Tag Archives: tenacity

So many people are shut up tight inside themselves like boxes…

11887952_903704989704717_2834501532796981346_nSo many people are shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you’d be interested in them.
– Sylvia Plath (1932 -1963)
Author & Poet

In times of my own personal and deep introspection, I don’t have words to spare.  They are used for me.  I will use a friend’s words to speak for me today~Thank you and may peace be with you~Little L

Todays inspiration comes from Karen Burch who publishes WayPoints as a means of personal empowerment and personal growth.  She describes a WayPoint as “a point used for navigation, marking a significant point on a journey”.  Please visit her page and credit her for the words below.

 

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Some people are introverted or shy or socially uncomfortable. Not everyone is a social butterfly and is bubbly and outgoing. Some people are simply reserved, and some are suspicious or distrustful of people in general because they’ve been hurt by people, perhaps repeatedly and seriously.

Maybe they’ve been hurt by strangers, which is terrible when people have been hurt by someone they didn’t even know they should distrust. Or perhaps they’ve been hurt by someone they did know and that they knew well. That’s terrible, too, to be hurt by someone they did trust, someone they had every reason to trust. It’s difficult to feel comfortable in the world when you feel like you shouldn’t trust strangers AND people you know well. Who then CAN you trust? Who DO you trust then when no one seems safe to trust? For some, the answer becomes “no one.”

Yesterday, I saw a quote that was meant to be funny: “I used to be a people person…but people ruined that for me.” Yes, that’s funny, but for many it’s very sad but true. It’s very sad when people lose their ability to be open and friendly because others betrayed them and mistreated them. What happens then? Well, people can shut down and “close the emotional door” to others in order to protect themselves from disapproval or rejection, hurt or harm. For them it may not be unfriendliness, coldness or disinterest in people; it may feel like a matter of their survival, emotionally, psychologically or physically.

Some people are never able or willing to open their emotional door again. And we can hardly blame them for that, can we? But some will keep that door open just a crack, believing still that not everyone is to be distrusted, that not everyone will hurt them. They hope that some good, kind person will care enough and be interested enough to peek through that crack and show themselves to be someone worthy of opening up to.

If you’re the person on either side of that door, I applaud you, because you’re a brave person. It takes courage and optimism to open that door once you’ve shut it for very good reason. It takes compassion and kindness to encourage that person to open that door once they’ve shut it. It takes a lot of patience and faith to be the person on either side of the door, but your rewards can be so worth your efforts to open up or to help someone open up. -Karen Burch

Thanks very much for reading and following WayPoints by Karen Burch. If you can relate to this WayPoint in some way, please let me know. I enjoy reading the thoughts you share in your comments, and another reader may be encouraged or inspired positively by them. ~KB

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How we rationalize the privacies we invade

you know my name

I loved her perspective and reminds me of one of my favorite Anne Lamott quotes, “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”

Vanessa Martir's Blog

I’ve been thinking a lot about privacy. Privacy from the perspective of a memoir and personal essay writer who is revealing family secrets, breaking silences that were intended to protect (or at least that’s what I’ve chosen to believe) but have done more damage than good.

I’m thinking about my aunt, my Titi who is very much a surrogate mom to me. When I told her I was writing a memoir, she said, “Be careful what you write.”

“I’m not being careful.”

“I know.” She looked at me with those loving eyes of hers, no judgment, but no understanding either. Then she walked out of her kitchen, a plate of food in her hand. The heaping plate she’d just served me sat on the table, heat rising off the rice in smoky tendrils.

Two years ago, I showed her the picture I found in Meryl Meisler’s exhibit, “Bushwick in the…

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What a novel idea….Novel Writing Winter!

263601384409890714_o2Xloiyz_bThis incredible concept is one I stumbled upon accidently but fortuitously.

A blog post from Sarah Potter came through yesterday describing her concept of Novel Writing Winter.

I happened to be one of those writers who signed up NaNoWriMo after completing it last year and crossing the finish line with a completed 50,000 words.  It was awesome as was the afterglow of my accomplishments but for several reasons it just didn’t work out this year.  I got 6000 words in and that was it.  Sure, now its my responsibility to slay those inner critics as I read I should do but there’s a whisper in my ear about why I didn’t go further with the one month writing deadline.

Enter Sarah Potter with serendipitious timing.

