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<blockquote data-quote="New Leaf" data-source="post: 673687" data-attributes="member: 19522"><p>I think I will call the drugs the bully. They are. Drugs have taken my daughters. They have been abducted by Hades, like Persephone.</p><p><img src="https://luckyloom1.files.wordpress.com/2010/05/persephone-patricia-ariel.jpg" alt="" class="fr-fic fr-dii fr-draggable " style="" /> </p><p></p><p></p><p> This is true Cedar, miracles happen every day. 46? Oh my.</p><p></p><p> There is no ending. The story is still being written. I will look at it as Frankl says, the spark, the spark is still there.</p><p></p><p> Yes, Cedar, the brain is far more marvelous than previously thought.</p><p></p><p> My grands, oh they are so beautiful. Chocolate brown skin, and bright wide smiles. Big lovely brown eyes. They hang on to anyone who shows them love. "Will you take me home with you?" My #2 grand said to a kind aunty. OUCH.</p><p></p><p> I don't know either Cedar. It seems better to stay in this numb trance, but I know that is not living either. Maybe we are meant to write a rock opera or something, something to tell this story that hasn't ended. So others who don't understand may know. A movie, a book, something to share with others who know not this story.</p><p></p><p> It is the drugs, of course it is. The abduction, is also a seduction. The potion that turned my children into night walker<em>s</em>. There must be an antidote. A kiss, a special cake, like in Alice and Wonderland. Something.They were lost in the forest and ate of the witches' bread crumbs. They are locked in the house of candy, not even knowing of the imprisonment.</p><p></p><p>Circling, it is a cyclical thing. These emotions just pouring out of our excoriated selves, so much blood, then a weeping ooze, a messy wet scab. If we are enabling, infection has set in. </p><p>The FOO work. We are their FOO. Have I passed my feelings on to them? Have I? The fact that I couldn't find myself, even in the deepest of loves in loving them, I still searched for myself. A wounded mother, birthing wounded children. </p><p> Where and as, not up to us. They must find themselves, as we must find ourselves. I think this is key. A key to unlock the door of their imprisonment, is unlocking ours. </p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>[MEDIA=youtube]TkY9HtwXNU8[/MEDIA]</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Custard pie, homemade, sugar toned down to accommodate the sweetness of ice cream, so all of the simple intricacies are singularly tasted. A flavor explosion. Yum.</p><p></p><p>Yes. My mindless rambling when the social worker called looking for my Tornado, or her number. How could she understand that I didn't know how to get in touch with my daughter? </p><p>A hole, deep inside of me, all of the rawness, stammering, unfiltered, pouring through the phone to this woman I didn't even know. UGH. </p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>It is a remnant of my past, I fear. The disconnect. Celebration of my own life, or lack thereof. It is true, like Copa says, a party thrown but no one attended, not even myself.</p><p></p><p>I mentioned in my post to Copa, the "C" word, co-dependence. I will have to explore that, because there are descriptives there that fit me. The endless unsuccessful attempts to fix things. The emptiness. The notion that I felt, I came out of my FOO, not mattering. I didn't matter enough to myself. Did I pass this on to my children?</p><p></p><p>I fear so, Cedar.</p><p> How could I not? Not intentionally, for I didn't even have a label for it then. </p><p>I hate labels. I suppose if I shall wear an armband, or a cameo, signifying my pain with my d cs addiction, then I shall wear one, signifying my own destruction of self. </p><p></p><p>Now I am sounding like a drama queen. </p><p></p><p>[MEDIA=youtube]25qOY9cwz88[/MEDIA]</p><p></p><p>We are speaking of coming out of our cocoons. Here is Madame Butterfly, but the story has not ended, I shall create my own ending. I will not commit the final act upon myself, I will, upon <em>my low self esteem</em>. My codependency. I will learn to be enough, to be more than enough.</p><p></p><p>I will sing out my life's story, name it, claim it, write of it, understand it, learn and grow. </p><p></p><p>It will be a papery thing, with my childhood history written in tiny script, the poor self image, that I will shed, to float upon the wind. </p><p></p><p>Then I will be able to become my butterfly self.