Part unchanged

 

I can not master

my self.

What part is it

within me

in any one of us

that defies all will

towards change?

Is it something built

into entwined strands

of nature,

a quirk of upbringing

etched upon slate,

or a divine bestowment

we either accept

or vainly try to scrub away

for the remainder of our days?

 

 

Control

Know what I loved about the past two years

2015, 2016…?

The sense of control. During 2016 I believed I was in total control of my life – headed toward a 100% recovery from my neuro condition

as well as my emotional condition.

It felt overwhelmingly great. Progress was being made. I was a ship forging through arctic ice. All I had to do was keep working.

Keep seeking out problems

Keep revising

Keep mending

Keep improving

(Keep ignoring; my body, my loved ones’ warnings, my innate and abiding imperfection that can never be cleaved away…)

 

I’m bed-bound again. Unable to even sit up in bed at the moment. Based on past experience, it will take at least a year before I can go out an have a little fun in the wheelchair again.

One day a psychologist visited me in hospital. Through talking with her, I realised there were definite warning signs my health was failing prior to the full-on relapse.

I probably could have avoided this, if I’d not been so utterly high on a delusional sense of control.

Control is a concept that has really dominated my life in various ways.

I’ve been controlled, have tried to control others… and when I stepped away from those two things I embarked on a massive attempt to control my self, my own life.

 

This is what I’ve learned so far;

a sense of total control will be followed by a fall.

As will any delusional belief, I suppose.

 

I’m a very small, petrified person. This fact has been shoved in my face over recent weeks.

 

So I guess this is where I start.

 

This is where I am. Perhaps I need to just sit here a while.

 

 

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1 year 11 months

Note: I actually wrote this, but did not publish, 5 months ago. Things have changed since then.

 

 

Nearly 2 years since I cut contact.

 

Want the truth?

 

Every single day, I wish I could go back.

Never really understood the concept ‘One day at a time’ until this experience.

I look up info about family members online. Some I wish to show evidence of suffering – because honestly, I think they deserve a taste of this.

Others; evidence that they might miss me. Or think about me once in a blue moon.

Nothing. I’m not missed – my leaving was their biggest relief.

 

I lie here on days I’m too incapacitated to distract myself with busy-work, and the memories roll on by.

 

Struggle. Sadism.

Surrounded. Subdued.

 

Survivor. Right?

This is me, surviving.

I thought a golden dawn was beyond the crest of the hill.

When does it hurt less?

 

I’m too tied up with an immature sense of how things should be.

 

Mostly, I just wish they could have suffered

instead

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waiting for a figment

As more time passes by (nearly 2 years since I ceased contact, now) the friendly mask that I pinned up on the face of my empty mother keeps slipping down. And I keep trying to hold it back up, to carry on the delusion.

But it was A’s birthday, and she didn’t try to contact.

She has never taken responsibility for the horror of my childhood.

She has moved house.

She knew a terrifying letter was sent to me, telling me of my high genetic risk of at least 3 cancers… and she never reached out with an offer of support. She left me alone in that. I should have started 6 monthly scans 6 months ago. I feel so petrified that I haven’t even handed the letter to my G.P yet.

My mother sent through money, twice. I immediately returned it to her bank account. Money is no substitute for heart.

She wrote a two sentence email when her father died, expecting to trigger my typical rescuer response. I did not respond – so when my ill grandmother died, she sent no message. I found the obituary online.

I want to be left alone by my heartless shell of a mother.

But I still wait for the loving mother I never knew
to knock on my door. The fantasy mother who was locked away in my infancy – who, surely, is trying even now to return to me.

 

(I know the mother I need has to come from within me. But the craving for an external representation of what I fucking deserved as a human being born onto this planet, persists.)

Emergence

I’ve got nothing more to say right now.

Here on the blog, I’ve written about what I know; my own internal landscape, personal experiences. Felt as though I had no authority to write about anything else.

Ultimately, blogging seems to have been a way for me to meet certain realities face-to-face. To have some painful truths shift from my head and settle down inside my heart where they can be properly processed.

A great sign; I’ve ceased visiting abuse recovery support networks. They werent emotionally nourishing – and my excuse of ‘helping others’ became laughable when I noticed there are already helpers around who explain things and reach people in need far better than I’m capable of doing.

Shadow work (though painful and confusing at times) is helping me move on. It’s also an antidote to the ‘spiritual bypassing’ phenomenon. I thoroughly recommend the books:

– Romancing the Shadow by Connie Zweig and Steve Wolf.

