After my last post about the Civil War in abusive homes, I had to look up the meaning of Civil to see what it means to be in a Civil war.
Civil -polite: polite, but in a way that is cold and formal.
And then I looked up the combination of the two words, Civil War,
Civil War – is a war between organized groups within the same nation state or republic or, less commonly, between two countries created from a formerly-united nation.
The formerly united family is now at war with themselves, brothers against brothers, sisters against sister, children against parents for some of the blind can now see, some of the brainwashed are beginning to think on their own, an awakening is happening, and this causes a war within a war.
I don’t want to leave the feelings that in this Civil War no peace is found, for it is. Peace is found in no longer remaining silent. Power is replacing the forced politeness…children are rising up and finding their true self, they feel the stirrings of their Spirit.
They are finding their unused voices, speaking forbidden words and names, identifying the enemy and no longer remaining civil – polite cold and formal.
They will become warm and informal, perhaps become unconventional and different, they will be marching to their own drums, hearing their own music for the very first time.
Hearing the stirrings of inner freedom and expression, of passion and of self-awareness, they will fight now to be free from being held prisoner to another.
This civil war will end for the lucky ones, for the ones who can find the thread of their soul, the inner knowing that their very aliveness depends on them leaving the family, that if they stay they may as well die.
There wasn’t a moment of hesitation when I left my family, there wasn’t a drop of doubt, for to the depth of my being, I knew I had been one of the living dead and staying there aware would be to be buried alive, for now I knew I was alive but dead.
What I had found that day back in December of 2004, was a dead me. A me that had no me in it. A me that was full of the definitions from my parents, the beliefs and thoughts of my religion, but there wasn’t but a speck of me there.
Not a part of me that defined by me, just me.
I was a body being used by my family and a religion, but I wasn’t alive and now I was aware of it. And once I knew, I could no longer not know. And when you know you are then awake of how asleep you have been.
And when you are awake, you see the civil war you lived in.
Imagine being in a war but unaware you are at war. Or even aware that you are scarred and lame due to the battles you unsuccessfully fought.
A civil war refugee that finds its imperfect self is on the path to perfection.
“Coming from whence you came…” you should act, be and walk and talk like the walking wounded.
You are the perfect representation of an abused child. You are the signpost or the poster child for abuse. You have displayed yourself perfectly, the perfectly abused.
Perfectly abused people act perfectly abused. When you are aware of how abused you are, you can then begin to heal.
Denying your brokenness is denying your self.
I found myself in a completely broken state and complete freedom arose, for I no longer had to strive for perfection instead I embraced my imperfections and found them to be perfectly me.
In agreement with my history I found peace…and the freedom to be myself.
To walk my walk.
To talk my talk.
To be a me I had yet to be.
An individual, a free spirit, with a clear mind no longer washed by others, in peace I walked free.
Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose!
I M Perfect lady 