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  • A Journal to take Home

    Last week when I sat by the Detective and asked him how things were going….he said, "I have two adolescent boys (who are talking to him about their sexual abuse) and I don't have nothing to give them….I am not sure about a journal, but I do wish I had something. And I surely can't give them the ones with the Lady on the front," he said with a smile and wistfulness. I said, "Let me ponder this and see what I can do."  

    I mentioned this conversation to my brother Carl (who was abused as a young boy) and he said he thought they would use a journal…he mainly didn't want them being overlooked.  He and I both felt it would be nice if Tom had a boy journal to offer.

    I found two smaller sketch journals as well as two black lined journals that I covered.  This was a stretch for me to make "boy" looking ones….or at least non feminine looking, yet still artful….a place to put such sacred truths.

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    Above are the four I made this morning.  I wrote "Me, Mine, Love Truth, and I M Perfect" in the quilting.  I wanted to impart ownership as well as words that will reflect the essence of them speaking out.  

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    I am in awe of such young brave boys…and even if they don't choose to take one, the idea will have been planted…to write.  It gives me hope that boys are now willing to speak up so they can be healed…to shatter the secret and open themselves up to living life in full disclosure.  Even if they never write, just having the ear of Tom Rosemurgy is huge.  He is such a kind soul.  And I want to help Tom as he helps them.

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    May these journals find the right hands to hold them…and be a place to store the tragic truths of abuse.  Writing it down on paper, released the overwhelming emotions that swirled inside.  It was a place to go and talk…and cry.  A tool I used to find a clear mind.  May the children who pass through Tom's office shorten their pathway to healing…just by finding such a caring man…and a journal to take home.

  • Completely whole all alone.

    In Mark Nepo's Book, "The Book of Awakening" for March 18th, 

    The Life of the Caretaker.

    "Accept this gift, so I can see myself as giving."

    "I have been learning that the life of a caretaker is as addictive as the life of an alcoholic.  Here the intoxication is the emotional relief that temporarily comes when answering a loved one's need.  Though it never lasts, in the moment of answering someone's need, we feel loved.  While much good can come from this, especially for those the caretaker attends, the care itself becomes the drink by which we briefly numb a worthlessness that won't go away unless constantly doused by another shot of self-sacrifice."

    "It all tightens until what others need is anticipated beyond what is real, and then, without any true need being voiced, an anxiety to respond builds that can only be relieved if something is offered or done. At the heart of this is the every present worry that unless doing something for another there is no possibility of being loved.  So, the needs of others stand within reach like bottles behind a bar that, try as he or she will, the caretaker cannot resist."

    "I have experienced this even in the simple issue of calling a loved one while away from home.  Even when no one expects to hear from me, I can agonize over whether to call.  Often, unable to withstand the discomfort of not registering some evidence of my love, I will end up going to great lengths to call."

    " In truth, caretaking, though seeming quite generous, is very self-serving, and its urgent self-centeredness prevents a life of genuine compassion.  In all honesty, to heal from this requires as rigorous a program of recovery as alcoholics enlist, including sponsors who will love us for who we are."

    "Within one's self, the remedy of spirit that allows for true giving resides somewhere in the faith to believe that each of us is worthy of love, just as we are."  Mark Nepo

    This is my disease.  This is where I felt my greatest hits of love and self worth, by how and to whom I gave.  I gave to get…I needed to be needed in order to feel worthy.  

    When I discovered this within me, I had to quit cold turkey…to stop giving with an agenda in hand.  I truly and completely felt the sentiments of "Accept this gift, so I can see myself as giving."

    I was unable to sustain my own self worth without a second party gushing or being grateful for what I had done.  My inner well of worthiness was nonexistent. Without doing for others, I was empty.

    It was very hard to purposefully not give.  I felt horrible and mean and uncaring.  The worse I felt, the more I knew how backwards I had giving.

    To give with the freedom of no returns was not something I had ever done.

    All my giving came with very fine print…."I give to make me feel special".