I learn a lot from other writer’s reflections on their writing path and why it sometimes might take a different twists and turns.  Sarah offered an opportunity to commit to a gentler climb rather than dashing up the steep slope of NaNoWriMo.  Now this was an approach that I can wrap my head around.

I’d actually been envisioning a scenario similar to this after realizing that November had come and gone.  I hadn’t met my personal writing goals yet the long winter still loomed ahead.  Why not make the best of both situations?  So that’s what I shall do.  It would be even better  to have any of my writing pals who are contemplating a novel to join in as we tackle the dark season of winter together.

Then there is this other reason.

Once I heard this idea of NWW, I realized I could also use this as an absolute excuse for snuggling up with my beloved and aging friend Rose.  As she approaches her 14th year, I’m not sure how many more winters we’ll have together.  She is my best muse and constant companion.  There are no words to describe the depth of love I have for this dog.  She’s seen me through more tough times than I can describe and is as fine tuned to me as another being can get.  I’d love to mark this passage in our lives with a winter of quiet space where can just be.

We’ll do this together and it’ll be great.

In fact, I will do my best to make it extraordinary.

Look out….Rose and I are writing a book!


“the boy” drunk dials me….

“the boy” called me today which he does periodically.  The younger generation call it drunk dialing but I know this pattern from a historical perspective and know he just needs to make contact with a person from that time who understands him.

Certain phone calls I rarely answer but his I do every time.  This was the first time that he was stumbling, almost incoherent drunk and to top it off, he was driving.  After extracting the information that he was minutes from home, I kept the conversation light until he reassured me that was in his driveway, out of the car and inside his house.

“When are you coming home?”, he slurs into the phone.

His voice was an immediate shock of familiarity even though its been a year since I’ve heard from him.  His pleading words took my breath away.  I didn’t expect him to call let alone ask me this tough question.  He misses me, he says.  He doesn’t want anything, just to visit with me.  Even now as a full grown man, his deepest wishes are to have companionship, connection, family.  Our sober conversations where his feelings are sufficiently stuffed down, wouldn’t have revealed his pain. But today, his emotions unleashed and fueled by alcohol, they came tumbling out.

My heart is immediately beating with his. The rhythm synchronistic and strong.  We are small children again marking time as the cycle of physical, emotional and sexual abuse alters us forever.  It changes who we might have been and steals all opportunity for joy in our future.  We are branded, he and I, with trauma.  Deep, imprinting, searing scars.

I tell him that I’ve been taking care of myself and that I miss him too.  I hear relief in his voice at my words that I’m doing good.  He wants to know that I’m okay and that I can always call him for any #%&!ing thing I need.  His voice is urgent as if he’d been thinking those thoughts all afternoon at the tavern and had to purge them quickly.  His courage coming from cheap rum and cokes.

As children we were there for each other.  We were handed a situation that no child should ever have to deal with.   5-yr olds should never have to know how to defend against raging, drunken, ignorant adults wielding their pathology on them, but this is, in fact, is what we had to do.  We became expert ninja fighters at a very tender age.  In fact, I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t fighting.  The sensation of burning slaps, welts and impact upon our small bodies is a feeling that has always been present.  Back to back, we would stand, flailing hopelessly against people 10 times our size.  But we always, always tried.  Defending each other was the only dignity we had in that cruel world we grew up in.  An earlier post tells a more complete story. https://rescuinglittlel.wordpress.com/2011/10/05/boy-torture/

I tell him that soon, I promise, I will come visit him.  I do not ever use the word home as it is not.  My home is where my beautiful husband and daughter live with our dogs, our garden, our family here.  But I know what he means, he’s asking me when am I coming back there to help him defend against the demons that are in his head.  The ones that huge amounts of alcohol consumed in the middle of the day can’t even come close to drowning out.  He wants to know if there is any peace beyond the crazy, futile gyrations that he takes himself on.  He wants to know, what Van Gogh perhaps imagined when he created the series of paintings near the end of his life.

Van Gogh’s image “Worn Out”

Vincent Van Gogh, himself,  wrote in Van Gogh: The Life. VanGoghBiography.com

I was trying to say this in this print — but I can’t say it as beautifully, as strikingly as reality, of which this is only a dim reflection seen in a dark mirror — that it seems to me that one of the strongest pieces of evidence for the existence of ‘something on high’ in which Millet believed, namely in the existence of a God and an eternity, is the unutterably moving quality that there can be in the expression of an old man like that, without his being aware of it perhaps, as he sits so quietly in the corner of his hearth. At the same time something precious, something noble, that can’t be meant for the worms. … This is far from all theology — simply the fact that the poorest woodcutter, heath farmer or miner can have moments of emotion and mood that give him a sense of an eternal home that he is close to.”