</p><p></p><p>This is my goal, then, </p><p>to reignite the spark and find my meaning.</p><p></p><p>A quest, then, for the meaning.</p><p></p><p>With my cameo, and my sword, </p><p>sharp as can be, </p><p>slicing through the emptiness.</p><p></p><p>leafy</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="New Leaf, post: 673687, member: 19522"] I think I will call the drugs the bully. They are. Drugs have taken my daughters. They have been abducted by Hades, like Persephone. [IMG]https://luckyloom1.files.wordpress.com/2010/05/persephone-patricia-ariel.jpg[/IMG] This is true Cedar, miracles happen every day. 46? Oh my. There is no ending. The story is still being written. I will look at it as Frankl says, the spark, the spark is still there. Yes, Cedar, the brain is far more marvelous than previously thought. My grands, oh they are so beautiful. Chocolate brown skin, and bright wide smiles. Big lovely brown eyes. They hang on to anyone who shows them love. "Will you take me home with you?" My #2 grand said to a kind aunty. OUCH. I don't know either Cedar. It seems better to stay in this numb trance, but I know that is not living either. Maybe we are meant to write a rock opera or something, something to tell this story that hasn't ended. So others who don't understand may know. A movie, a book, something to share with others who know not this story. It is the drugs, of course it is. The abduction, is also a seduction. The potion that turned my children into night walker[I]s[/I]. There must be an antidote. A kiss, a special cake, like in Alice and Wonderland. Something.They were lost in the forest and ate of the witches' bread crumbs. They are locked in the house of candy, not even knowing of the imprisonment. Circling, it is a cyclical thing. These emotions just pouring out of our excoriated selves, so much blood, then a weeping ooze, a messy wet scab. If we are enabling, infection has set in. The FOO work. We are their FOO. Have I passed my feelings on to them? Have I? The fact that I couldn't find myself, even in the deepest of loves in loving them, I still searched for myself. A wounded mother, birthing wounded children. Where and as, not up to us. They must find themselves, as we must find ourselves. I think this is key. A key to unlock the door of their imprisonment, is unlocking ours. [MEDIA=youtube]TkY9HtwXNU8[/MEDIA] Custard pie, homemade, sugar toned down to accommodate the sweetness of ice cream, so all of the simple intricacies are singularly tasted. A flavor explosion. Yum. Yes. My mindless rambling when the social worker called looking for my Tornado, or her number. How could she understand that I didn't know how to get in touch with my daughter? A hole, deep inside of me, all of the rawness, stammering, unfiltered, pouring through the phone to this woman I didn't even know. UGH. It is a remnant of my past, I fear. The disconnect. Celebration of my own life, or lack thereof. It is true, like Copa says, a party thrown but no one attended, not even myself. I mentioned in my post to Copa, the "C" word, co-dependence. I will have to explore that, because there are descriptives there that fit me. The endless unsuccessful attempts to fix things. The emptiness. The notion that I felt, I came out of my FOO, not mattering. I didn't matter enough to myself. Did I pass this on to my children? I fear so, Cedar. How could I not? Not intentionally, for I didn't even have a label for it then. I hate labels. I suppose if I shall wear an armband, or a cameo, signifying my pain with my d cs addiction, then I shall wear one, signifying my own destruction of self. Now I am sounding like a drama queen. [MEDIA=youtube]25qOY9cwz88[/MEDIA] We are speaking of coming out of our cocoons. Here is Madame Butterfly, but the story has not ended, I shall create my own ending. I will not commit the final act upon myself, I will, upon [I]my low self esteem[/I]. My codependency. I will learn to be enough, to be more than enough. I will sing out my life's story, name it, claim it, write of it, understand it, learn and grow. It will be a papery thing, with my childhood history written in tiny script, the poor self image, that I will shed, to float upon the wind. Then I will be able to become my butterfly self. This is my goal, then, to reignite the spark and find my meaning. A quest, then, for the meaning. With my cameo, and my sword, sharp as can be, slicing through the emptiness. leafy [/QUOTE]
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