    I had to turn all my giving inward, to become a self contained container of worthiness, without using other people's needs to keep me afloat.

    My greatest sense of self was gained by giving…and my biggest hits of love came from what I did, not from who I was.

    It was horrifying to see that all or most of me was built outside of me…and the only way to find my true love of self, was to no longer give to be worthy.

    I had to become worthy by doing nothing for others…until my own well of worth was full.  

    The freedom of having your own well of worth is hard to explain…to be a self contained unit.  To have an inner source, a well spring of worthiness inside, to have it fed from the inside out…is to live a life completely different.

    One is empty…and forever seeking a new hit of worth.

    The other is full of self worth…self love and completely whole all alone.

     

     

  • One Verse of Me.

    I had an overwhelming feeling of being lost, of searching for myself, but not knowing who I was or how I would find me.

    What I was describing very accurately is my innocent me.

    That was who I set off to find…how I had gotten so far off the path of me…and who would I be, minus all the stuff?

    Letting go of the old me, and turning my back on all of the folks who created her, was very scary…for I had nothing of myself when I left.

    I was a stranger to myself going out to find a self, who I didn't know at all.

    I didn't know how this journey would end, what would I find as I resurrected my truth…

    I stood horrified of the lies I had built myself upon…and couldn't pretend to pretend to pretend I was her…and a new self wasn't born, so I was left in a space a vacuum of time…nothing to hold myself in.

    A stranger to the truth…and a nonbeliever of the lies.

    Where I used to be strong and confident in the false life, I now lay weak in disbelief.

    I don't know where the courage came to even wiggle a finger, let alone set out and dig up my past and re-contextualize each thing to set it up within the frame work of truth.  And to do so while living life.

    Living life as a nobody.  Just a truth correction lady.  Letting my self definition go, while I fixed all my wrong beliefs and thoughts.

    It was like my life to this point was written in fiction and I had to go back and make it nonfiction.  I was the main character and the author…re-writing my past while living in my present…changing the essence of the main character, me.

    Here I am writing my life story, while living it out; changing the main character from dysfunctional to functional…from false and fiction to truth and reality…

    What an intriguing position.  Writing how I found me, while researching how I lost me…while lost to who I really am.

    Unaware, to aware…but lost….to knowing how I got lost.

    I found myself where I got lost.

    Innocent.  

    When I left my innocence, I lost me…I walked away, or ran in fear and terror…or was exploited.

    While I can burst with gratitude for finding myself and my innocence, I too have to feel the agony of the sheer magnitude that conspired to lead me from me.

    The forces that pulled me away…and I felt the literal forces working to drag me back as worked on going back to me.

    My cells and DNA screamed as I worked to return to my natural state of being, they were addicted to the false lies and false adoration and attention…I had to turn on myself, turn on my family, turn away from all I knew, in order to recalibrate myself.

    Going from Falsehood to Truth. 

    Innocence is being at one with the truth….one verse of me.

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    This photo was taken of me and my sister friend, Kirsten in the summer of 2008.  I love the joy, the love and peace….me on my journey back to me…I have found wonderful souls to walk with me and cheer me on.  I love that you held me up when I had nothing inside of me.  Thanks seems so small for such a huge task, but thank you to all who walked with me as I sought to find myself while lost.

     

     

  • Parents Call Family.

    I came across this paragraph in "Codependent No More" by Melody Beatte. 

    "Codependents are indirect. We don't say what mean, we don't mean what we say.  We don't do this on purpose. We do it because we've learned to communicate this way. At some point, either in our childhood or adult family, we learned it was wrong to talk about problems, express feelings, and express opinions. We've learned it was wrong to directly state what we want and need. It was certainly wrong to say no, and stand for ourselves. An alcoholic (abusive) parent or spouse will be glad to teach these rules; we have been too willing to learn and accept them." MB

    Communicating poorly was taught to us.

    To NOT communicate how we felt was demanded of us, expected of us.  This was dictated by the abusive parent who needed us to not mention how their behavior felt to us.  Or god forbid, speak of it to another person, share our experience, express our feelings… and communicate about abuse.  