This is what “the boy” wants to know in his moments of emotion and mood.  Where is his eternal home?

And reaches for the closest anchor he can think of.    Me.


running to the angels…

One of my favorite things to do is listen to webcasts and internet radio interviews.  It is there that I can find my favorite people and specific topics that are not only informative but soothing.  Once I put the earbuds in and close my eyes, its as if the voices are speaking just to me.

Recently  I listened to a online interview with Doreen Virtue, the angel counselor and author.  She, of course, was speaking about her angel therapy; how to recognize and interact with the angels around us.  Her gift is so awesome.  I always find her so reassuring and so certain of the presence of angels and ethereal helpers that I find I can ride along just on her faith.  At times when I’m questioning myself, I find her, God or whoever is in charge of angels more believable than my own heart.   I can very clearly picture Doreen as a divine messenger, fluent in the language of the angels spreading the love around us with ease and grace.  Its a role that I can see bestowed upon another, someone more deserving, someone more enlightened.  That makes sense to me in a self deprecating sort of way.

One phrase in particular that she said made me perk up and pay attention.  I’m loosely paraphrasing here but the message is exact.  She stated that once you feel that you are communicating with your angels, once you find your magic that you should run to the angels.  Don’t hesitate, just run to them.

Wow…what a beautiful message!  Run to the angels.  YES! I love it, I’m gonna do that….OK, how do I do that?

Holding onto that message throughout the last few days, I play with the idea of a meet and greet with my angels.  Let me back up and say here that I’ve always felt a presence, a energy bigger than myself, front and center in my life.  I don’t doubt that for a moment….it might be them, spirit guides, my beloved mother, God or a collection of all of them.  I do recognize their magic in just the beauty and abundance around me in my everyday life.  But I want to take this to a more intimate level and am wholly  intrigued with a more up front and personal relationship with my angels and how exactly I’m gonna run to them.

So, I go outside this morning and and under my favorite tree to see if I can summon up any thoughts on this angel thing.  I begin to picture them there, all around me; bobbing around, floating, hovering like little baby fairies.  But wait, I can’t run to them if I make them little, I will squish them.  OK, back to the visualization… I need to work with my human and literalist personality here….I close my eyes and make them bigger, more human adult size and dang, all I can picture is one of those sappy movie scenes where the two lovers are running through a field of daisies with orchestra music in the background.  I smack into one of my angels and we fall to the ground laughing.  Sigh.  This really needs some work.

I’m definitely a work in progress.  Incorporating time with the angels is something I will add to my life but for now, I need to relax a bit and  stop trying so hard.  I recall how Charlie Brown felt when he suddenly was “aware of his tongue”.  He stood still, somewhat frozen as he described the feeling of being aware of something that has been there all along.  His tongue, this meaty mass of connective tissue has been present every day for him, helping him swallow and chew, keeping things flowing in his mouth department.  But with a crazy flash of awareness, he doesn’t know what to do with it now.  So he stays still until he and his tongue reintegrate finally relaxing and moving on with his comic strip day.

I understand that.  I have suddenly been made aware of my angels again.  No doubt  I must be a very frustrating subject for my angelic helpers because I tend to get the more overt signs like billboards and bull horns, usually missing the subtle signs completely.  Thank God they are patient entities that look at my bumbling and stumbling with love and endearment.  Last year this time, they sent me an owl to stay with me for weeks until I finally saw that beautiful gesture for the magic that it was.  I did get it, but it took me a while.  But what I lack in natural aptitude I do make up with genuine love and willingness.

So, I come inside after my episode of angel bumping in my yard and sit.  Rosie hops on my lap and we close our eyes.  We opt for prayers of gratitude and sending love out to the people in my life.  This seems like a more appropriate way for me to connect in this moment. I’ll stop trying so hard and let the love flow through me.   I’m thinking this will make us all happy for now.


i hurt for the women…

Try as I may to steer away from politics, it reached up and grabbed me by the throat this weekend.

