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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 678809" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>Think of my mother, gleefully anticipating authoring the story of my father's family. <em>Which story will be included with the geneology she has spent the past twenty years researching and will send down the family line, a copy for each child and one for every cousin and grand. Not her family's geneology ~ my father's. </em>Think of her beginning already, shortly after my father's death, to spread rumors that my grandmother, hated with an almost rabid intensity, was a murderess. </p><p></p><p>There are other strangenesses as well, that I have not posted here because they were not personally traumatic to me. </p><p></p><p>Except that of course they must have been or I would not have hidden them away. </p><p></p><p>A piece of this, for me and I could be the only one, is distaste at what I know of these people. I think the dynamic could be that before our work here, I was sort of programmed for shame. So, thinking about any of this, the conclusion would just be: "That is just my mother." Or, "Oh, that is just my sister." </p><p></p><p>And that is a shame response, you guys. Whether we care to admit it or not, it means we have chosen not to confront.</p><p></p><p>I think ~ and again, this might only be true for me ~ that I determined to love them and so I did. That is why I was blind. That is why the poetry is about <em>"a blind and savaged child that living, breathing, died". </em>That there may be nothing admirable or generous or gentle in these people at all. </p><p></p><p>Huh.</p><p></p><p>That is a scary thought too, and brings up echoes of "Who is the liar, here?"</p><p></p><p>It brings up echoes of whether in this too, I am like my mother.</p><p></p><p>Where is my own gentleness, my own loyalty to blood?</p><p></p><p>Circle.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>But boy, once we begin allowing ourselves to see the choices our people have made having to do with hurtful things that could not possibly make a difference now <em>except to the fiction of their own reputations</em>, then we understand how determined they were to exert their wills over us. How determined they must have been, maybe, to create of us little mirrors, broken and broken again to reflect to the parent a sense of her own distorted grandiosity. </p><p></p><p>And that is what is chilling.</p><p></p><p>Not only that little girls (and boys) thirty to fifty pounds soaking wet were broken for the cheap, tin win of an adult's addiction to her own (really you guys, ravening) grandiosity, but that because of it, we have lived our lives without access to our own strength or for our own best interests.</p><p></p><p>Always and forever we have looked outside ourselves for answers that were within us. We have discounted ourselves to ourselves and so, have been easy prey for those with similar mindsets.</p><p></p><p>Cedar </p><p></p><p>Okay, so here is the bright side of that one: As adults we do recognize these people instantly. Unfortunately (as Copa sometimes says), we are ugly. We pop ourselves into ugly. And I have not heard a more apt description of the feeling of shame. We are popped immediately into ugly (into shamed victim status). We can no longer see clearly. </p><p></p><p>That is an interesting observation about my own self. I will be monitoring my popped-into-shame-victim-status consciously, today. I think Brene Brown's "Sit with the feelings." was a correct way to defuse the feelings. </p><p></p><p>But, we need to recognize them ~ all of them, in all their myriad twisted layers ~ first.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 678809, member: 17461"] Think of my mother, gleefully anticipating authoring the story of my father's family. [I]Which story will be included with the geneology she has spent the past twenty years researching and will send down the family line, a copy for each child and one for every cousin and grand. Not her family's geneology ~ my father's. [/I]Think of her beginning already, shortly after my father's death, to spread rumors that my grandmother, hated with an almost rabid intensity, was a murderess. There are other strangenesses as well, that I have not posted here because they were not personally traumatic to me. Except that of course they must have been or I would not have hidden them away. A piece of this, for me and I could be the only one, is distaste at what I know of these people. I think the dynamic could be that before our work here, I was sort of programmed for shame. So, thinking about any of this, the conclusion would just be: "That is just my mother." Or, "Oh, that is just my sister." And that is a shame response, you guys. Whether we care to admit it or not, it means we have chosen not to confront. I think ~ and again, this might only be true for me ~ that I determined to love them and so I did. That is why I was blind. That is why the poetry is about [I]"a blind and savaged child that living, breathing, died". [/I]That there may be nothing admirable or generous or gentle in these people at all. Huh. That is a scary thought too, and brings up echoes of "Who is the liar, here?" It brings up echoes of whether in this too, I am like my mother. Where is my own gentleness, my own loyalty to blood? Circle. *** But boy, once we begin allowing ourselves to see the choices our people have made having to do with hurtful things that could not possibly make a difference now [I]except to the fiction of their own reputations[/I], then we understand how determined they were to exert their wills over us. How determined they must have been, maybe, to create of us little mirrors, broken and broken again to reflect to the parent a sense of her own distorted grandiosity. And that is what is chilling. Not only that little girls (and boys) thirty to fifty pounds soaking wet were broken for the cheap, tin win of an adult's addiction to her own (really you guys, ravening) grandiosity, but that because of it, we have lived our lives without access to our own strength or for our own best interests. Always and forever we have looked outside ourselves for answers that were within us. We have discounted ourselves to ourselves and so, have been easy prey for those with similar mindsets. Cedar Okay, so here is the bright side of that one: As adults we do recognize these people instantly. Unfortunately (as Copa sometimes says), we are ugly. We pop ourselves into ugly. And I have not heard a more apt description of the feeling of shame. We are popped immediately into ugly (into shamed victim status). We can no longer see clearly. That is an interesting observation about my own self. I will be monitoring my popped-into-shame-victim-status consciously, today. I think Brene Brown's "Sit with the feelings." was a correct way to defuse the feelings. But, we need to recognize them ~ all of them, in all their myriad twisted layers ~ first. [/QUOTE]
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