    Even the spouse of the abuser will follow the rules.  They too will not talk about the 'problems' and the child then has no adult to which he/she can communicate directly.  

    Direct communication becomes extinct.

    If you communicate directly to these such folks, (abusers and their partners) you will be snuffed out, silenced, tossed to the curb, annihilated from their lives.  They will easily get rid of you so as not to hear a direct communication about a 'problem'.

    Their problem, their abusive behavior, their cover up, their lack of paying attention, their lack of doing nothing, their lacks in allowing abuse to continue on.  They certainly don't want to hear about it OR how it has affected the lives of so many and how it is now trickling down into the next generation. 

    Abuse has its own island, and while we were born upon that island, we can't tell anyone what happened there, how we lived, who was there and what happened…it is like we fell from the sky, but not raised in abuse. 

    Yet we spent the first 18 years of our lives there…and it is as if 'nothing' happened.  As if our early years are meaningless.  Our parents don't want to know that they indeed left a permanent scar

    Our battle scars are wounds that go unhealed, for the very thing we need to heal is forbidden.  We are not allowed treatment.

    Imagine, one parent wounds you and the other refuses to treat you…a child is left on the island unable to communicate, or it will be tossed out to sea, the sea of estrangement.

    And guess what, it matters not how many years pass on, whether you are now married with children, IF you ever dare speak of your life on the Island of Abuse, you will be banished…

    Many feel it is better to live among those on the Island and speak indirectly and without meaning, than to speak their truth and fall into the sea.

    Those are our two damn choices. 

    Pick one.

    The sea of estrangement brought me back to me.

    I still see the Island and hear about the Islanders, their parties and their lives…and in the early days of swimming alone, I longed to go back, but each and every time I considered it, I knew that I would have to leave the new me behind.

    The rules on the Island forbade the use of direct communication or expression of ones feelings or to discuss problems.  If I were to go back, I go back as a voiceless, choiceless, indirect and meaning not what I say girl.  I can't.

    Once you get used to swimming in the sea of freedom and truth, it is impossible to be happy on the Island of Abuse.  

    Which I know is why many parents are scared spit-less for their children to speak up and be direct, for it means they are heading to the open sea…and when they get a taste of being free, they will never return to the dark Island of Abuse. 

    One that the parents call family.

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  • Waiting to be told.

    I thought came to me why no one is asking, why no one is making an independent move,for they all are waiting to be told.

    Not told there is a pedophile, but told what to do.

    As far as I remember, the church was setup and families set up for there to be one dominating figure, be it God, Father or husband.  It wasn’t a place where individuals were able to think for themselves or act independently, it was driven by the Head.

     The Head of the church or of the family makes the decision….we wait for the okay.

    And the Head, which we have approached, are not interested or responsive. 

    It is my humble opinion that they will sit in the pews waiting instruction from on high.  And I feel to the depths of my bones, it will not come from that direction.

    When my children  have choices to make I offer them my viewpoint and then I say, honey, this is your life and your choice, you will have to make the ultimate decision, it is not something I can do for you.

    And I can see them weighed heavy by the choices, and we both wonder what will their minds and desires tell them to do.

    As I was pondering my oldest daughter and a choice that has arrived in her world, it came to me that many in the FALC, haven’t ever been given the liberty of choice.

    The church has always made the choices for them. 

    Wear this, don’t wear that.

    Listen to this, don’t listen to that.

    Don’t watch TV, don’t go to Movies.

     Go forth and multiply.

    What I feel down deep is that they are waiting for directions on this, from the pulpit, from the boards or the leaders within. 

    And I also feel this is beyond what the Leaders have been prepared for, have been taught or educated on.  This is out of their league, and damn it, it would be wonderful if they would just say so, instead of saying and doing nothing.

    Saying and doing nothing will not change the outcome.

    There needs to be a fearless leader to stand up and take charge, or the church will decay and fall apart from the inside out. 