It isn’t the political arena itself that disturbs me.  That can be a fabulous forum for learning about others, working for change, finding common ground and truly being a crusader to help those who can’t speak for themselves among many other purposes.  Politics enlighten us to others’ opinions and passions and when used for a higher good can be a liberating venture.

But when the media and political arenas are methodically and maliciously used to hurt, to inflict purposeful pain, to divide people from their place of connectedness with their fellow person/themselves/God, to destroy and mock for the sole purpose of making money or some vile sort of entertainment, that’s where I hop off the bus. 

This weekend I’ve chosen many courses of action related to the “war on women”.

It has been particularly challenging for me not to lose myself when this type of negativity presents itself.  Friday night was spent in a long distance phone conversation while my friend sobbed.  She, like myself and many others, felt that heaviness of pain thrust upon us by a man who succumbs regularly to the urge and addiction to hurt.  I watched another women attempt to be heard while comments and name calling  were flying around on Facebook and while I don’t know for sure, I think she was trying to alleviate her confusion in the spirit of communion. And I’ve raged in my own way.  Mostly I’ve reached out virtually to women I know in an attempt to “hold hands” with them as we sort through this together.  It is a time when I need my tribe the most; to help me find the beauty and purpose that grounds me.

I do hurt for the women; their families, their partners and children.  Wider than that, I hurt for their communities as the ripple of negativity plunges us under.  We hear the word “slut” and it becomes more than just a bit on TV, it becomes personal.  I think I actually felt a universal “wince” as those brutal words were played and replayed.

But true to the survivors that we are, we bob back to the surface, gasping for air, begin to clear our heads and process what has just happened.

And today, we are back.  Still holding hands with each other for support, we slowly start moving again.  We go to our gardens and look for the first sign of growth; some are reading to their children, others are silently praying for a more loving world while others are shouting it out.  Our bodies go back to our jobs but our hearts still hear the faint reverberations of hate.

We sit and hold this pain until its evident that it has passed through us instead of sticking in our hearts.  We again accept the challenge of how to love back in spite of the hurt.


giving voice to chaos….

i’m all over the place today yet i want to write….sometimes i wait patiently for my world to align and sometimes i just stomp around and curse impatiently demanding that my creative flow return so i can do the thing i love and sets me free….

i see an image and am struck….struck by the thought that it doesn’t have to be what the writing forums and publications say i should be, this is about the freedom of my soul….

if the DBT therapy is correct, i must radically accept myself which i’m surmising at this point includes the fractured, chaotic one….she paces and wonders why she hasn’t been allowed to speak before and why the hell does she have to be someone different just to get a voice….let her write and speak as the shattered person that she is…let her out!…why do i so often fail to recognize her?….i have buried her for so many complicated reasons….

the image shakes her to the core, she sees the cracks in the woman, feels them, her spirit oozing out of the wounds….she knows she’s shattered and is socially unacceptable….her behavior is erratic, anxiety ridden, ready to pounce at the slightest energetic bump in the forcefield around her….

i must accept her….totally and completely….see the cracks as a place for the light to enter….a beautiful thought that i must incorporate….bringing the parts back together….i must accept her and heal her….i pray for the strength and vision to see her as the incredible spirit that she is….


an unlikely Candle Lighter

Candle light in the night

There are days when I feel like I’m invisible.

There are definitely days when I feel like my existence doesn’t really account for much and that my friends and family fail to see me either by their inability to understand who I really am or they know who I am and just can’t deal with it.  Either way it makes for some fairly isolated times.  Still, its a better choice to protect and put myself first than to be around people just for the sake of it.

One of the most soothing, honoring exercises I do is write.  Sometimes its silly stuff but more often, I dive in head first into the memories of my abusive past and their manifestations of my present.  Starting this blog was first and foremost for me but then quickly grew to almost an obsession to connect with others who’ve had this or a similar experience.  It seemed that this was the one sure fire way that I could confirm my existence and quickly found that survivors not only validate my experiences but are hungry for a place to share their unique stories and set of circumstances.  And I knew in my gut that this connection would be the healing force for me as I attempted to lift my fellow survivor out of the muck.

My biggest confirmation thus far is to receive The Candle Lighter Award from a fellow blogger, BiPolarMuse, a young woman whose name I don’t know but stories that I do know.  I am in awe of her writing as well as the stories that I’m finding among these everyday women scattered across the internet.  These are her words… “The Candle Lighter Award is an award for a post or blog that is positive and brings light into the world.  The Candle Lighter Award belongs to those who believe, who always survive the day and who never stop dreaming, who do not quit but keep trying.”  Wow…those words made my day.

