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Family of Origin
Hey, Cedar, or anyone interested in FOO (Family of Origin) issues. Cedar, WHY NOW???
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<blockquote data-quote="Copabanana" data-source="post: 658071" data-attributes="member: 18958"><p>I hate it when out of the blue, the whole post gets erased by itself. It just jumps up and erases itself. You would think I would learn to do this in smaller increments. So I will start again. Something just popped up to tell me that there are new posts. To finish this now much abbreviated response, I am willfully ignoring it.What is this? In any event I want the winning recipe.</p><p>I have no such memory of my Mother's loving us. All of her prettiness was directly away from us, to the outside. I have said before that I loved it when my mother dressed up. For the few minutes after she put on her perfume, she would be there for us...as the adoring audience in which her beauty was reflected. There was nothing more. At home she really was the evil stepmother.</p><p></p><p>Like you I had my Grandmother. She was enough. Or it seemed so.</p><p></p><p>See above post. Interesting that independently we came up with the same metaphor.</p><p></p><p>When my Mother first was hospitalized with the serious illness, I had been staying with her in her house later joined by M. He came to save me...as my mother had started in even then to consume me alive.</p><p></p><p>So, one day, my Mom in the hospital, we came home to find the housekeepers, a husband and wife team. The thing is here is this: They felt legitimate. I did not. They were rejecting. As if to blame me.</p><p></p><p>We spoke to them in Spanish. Usually, that helps. They were allies of my sister. Bringing her up in the conversation. Imagine that. We later came to believe that they helped her husband to enter the house to steal stuff. Including every picture.</p><p></p><p>The attorney had advised me to secure the house. I did not want to lock my sister out. I wanted her to have full access. Why? Mixed. She is a daughter. And this is above the protection of stuff. As much or more? I wanted her to transgress on some level. I felt it would protect me. If she could enter at her will...and do what she would do...she could not accuse me of corrupting the house.</p><p></p><p>Which she did do, in my role as executor. She accused me of stealing. She accused me and my excellent attorney of malfeasance (she too is an attorney).</p><p></p><p>But she did not accuse me vis a vis the house. And that had been my plan. To let her steal and violate would protect me.</p><p></p><p>That was my way of thinking at the time. It confuses me my line of thinking, born of course from the hall of mirrors that has been my family life.</p><p></p><p>Falsely accused of stealing your own clothes, by a severe and brutal female boss. No one to defend or protect you. In a Playboy Ice Chest. Wow. I wonder who that your accuser is, Cedar? Tongue and Cheek. More of the whore metaphor.</p><p></p><p>You know I am remembering something from my Dad. My Dad was dissolute, more and more as he aged. To see him I had to hang out with him drinking in bars as a young, young woman. These were dive bars, see?</p><p></p><p>As we were leaving this one dive bar, some guy offered me money for sex. My Dad laughed.</p><p></p><p>The answer I think is this: Are you safe to be with your Mother.</p><p></p><p>I do not think your Mother will ever cease to be a danger. Nor will your sister. M is with your husband in terms of dangerous sisters. M knows my sister will seek me out...when she runs out of money. And of that M is afraid. I have few defenses against anybody...let alone my sister.</p><p></p><p>Forgive me, Cedar. There is a gruesomeness in this. As if in some concentration camp or killing fields or some place of horror, somebody decides to draw a happy face...absolutely ignoring the truth of the true thing that happened there.</p><p></p><p>Cedar, guess what? Here is the original post below that I had thought had been gobbled up. I will not read or edit it and send to you both. So here goes.</p><p></p><p>Cedar, this is so beautiful. And it makes so much sense. Even though it is as if from another planet, not mine. In our family, existence and rejection, and splitting happened simultaneously, and instantly.</p><p></p><p>I will tell you something special about me but I cannot be too specific, because I was famous, see? About my birth, and survival. And resilience, even then.</p><p></p><p>What is this? Is this a thread? I want in on the war of the Grandma's baklava. And the winning recipe, of course.</p><p></p><p>I never had a moment, one moment that I can remember my mother as loving in this way. She was beautiful, yes, but only for the outside world. Only when oriented away from, not towards us.</p><p></p><p>Every memory of my mother inside the house, I was afraid of her. Her moods, her temper. Her.</p><p></p><p>But, like you I had my grandmother. Who was that for us.</p><p></p><p>See my above post, re "whore or something" please. And that is all I will say here.</p><p></p><p>When my mother was in the hospital for the first time, when she and I were still in her city and M and I were in her home, the housekeeper and her husband were in the house when we entered.</p><p></p><p>The thing is this: they felt legitimate and made us feel like the interlopers. I felt great shame, but the shame was not mine. I know this. I was always made to be the one that had done the BAD thing. M did not like them. He said they were corrupt and false. I felt sad for my M that she could not tell the difference between real and false care. M sees it differently, that my mother did not herself care if it was real or false. Because she was false. She was buying care. No matter to her, if authentic or not.</p><p></p><p>I think I responded above to this. Once again, the safety is in you. The danger in her. It will always be so. You need to decide when you have bulked up enough, not in toughness, but in strength to withstand her dangers.