    It was always preached that the devil lurked outside of this religion, now is the time for them to stop looking outward and instead look within.

    It pushes me into my chair, to believe that many fine folks are doing nothing, because they are waiting to be told.

     

     

  • The Raw and Perfect Truth.

    As I thought about the way we paint people, how we are taught at a very young age to temper our truths, what we see and how we feel, how we not only learn to paint ourselves in false colors, but others as well. 

    We tell little children it is ‘not nice’ to call a fat person fat.

    It is not nice to say that someone who is mean is mean.

    That it is not nice to say grandma made you feel bad.

    We are teaching them, It is not nice to speak your truth…

    And, speaking your truth will make others feel bad.

    Is that right?  How can that be?  How in the world are the child’s words and feelings put aside to protect the mean or fat person?

    And then we wonder why they don’t come and tell us when a mean Uncle so and so did bad things to them.  They have been taught that their feelings don’t matter and that the truth is not kind.

    I am quite certain the fat person knows she/he is fat.

    And perhaps it may be better for us to engage in a conversation about it. 

    When I began speaking my truth, it felt like I was doing something bad.

    Like I had broken the ‘golden’ rule of kindness, that I had turned a corner into the forbidden territory, and all hell would break lose.

    And it did, the pretty painted picture shattered and crumbled.

    I lost friends and family when I spoke out loud and became like a very very stubborn child. I refused to give up what I had seen, how I felt and how the other person’s actions affected me.

    For once in my life, I looked at me in truth and how the world around me felt to me, looked to me…and my coloring people crayons disappeared.

    And the paints I used to tone down what I saw and how I felt…completely dried up. 

    I then discovered an incredible freedom and how easy it was to not have to come up with an excuse for others or worry how my truth would make them feel.

    Byron Katie’s book, “Loving What is” showed me how it was okay and actually a very sacred place to be.

    I was walking with God in reality. 

    I saw what God saw.

    He didn’t paint a sunset over to make it into a bird, nor a tree into a river.  He kept them all in their natural states.  I could then see the perfection in everything. 

    A mean person is mean.

    An unhappy person is unhappy.

    A homeless man has no home.

    A biting dog bites.

    A pedophile abuses children.

    A drunken person drinks.

    A neglectful mother neglects her children. 

    I didn’t try to make any of the above different, it was impossible and not my job.  I retired as the painter to make their lives appear kinder and feel better to me.

    Instead I felt them as they were…I opened myself up to feel all the things I had previously painted, I stripped them down so only their truths shone forth.

    I felt what it feels like to have a pedophile father, a neglectful mother.  I felt it all wash over me removing my own paints of being normal and okay.

    Stripped bare I stood with a family minus the pretty paint.

    Its unvarnished rawness of glaring truths…

    It wasn’t pretty but it was my truth…and I didn’t have the strength or the desire to pick up a brush and cover it up.

    I let it lay there in all its ugly perfect glory… the raw and perfect truth. 

     

     

  • Our Dress Up Closet!

    I have been a good solid sensible shoe for so many years, I now have to work at being a frivolous, nonsensical, whimsy, fun little shoe made for say dancing or a relaxing evening with a loved one. 

     

    I was built to carry heavy loads, to work hard and be solid support. My whole frame screams Sensible, with a strap of reliable and a heel of responsible.

     

    This sensible built nature I brought to every event, like wearing work boots to a formal ball.

     

    I didn’t have another side of me, just this one size fits all boot.  When I arrived the scent of no nonsense arrived with me.

     

    As the years have passed, as my age is showing, as I work with the Artist Way, I am learning that there are sides of me I have not explored.

     

    In the past I never took off my boots of being responsible for others…and lately I barely wear them.

     

    I am now learning how to walk in shoes that fit just me.  They don’t have to have meaning or make someone else happy; they are shoes that fit my soul.

     

    Some of these shoes take awhile for me to get used to, for them to be comfortable on me, but I like that they are fit just for me, custom made shoes.