– Shadow Dance by David Richo.

I’m also assisted and healed by ‘Mother Mary’ – an archetype I’ve begun to communicate with more and more. The ‘Mother Mary Oracle’ cards have been a wonderful gateway to making her acquaintance.

As well as that, journaling is amazing – and meditation too. Spending time listening to nature (have you noticed that in a neighbourhood, humans chatter and clatter the same way birds do?)

 

I have a massive amount of learning to do. At some point one has to realise that loss and pain are ongoing, for each of us, and somehow life carries on. Other people find a way to remain steady (and even create!) from the midst of uncertainty. I’ve so much respect for people who do…

 

I’ve been petrified long enough. What comes out of the shell may be pathetic, but emerge it must.

 

Best wishes everyone

Go well xxxx

 

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Update: I returned, as it became apparent I still need this place to reflect.

Healing isn’t linear, is it.

 

 

 

 

Life, differently

 

1) A new goal is that I live less inside my own head.

Each day, absorbing other people’s stories. Attempting to set down my own perspective and feel from another’s, instead. This is something I’ve neglected far too long. Other people are infinitely interesting, funny, wise…. everything. Taonga.

 

2) The other day D said “It’s pretty obvious what was making you crazy in the past. The results since you got rid of your family speak for themselves.”

(Yeah. D is the kind of person who uses phrases like ‘got rid of your family’…)

What he said was really affirming and kind. Like a pat on the back; ‘Things are coming along nicely’. Of course, the impact of my healing on our relationship is not to be overlooked.

Last week marked 15 years since D and I first got together. During our latest wedding anniversary I grieved our sense of disconnection from each other. Though it hasn’t been long beween then and now, our relationship has since shifted – in a positive direction. We’re feeling more and more like a team, and our communication has improved.

So there was the affirming statement D made – then the other night we went to see D’s brother and his girlfriend at their new flat. They just moved in together. D’s mother is back in the country for a while and was staying there too.

D’s mother has a Machiavellian personality. Highly controlling, obsessive, manipulative. This has created much friction between D and his only sibling over the years. D’s mother has been living overseas since shortly after she was caught out in a major, life-course-altering, soap opera level, lie.

This has given D and I the space to figure out some of the mechanisms of manipulation his Mom employs (and so neutralise them). It’s also given D and his brother an opportunity to get to know each other without regular blow-ups slyly triggered by their mother.

The dynamic was different this time we all got together. It helps that my brother-in-law’s new girlfriend is a firecracker of a woman – just lovely to be around. We ate, played board games. There was much laughter; victories scored around the table. Stories shared in the kitchen. I saw a humorous side of D’s brother I’ve never seen before.

When D’s weight-obsessive Mom commented on 13-year-old A’s ‘giant appetite’ in front of everyone, I very quickly put the brakes on that line of discussion with an affable but firm response. I’d never have been able to do that with ease, before – before I learned how to back myself and loved ones.

It was a great night. The kind of simple, fun time I always wanted to spend with my family of origin. Looking back now, it’s becoming clearer and clearer to me that my family of origin is a seriously sick unit. I’m starting to understand this not just on an intellectual level – but at the heart/gut/soul level (the most important parts).

Today D took me out to a local park. Ducks live there, and at one point we came across three ducks behaving strangely. At first I thought two of them were abusing the third. It eventuated that one of the ducks was unwell, and the other two appeared to be coaxing it to move.

The thing is, when I got out of my wheelchair and went to have a closer look, the two healthy birds did not leave behind the sick one, even though I could have reached out and grabbed them at that point. Instead, they prodded the duck more urgently as though warning it to get away from the human intruder.

I moved away again and watched. The two healthy ducks spent some time looking at the other and as we left they had huddled on either side of their sick friend, heads bowed together.

An animal behaviourist might say different, but I think those two ducks were protecting their ailing friend. I believe this by the way they did not scatter when I moved up close – but instead tried more urgently to move the ill one. That was protective behaviour; potentially endangering themselves in the process.

If ducks can have each other’s backs…

This was the third signpost. D’s statement, happy time spent together as a family, and then these beautiful ducks looking out for a friend.

I don’t believe I’ll ever return to contact with my family of origin – my immediate family of origin have all committed punishable crimes against me, and never apologised for it. They have not shown any desire to change. My mother expected to reinstate contact without anything being different from before.

But I am different. My heart is opening to the truth and I know better now.

 

Three friends:

 

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