</p><p></p><p>I cannot add to what I wrote above. There is something corrupt here. To will evil into good is not possible nor is it right.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Copabanana, post: 658071, member: 18958"] I hate it when out of the blue, the whole post gets erased by itself. It just jumps up and erases itself. You would think I would learn to do this in smaller increments. So I will start again. Something just popped up to tell me that there are new posts. To finish this now much abbreviated response, I am willfully ignoring it.What is this? In any event I want the winning recipe. I have no such memory of my Mother's loving us. All of her prettiness was directly away from us, to the outside. I have said before that I loved it when my mother dressed up. For the few minutes after she put on her perfume, she would be there for us...as the adoring audience in which her beauty was reflected. There was nothing more. At home she really was the evil stepmother. Like you I had my Grandmother. She was enough. Or it seemed so. See above post. Interesting that independently we came up with the same metaphor. When my Mother first was hospitalized with the serious illness, I had been staying with her in her house later joined by M. He came to save me...as my mother had started in even then to consume me alive. So, one day, my Mom in the hospital, we came home to find the housekeepers, a husband and wife team. The thing is here is this: They felt legitimate. I did not. They were rejecting. As if to blame me. We spoke to them in Spanish. Usually, that helps. They were allies of my sister. Bringing her up in the conversation. Imagine that. We later came to believe that they helped her husband to enter the house to steal stuff. Including every picture. The attorney had advised me to secure the house. I did not want to lock my sister out. I wanted her to have full access. Why? Mixed. She is a daughter. And this is above the protection of stuff. As much or more? I wanted her to transgress on some level. I felt it would protect me. If she could enter at her will...and do what she would do...she could not accuse me of corrupting the house. Which she did do, in my role as executor. She accused me of stealing. She accused me and my excellent attorney of malfeasance (she too is an attorney). But she did not accuse me vis a vis the house. And that had been my plan. To let her steal and violate would protect me. That was my way of thinking at the time. It confuses me my line of thinking, born of course from the hall of mirrors that has been my family life. Falsely accused of stealing your own clothes, by a severe and brutal female boss. No one to defend or protect you. In a Playboy Ice Chest. Wow. I wonder who that your accuser is, Cedar? Tongue and Cheek. More of the whore metaphor. You know I am remembering something from my Dad. My Dad was dissolute, more and more as he aged. To see him I had to hang out with him drinking in bars as a young, young woman. These were dive bars, see? As we were leaving this one dive bar, some guy offered me money for sex. My Dad laughed. The answer I think is this: Are you safe to be with your Mother. I do not think your Mother will ever cease to be a danger. Nor will your sister. M is with your husband in terms of dangerous sisters. M knows my sister will seek me out...when she runs out of money. And of that M is afraid. I have few defenses against anybody...let alone my sister. Forgive me, Cedar. There is a gruesomeness in this. As if in some concentration camp or killing fields or some place of horror, somebody decides to draw a happy face...absolutely ignoring the truth of the true thing that happened there. Cedar, guess what? Here is the original post below that I had thought had been gobbled up. I will not read or edit it and send to you both. So here goes. Cedar, this is so beautiful. And it makes so much sense. Even though it is as if from another planet, not mine. In our family, existence and rejection, and splitting happened simultaneously, and instantly. I will tell you something special about me but I cannot be too specific, because I was famous, see? About my birth, and survival. And resilience, even then. What is this? Is this a thread? I want in on the war of the Grandma's baklava. And the winning recipe, of course. I never had a moment, one moment that I can remember my mother as loving in this way. She was beautiful, yes, but only for the outside world. Only when oriented away from, not towards us. Every memory of my mother inside the house, I was afraid of her. Her moods, her temper. Her. But, like you I had my grandmother. Who was that for us. See my above post, re "whore or something" please. And that is all I will say here. When my mother was in the hospital for the first time, when she and I were still in her city and M and I were in her home, the housekeeper and her husband were in the house when we entered. The thing is this: they felt legitimate and made us feel like the interlopers. I felt great shame, but the shame was not mine. I know this. I was always made to be the one that had done the BAD thing. M did not like them. He said they were corrupt and false. I felt sad for my M that she could not tell the difference between real and false care. M sees it differently, that my mother did not herself care if it was real or false. Because she was false. She was buying care. No matter to her, if authentic or not. I think I responded above to this. Once again, the safety is in you. The danger in her. It will always be so. You need to decide when you have bulked up enough, not in toughness, but in strength to withstand her dangers. I cannot add to what I wrote above. There is something corrupt here. To will evil into good is not possible nor is it right. [/QUOTE]
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Hey, Cedar, or anyone interested in FOO (Family of Origin) issues. Cedar, WHY NOW???
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