     

    My life went from having only sensible in my closet to now adding flare and charm, whimsy and frivolous…

    It is no wonder I wasn’t drawn towards these types of things, for my inner nature couldn’t relax and be free…and my outerwear showed this.

     

    I think I am heading toward the nonsensical section yet it makes sense for me.

     

    I am adding fun shoes to my sensible ones, I can see my future closet filled with wonderful different shoes…I am on the lookout for new additions that will spice up my life, that will enhance my personality, bring out my inner child…it is like playing dress up in the real world!

    What do I want to play with today? 

    What do I want to try on? 

    How will it make me feel? 

    I love that we have the whole world as our dress up closet. 

     

     

  • Wanting me to disappear.

    I found it interesting that my mother’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 ‘goodness’ was mirrored when she was happy and my ‘badness’ when she wasn’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 people’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 didn’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!

     

  • Children will suffer.

    From Alice Miller’s book “The Body Never Lies,” she writes…

    “My attempts to persuade the Vatican of the importance of early childhood experiences have revealed how impossible it is to arouse feelings of compassion in men and women who right at the beginning of their lives learned to suppress their genuine, natural feelings so mercilessly that there is no trace of them left in their conscious minds. All curiosity about the feelings of others has been stifled. It seems that people who were physically mutilated in early life immure themselves in a fortress deep inside themselves, where they can only pray to God. It is to Him that they delegate all their responsibility, and they carefully obey the precepts of the church so as not to be punished by this “loving” God for any sins of omission they might commit.”

    “Shortly after the capture of Saddam Hussein in late 2003, the Vatican was largely instrumental in orchestrating the sudden increase, all over the world, of voices expressing compassion for the unscrupulous tyrant who had been such an object of fear and loathing while he was still at large. But in my view we cannot simply allow ourselves to base our judgment of tyrants on ordinary compassion for the individual, if that means disregarding things they have done.”

    “As biographers Judith Miller and Laurie Mylroie tell us in their 1990 book “Saddam Hussein and the Crisis in the Gulf”, Saddam Hussein was born on April 28, 1937. He grew up in a peasant family living in penury near Tikrit. They had no land of their own. His biological father died before his birth. His stepfather, a shepherd, constantly humiliated the boy, calling him “son of a whore” and “son of a bitch,” beating him mercilessly and tormenting him in the most brutal way imaginable. To exploit young Saddam’s working capacity to the full, he forbade him to go to school until the boy was ten. Instead, he would wake him in the middle of the night and tell him to guard the flocks. In these formative years, children develop and image of the world. Ideas take shape in their minds about the values that are worth upholding in life. At the same time, they begin to cherish desires and dream of their fulfillment. For Saddam, the slave of his stepfather, these desires all centered around one thing; limitless power over others. In his brain the idea presumably took shape that he could regain the human dignity he had been so radically deprived of only by possessing the same power over others that his stepfather had over him. Throughout his childhood, there were no other ideals, no other examples to live up to, only the omnipotent stepfather and himself, the defenseless victim of the terror inflicted on him. It was in line with this pattern that the adult Hussein later organized the structure of the country he ruled over. His body knew nothing but violence.”

    “Every dictator denies the suffering of his childhood and attempts to forget them by indulging his megalomania. But the unconscious mind of an individual has completely registered his biography in the cells of the body, it will at some point urge that individual to confront the truth. After the coalition invasion, despite the immense financial resources at his disposal, Saddam sought refuge precisely in the vicinity of the place where he was born, the place where all help was denied him as a child, a highly precarious spot that could not provide real protection. The fact that he should have chosen this place to “go to ground” reflects the desperate plight of his early years and clearly illustrates the power of compulsive repetition. His return to his childhood was the return to the place where he had no chance to escape.”