This small circle that keeps widening continues to fascinate me.  I must admit, however,  I rarely feel like a candle lighter and it feels odd to accept this compliment when its me that reaps the benefits of these relationships.  But, I do love the fabulous image of a candle’s glow, illuminating a path for others and bringing our truth to the light.  Have I really made a difference to anyone but myself?  Could that really be me?  

Heck yeah, it is.  


she’s ranting again…

Good Lord, I don’t even know where to start.

Here’s the thing about a rant.  It zig zags around, not  following any particular order, a cathartic serving of bottled up emotional energy and other crap.  Its taken me months to put this certain stream of events in order and now that I have, I’m pretty pissed.  Perhaps some of the folks who subscribed to this blog are expecting only my visions of beauty and introspection and yes, there will be some of those.  But, here’s a spoiler alert for the faint of heart, bail out now, cause i’m pissed.  This is about my anger about betrayal.

I feel betrayed.  I feel betrayed on several levels by comments made to me by family/friend  that “you drive people away” with my disassociative  episodes.  So here’s is where I’m gonna break that apart and maybe someone else can get the benefit of this mess.

One of the first things I remember learning in Sunday school (of all places for me, since I’m a very infrequent church attender) is that one didn’t assign judgement to the person but instead to their behavior.  I learned that day that people aren’t bad but sometimes do bad things.  Susie isn’t a bad girl for hitting the boy on the playground but Susie did a bad thing by choosing.  (Of course, I always figured that Susie didn’t do a bad thing and the boy most certainly deserved it and had it coming, but that is another character flaw meant for another blog post)…..Now this is a really broad statement that can be debated forever by great legal, philosophical and ethical minds but for here we are keeping it simple and going with the fact that people aren’t bad but their actions sometimes are.

But what about in the case of someone having an illness that causes them to do something that is uncomfortable, inconvenient or even frightening?  What then?  Is the diabetic “bad” because she lapses into a coma in public causing everyone to scurry around and tend to her?  I wouldn’t think so.  Do we scold and shame her for not watching herself closer and tell her she is driving her family away with her condition? That doesn’t even sound right.  But that  is the scary reality of those with fragile diabetic conditions, among many other conditions, that if not monitored they could become unable to care for themselves and need help.  And I hope always that their families approach them with compassion and care.  

Is the elderly person moving slowly through the grocery store doing that on purpose to anger those around her who believe she should keep up the pace?  God no.  But there are those with huge egos that will look upon her with scorn at the very prospect of her getting in their way.  And again, I hope we always can view her as human being moving at the cadence perfect to her at that moment.

But what about the invisible mental illness and specifically disassociation?  When a child is subject to repeated trauma, there is an inevitable and glorious place that their brains take them to survive the horror where they can camp out until the danger passes.  Then once the trauma is over, they can gradually find their way back and piece themselves together.  Hopefully and ideally this is how it works.  I find this whole concept of beautiful design and thank God for creating such a beautiful place to go amidst such ugliness.  The brain becomes familiar with this escape route and uses it whenever necessary albeit sometimes with faulty implementation, meaning one can become overly dependent on escaping.

But what if that part doesn’t learn to re-integrate and gradually over time becomes stuck in that limbo, that in between purgatory place?  That splintered part can become dead to our conscious selves, silent for years or decades and for some folks, it never appears.  The disassociated self becomes so adept at splitting and creating its own personality/personalities but continues the entire time to record any and all events, smells, light, and energy, down to the tiniest detail of the traumatic events.  It stores them and hides them so well that often we don’t even know that other self/selves are there, its as much of a surprise to us as it is to the family who surrounds us who watch us behave in ways seen in the worst horror movies.  When that tiny self decides it is time to emerge, that their surroundings are safe enough to come out and that they don’t have to stay cloaked and cloistered any longer, it can be a small tiny drip, drip, drip of a leaky faucet or it can be a tsunami taking down everything in its path or something in between.

