In a totally new place and need perspective? Cedar? Anyone?

Copabanana

Well-Known Member
One kind of little girl loves baby dolls and one, loves horses.
First, important things. I liked dolls. And I think Serenity did too. But you can play with us, too, Cedar.
I don't know. If she called, I would wonder whether my mother had died, or was dying. Remember I posted about my sister having left a message in a sad, tired voice "about mom"
My Mother did a mean thing.

It was maybe 6 years after I had not seen her or spoke to her. I do not know how she knew my address.

She sent me a note that my father had been dead for 6 years or so. And that he had died of Malignant Melanoma. That was it. That was the first time I ever got real depressed.

She must have known for quite a while. Because she found out because she began to receive his social security as a divorced spouse.

That event epitomized to me her cruelty and lack of empathy. In her mind she must have been reaching out.

To me, it was a horrible blow.

On the one hand, I can see that she might have felt that I needed to know. If so, why the wait? And did it not deserve a phone call? If it was a way to reach out, could she not have called me? Or, she knew my therapist's name, and had called him once before. Could she not have called him? Lots of pain.
I realize the little porcelain dolls are like, hanging upside down, and the lights are a mess with wires sticking out all over and there are needles all over the floor and the tree looks like the Christmas tree from H***.
This is so funny. How symbolic. What a perversely lovely representation of family.
So I was thinking about what TJ Jakes said yesterday. Just because someone says you are an airplane doesn't make you an airplane.
But, why do they say such mean things?

Like that man at work. Saying I had no boundaries. To me, I am the most centered of my colleagues. The most certain of who I am and very solid of what I am not. I stand firm. But it is not rigid. I give a great deal of stability and security to those around me. It is just that I do not demand power.

Why do people want to hurt us?
 
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BusynMember

Well-Known Member
My kids never called the cops on me. That would be a one way ticket out the door.

I did have to call for help for my daughter when she was on drugs and flipped out once, and t he police came instead of the ambulance I'd asked for. Was might angry about that.

Copa, I'm so sorry your son did that to you. It is so mean. It's the ultimate attempt to intimidate and shut you up.
He must be very angry and troubled and it's not your fault.
 

Scent of Cedar *

Well-Known Member
First, important things. I liked dolls. And I think Serenity did too. But you can play with us, too, Cedar.

Then I will be the cowboy hero who saves the day. (I had a John Wayne doll, too. And I loved watching Paladin.)

:O)

I will leap from my steed with balletic strength and grace. So I will not be a cowboy hero then.

I will be Cedar.

White tights; long hair.

Red.

But I do like paperdolls. My grandmother had them for me. I loved them.

So when I thunder in on the white mare "with reigns of braided satin black as Hell, and with white satin for a bit", I will bring those paperdolls from my grandmother.

And my safety scissors.

:O)

My Mother did a mean thing.

It is as Serenity posted to me on another thread: our moms, our sisters, did too many mean things. It had to have been intentional; and that makes it abuse. Surely the way to hear that one of us has been routinely discounted and abused by an overbearing, grandiosity addicted mother (or sibling) is how often we say: "Oh, that's mom/sister."

That is denial; that is how we will know that is us, in denial about having been routinely destroyed by those we hoped loved us.

I am not going to say "believed loved us".

We knew they did not. We kept trying to fit the pieces together into something we could understand.

Into something we could accept without hating ourselves because we had nothing.

They do not love us. They love themselves. In everything they do they see only themselves. They will hurt us, they will use us, they will do everything in their power to shame and bring us to relationship on their terms.

That is why I was thinking about that woman yesterday, eating her abuser's food with her bruised face. Roar. I hate that she ate his food. I hate that because I have eaten abuser's food. I have taken what there was and been grateful to have been nourished.

Phew.

Spewing all of it out now. (Not in the area where we are playing dolls and paperdolls. Just out of earshot, but not out of sight. I am not alone with it. You both are there...but I am so angry and ashamed!

And ugly.

***

I liked Serenity's response on the sisters post. We should be able to see these people for who they are, and not for who we wish they were. For us to be free of the convoluted thinking of the victim, we will need to see without blinking. We have to stop covering for these people. They are nasty people. They have chosen against us with malice in their hearts every time.

What in the world is the matter with me that I cannot admit that? Why is there any smallest vulnerability, any hope at all in the heart of me, regarding my bat out of hell family of origin? Finally, I am angry. How is it I believed that whole spiel about them doing better.

Why would I want to have dinner with them.

Now there is a question worth asking.

Maybe, the thing that is real is that I hate them and that is what I refuse to allow on one level and feel for myself. On another, deeper level, the hatred I feel, and was taught to feel, for myself.

In the language of the heart, hating them means that I harbor hatred for myself for the ugliness in what is and always was. For the cowardice I see in my every interaction with them.

Because I did not stand up.

I allowed them to define me every time I forgave their disrespect instead of condemning them. I ate what breakfast there was with them and hoped for freaking dinner. A dinner I was so desperate to have that I envision it as an empty table, beautifully set but with no food.

And no people.