    “there is conclusive evidence that the character of a tyrant will not change as long as he lives, that he will abuse his power in a destructive way as long as he encounters no resistance. The point is that his genuine aim, the unconscious aim concealed behind all his conscious activities, remains the same: to use his power to blot out the humiliations inflicted on him in childhood and denied by him ever since. But this aim can never be achieved. The past cannot be expunged, nor can one come to terms with it, as long as one denies the suffering it involved. Accordingly, a dictator’s efforts to achieve that aim are doomed to failure. Compulsive repetition will always reassert itself. And an endless succession of victims is forced to pay the price.”

    “With his own behavior, Hitler demonstrated to the world the kind of person his father was and the kind of treatment he suffered at his hands when he was a child: destructive, pitiless, ostentatious, merciless, boastful, perverted, self-enamored, shortsighted, and stupid. In his unconscious imitation he was faithful to his father’s example. For the same reason, other dictators like Stalin, Mussolini, Franco, Ceausescu, Idi Amin, Saddim Hussein behaved in a very similar way. Saddam’s biography is a striking example of how extreme humiliation in childhood is avenged on thousands and thousands of victims at a later date. The refusal to learn from these facts may be grotesque, but the reason for refusal are not difficult to identify.”

    “ The fact is that an unscrupulous tyrant mobilizes the suppressed fears and anxieties of those who were beaten as children but have never been able to accuse their own fathers of doing so. Their loyalty to these fathers is unswerving, despite the torments suffered at their hands. Every tyrant symbolizes such a father, the figure whom the abused children remain attached to with every fiber of their being, hoping that one day they will be able to transform him into a loving parent by being blind.”

    “This hope may have been what prompted the representation of the Roman Catholic Church to demonstrate their compassion for Hussein. In 2002, I turned to a number of cardinals for support when I presented the Vatican with material on the delayed effects of spanking and asked authorities there to do what they could to enlighten young parents on this subject. As I have said, not one of the cardinals I approached with this request showed the slightest interest in the universally ignored but crucially important issue of physically abused children. Nor did I come across the slightest indication of Christian charity or compassion in connection with this issue. Today, however, those same representatives are eager to show that they are indeed capable of compassion. Significantly, however, this compassion is lavished not on maltreated children or on Saddam’s victims but on Saddam himself, on the unscrupulous father figure that the feared despot symbolizes.”

    “As a rule, beaten, tormented, and humiliated children who have never received support from a helping witness later develop a high degree of tolerance for the cruelties perpetrated by parent figures and a remarkable indifference to the sufferings borne by children exposed to inhumane treatment. The last thing they wish to be told is that they themselves once belong to the same group. Indifference is a way of preserving them from opening their eyes to reality. In this way they become advocates of evil, however convinced they may be of their own humane intentions. From an early age they were forced to suppress and ignore their true feelings. They were forced to put their trust not in those feelings but solely in the regulations imposed on them by their parents, teachers, and the church authorities. Now the task facing them in their adult lives leaves them no time to perceive their own feelings, unless those feelings happen to fit in precisely with the patriarchal value system in which they live and which prescribes compassion for the father, however destructive and dangerous he may be. The more comprehensive a tyrant’s catalogue of crimes is, the more he can count on the tolerance, provided his admires are hermetically closed off from access to the sufferings of their own childhood.” Alice Miller.

    What a brilliant cycle this abuse is, for the circuitous madness not looking creates. How nature creates ways in which our mind can overrun our realities for survival and yet this very technique is what allows it to continue.

    The hurt child ends up hurting children and the hurt children who don’t want to feel their pain ends up seeing the ‘heroic’ adult and not the monster.

    It takes Herculean efforts to go with the body of truths and swing wide of society, church and family to see reality.

    Imagine a world full of delusional adults who carry a false picture of their formative years, they will not be able to spot a monster in their presence?

    No matter not how detailed his catalogue of crimes are, what matters most is that his followers, family and friends, haven’t discovered their own box of crimes of childhood…the sightless followers, the ones who love to live in the land of denial will not see his crimes.

    It is incredible to me, it isn’t that they are not seeing what is going on today, but the long ago blindness that makes them unconscious supporters of evil.

    You simply are incapable of seeing in the present if you didn’t see in the past.