So are we to blame?  Would we ever ask the disassociated among us to keep that part inside or somehow hide it because its ugly, unpredictable, “not done in our family”, messy or just plain freaky?  Some will say yes to themselves because the thought of having such reality thrust into their lives just sends them spinning.  Most will say no, that we shouldn’t hide those people away but silently thank the universe for not putting those troubled souls in their world for them to deal with.  Maybe because I’m in the population of the “split and fractured” that I’ve decided to embrace this tiny little girl for the freaking superhero that she is and not only revere her but defend and spout back to my people that they need to look at themselves closer if they can’t handle looking at her.  I think she rocks and I’m done hiding her even if she appears ugly to some, she’s beautiful and courageous to me.  And I’m looking the world straight in the eye now, for her and for me.

Now in the end, I will settle down about this.  Will I find another word to replace betrayal?  Probably, because overall I do have a huge tendency to see the other person’s side as well as smooth out differences with anyone I’ve gotten crossways with.  I also want them to understand that judgement in this situation is trauma layered with more trauma to the very confused survivor trying to make sense of the insides of their own soul.

Will I forgive the people who don’t understand?  Maybe in time, but I know I will forgive them more for me than them.  This is a concept that I continue to learn about but have a really difficult time with.  The example that made the most sense was Oprah‘s comment that “not forgiving someone is like drinking poison and expecting it to hurt the other person” or something close to that…but you get my drift.  I know its the right thing to do and will continue praying for my ego to melt enough for forgiveness to happen.  

But, I have also learned a very valuable lesson as I search out who to trust and who not to.  Survivors are awful at trust.  We want to so badly yet often choose people that we shouldn’t trust or at least trust so entirely when we should have pulled back the reins a great deal.  I can’t speak for all survivors but this seems to be the general trend for myself and as I’ve heard it from others.  But here’s the thing that I have gotten from all this soul searching and pain, I have to trust myself fully and others somewhat.  This will give me the most peace and serenity.

Done for now.


terms and conditions

she wants to be here and she’s ready to speak, more than ready.  she reminds me again and again and again. and very strongly i might add because she’s upped the ante on my lack of attention to her by giving me all kinds of crazy body feelings.  she is so miffed at me that my ear swells and becomes hot and red, my energy level bottoms out until i’m forced to lie still and be with her.

to some she may sound annoying but i love her stealth and tenacity.  it makes me smile to picture her, nagging and tugging away, when one way doesn’t work she finds another until finally she is heard.  when we were both her age, our tenacity was labeled as “spoiled, bratty, dramatic” offending and shattering the silence and secrecy of the familial cult. when a family is trying so hard to keep the lid on their abusive nature combined with the all out fear of making change or looking at a situation differently, the last thing they wanted was a blaring loose cannon of a child threatening their silence.  so they beat her down physically and spiritually until she broke and split into several pieces.

but here’s the part that the family didn’t bargain for because ignorance doesn’t see at this level, at the level of love. the greasy filth of ignorance and fear didn’t win against love and tenacity.  love wins, it always does. this little girl had the absolute hutzpah to continue to wriggle out of every situation thrown at her, like a cat with more than nine lives, she just popped up somewhere else continuing her job of getting herself out, finding the life she was intended to have and then doing her part to stop the deeply embedded cycle of abuse.

she flies into my dreams with purposeful intention and i’ve finally figured out she is a force not to be ignored and i submit.  her agenda wins and i feel in my bones that its the correct one.  so we’ve agreed that i will give her part of my day for at least the next month.  i will wrap her in quiet, the soft quilt comforter and a bag of dark chocolate and wait. wait patiently while she continues to speak to me.  its only a a guess from the heart of how to proceed to earn her trust although i’m sure she will tell me as we go along.

giving her space and reverence is the first part of our terms and conditions. i would like her to learn to speak openly from her heart, i would like her to know how much i cherish and admire her strength and tenacity in a situation where most adults would have folded. i want her to know that i pray for her trust to build and her anger to wain; that there is nothing more important than her, to release the sad poison that shaped her most delicate years.  she marked time in that emotional prison unprotected and isolated,  holding all the darkness of our abusers.  we made the wrenching decision to split as there was no safe space left in our combined consciousness, no place for us to be together.  

so, she, the tiny little girl stayed while the other left to forge the path out of their hell. i did find a way out for us and i’m so sorry that it took so long.  it was very hard work and i lost my way many, many times.  but i’m back to retrieve the part i had to leave long ago, no matter how angry she is, how mentally unhinged she becomes at times and no matter how long it takes.


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