    Reaching forever outside in fear trying to grasp on to the love that is missing inside.  That makes sense in my experience. 

     

    I also heard Dr. Robin speak of boundaries, and that once they are trampled down as a little child they remain down until we build them back up.

     

    So we are walking around in fear, exposed and vulnerable with no inner sense of love and boundaries, easy prey to be manipulated and tossed about.  It is no wonder our bodies are forever anxious, for no one is minding the door, there is no inner guard, we are wide open for abuse again.

     

    This is very intriguing to me, it explains my lack of knowing, my lack of control, my lack of love, my lack of boundaries, it explains how I built a mental lady identity.

     

    When I look at myself now, I can see how I slowly erected boundaries, each little no set this in place, each time I refused to attend a gathering of folks with lost identities, I succeeded in gather more identity for me.

     

    I am amazed, grateful beyond words to have this inner Love.  My words and actions match what is now inside, I no longer feel so out of control, to be whipped around in the wind in a thousand directions for my long lost love.

     

    Instead I stand with my Love in hand, looking out at the world, with the greatest understanding and awe at those folks who are still empty inside, I know, for I walked there, “forgive them, they know not what they do.”

     

    I recall telling my brother that it felt like I was walking out of rehab, that each time someone asked me to go back to the family with no boundaries and lost identities, it was like a drug that I had to resist.

     

    Now I way know why.  They were my drug of choice, my responsibility for them was my drug!

     

    Addicted to responsibility. 

     

    I am a recovering addict, I am recovering my self, my love and my control, I am outside of the rehab and now the real walking begins.

     

    A no to you is a yes for me!

     

     

  • There she was……

    She didn’t know, as she twirled on the tire swing, her hair grabbed by the breeze and taken prisoner, the tree creaked above, the sound mingling with her carefree laughter, her white sandals scuffed by the moist soil below, the smell of charcoal and barbecue filled the air, the other children ran in the yard, chasing each other and staining their clothes with the deep green grass, her bright eyes gazed up to the tree, the branches covered with leaves, down, down, down, they fell spiraling to the ground, she spun around on the old tire swing, her surroundings blurred and she closed her eyes until the tire stood still, she opened her eyes and looked innocently at him, unknowing, that he would be the one to hurt her.   

     

    Written by my daughter.

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