    And the sheer volume of people refusing to deal in the past wrecks havoc on today’s reality.

    While I screamed loudly about the present, they clung to the vestiges of their ‘happy childhood’.

    Who knew that holding tight to a ‘happy childhood’ could cause so much pain!

    By not seeing who you really are you are incapable of seeing the truth in others…and this works so well for the monsters among us.

    Who will stop them?

    What will make the blind see, how much destruction has to be spread around the planet, before we can begin to see that children are not born this way, the parents are the cause.

    As long as we don’t see the suffering children, children will suffer.

  • Matter to someone.

    What came to me yesterday was the moment in the diner this summer, when I saw my mother for the first time after a 5-year separation, and how my body responded. How before I could put on my social cloak, I was riveted in fear.

    My body had reacted perfectly and yet I didn’t have all the puzzle pieces, but now I do.

    The reason I feared her isn’t because of what she would do to me, but what she had been unable to do in my past.

    How she was unable to get me/us away from a pedophile, that in fact she did the opposite, she tried to make their union normal, while he abused us.

    How she forgave his sins, and rallied harder to make their marriage work, to keep him so we had a father. She put all her efforts in keeping something that wasn’t true. She focused harder on him, and never once treated our wounds.

    As a child you see how invisible you are, how unhearing she is, how unresponsive to your pain.

    I now feel better about the way I feared her, for at the time it almost felt like I had self empowerment leakage, where even as a 51 year old woman, my 80 year old mother could send me into a fit of terror.

    My body recalls her and responds in its truth.
    I love my body and its meters.

    And how true to form she has remained after all these years.

    What stands out the most of the days, weeks, months after my father being arrested for molesting his granddaughter, is the absence of my mother.

    She actually was sequestered and not taking our calls. She went on vacation to Australia and Hawaii, she stayed in the warm climate for months, and only arrived here around the time my father was driven home in chains.

    I do not recall one action that would bring comfort to a child who was abused by that man, not one. She was so busy caring for her needs and his, that she overlooked the dozens of girls, by this time, who stood around with their underwear down, bottoms exposed, abuse clearly showing, and did what she needed to do.

    When I sat in her home, four months after the fact, I saw her shed tears about what was going to happen to her, I saw her strength arise in defense of him and her religion, I saw her blank and defensive when I confronted her on her actions as a mother.

    Not a tear fell as I told her about my experience with her husband, it was like the doors were all closed, I was talking to nothing.

    Isn’t it incredible yet again, that we can fear actions of nothing.

    Nothing. To do nothing is extremely painful to endure.

    My mother sent cards and made personal visits to all the girls she knew who had been molested by her husband, neighbor girls, but she did not give me her daughter the same courtesy. She apologized in a letter saying how sorry she was, that she didn’t believe this young neighbor girl and was sad that it took years to do so.

    The detective handed me that letter, and I crumpled it up and threw it on the floor, like a child enraged, and I was.

    My own mother at the time was sequestered and not taking my calls, was unable to hear of my childhood abuse, and she was penning letters to other hurt little girls.

    How telling, how cruel, how insane…how dare she dismiss me that easily.

    Again what I feared from her was nothing.

    Nothing again.

    I am worth nothing again.

    Nothing.

    What she gives me is nothing, a void. Space, silence, a void.

    I just looked at the two words together. A Void.

    I didn’t know that avoiding was nothing.

    A void.

    When you avoid someone you give them nothing and doing nothing creates a void

    A void isn’t love, it is space, silent, open, and alone.

    Imagine feeling this energy from a mother while you have wounds from your father?

    Instead of being able to find comfort and shelter, we encounter a void, space, emptiness, where no one is coming, nothing will happen…

    A void is who my mother is to me.

    Running from my father I fell into a void.

    It is no wonder my mind couldn’t comprehend or compute, there was no safety anywhere.

    Who is there to catch you when you fall?

    My last line in my letter to Mr. Detective man was, “Every little girl should matter to someone.”