This must be why I was thinking yesterday about the abused woman, and the man buying her breakfast. That woman is me, in relation to anything to do with my family of origin. With my mother. With my sister. There was no way I could justify or rationalize or excuse their last outrageous acts but why have I not seen this sooner.

Why have I not been angry sooner.

I am forever trying to pull decency out of the obscenity of what is.

These people who are my people are snakes; vipers. A pit of them.

That is where I grew up.

***

She must look up, that woman with her bruised face. And she must say to the waitress: "Call the police. I have nothing and no one. I am alone. Protect me. Call the police. I will not take another mouthful of this deceitful *)%$@!$ ****'s ***%^$#."

Breakfast.

I meant breakfast.

:O)

So. I am changing in my thinking, you two.

Like a miracle.

It was maybe 6 years after I had not seen her or spoke to her. I do not know how she knew my address.

She sent me a note that my father had been dead for 6 years or so. And that he had died of Malignant Melanoma. That was it. That was the first time I ever got real depressed.

WTF, Copa.

I hate that she did that.

You had not seen him for six years. She sends a letter saying that is about when he died. Six years. What are the sucker covered tentacles connecting what is happening to you today to what happened when Witch Mother wrote that letter presenting your own father as some person not worth mentioning except for the Widow's Benefit accruing to her. Is that the piece we are missing regarding what is happening to you, now?

That depression.

This depression; this extended period of self-excoriation over what was left undone for the mother.

I see myself here, Copa.

I see myself and my mother and my sister and I hate them and myself because I see now that it was all so awful.

So ugly; obscenely so.

Yay, that I see it. So here is the thing about our abusive moms and our sisters, who are equally abusive and in the exact same ways our initial abusers were abusive. Know why they do it that way? Because we would see through it were they not duplicating the initial patterns of abuse. First, that or mothers chased our fathers away or into some place where men who refuse to strike back are required to live from. Emasculated and ridiculed, they do not fight for themselves and they do not fight for us. (Re: emasculation. As my mother did to my father in roaring on to his business partners and employees about an affair she had years ago.)

If these people were not so obscenely damaging to the rest of us, their transparency would be laughable.

Hard to laugh though, when the blow struck has been mortal.

Or as your mother did, Copa, in having another man come to her rooms in such a way that you would know. As you commented to me Copa about my mother's intention in dragging my little brother out of the bathroom, crying in that hopeless, lost way that I can never stay present to, with excrement on his face. Done to damage not only the child she is hurting, but to damage the child who sees what the mother has the power to do. You knew it was wrong and she knew you would know.

An obscenity.

Some malicious thing.

(Cedar types those so polite and appropriate words instead of: Blasting through denial because I see the crime in what your mother did and recognize the criminal intent in my own mother's behavior, to my father, and to me. Crawling; on my knees, my beggar's cup held high.

"Please," the whispered plea. "Please, don't do this."

Refusing forever to see the despicable crime my own mother commits against me with every deceitful breath she takes, with every lie she tells; blasting through rejection and the shame of not having fought for what was mine.

Did she know my father was my hero. Of course she did.

So, you did not know whether your father lived or had died. She wrote you out of the blue that he was gone, and included the ugly name of the thing that took him and sealed it in the shame of the Widow's Benefit to her, as though that were his only value.

Have you mourned your father, Copa?

Here is a secret I keep from myself: My mother has done the same. She has cheapened my father's memory and my sister has gone along with every bit of it.

Ridicule first; then victimization.

They had no right.

That is my father.

And I have never admitted what they are doing to his memory until this minute. Instead, I have said: "Oh, that's just...." What. What is that just.

That is my father. Hurting him, denigrating his memory, cheapening him, the two of them. For heaven's sake, Copa. I am the one who needs to mourn her father.

roar

Yay

:kickedoutsmile:

:mcsmiley1:

:sorrowsmiley2:


:starplucker:

That's my father and me.

:furious:

That is Witch Mother.

Always, even in his dying.

Between my mother and my stupid sister, I never really thought about it being my father who had died. My father they attempt, to this day, as my sister did on that last phone call, to glorify themselves through, and to taunt me, with what they did and with what I did not do, for him.

What a couple of poop-derivatives, the two of them.


"Now, go away, or I shall taunt you a second time."

roar

Yay, you two. This is major.

:mcsmiley1:

I should have been there.

But never with them.

I had no idea I was this angry about the way they have managed everything to do with my relationship to my own father. I stepped away. The emphasis was forever on my mother.

Or my sister.

I did not fight for him, for my relationship to him.

But he did say, "Is there anyone else here you want to talk to." before the last time we did not see them for five years. I am disgusted with myself.

Why did I not fight for my relationship to my own father?

Stupid, ugly fool. Those are the words that flashed into my mind about them. But I meant those words for me.

Coward.

For me.

"But what could I do?" I whisper-whine. Oh, but what could I do but accept his words; what could I do but accept the situation. Have I posted the words my mother said before she called my father to the phone.

"I told you I was going to do this."

And D H and I never could figure out what she meant.

And when my mother called, some two years into it. (Just as your sister, Serenity, will never accept that you are done with her, and with all of it.) And blamed the situation on something never clarified or addressed, between D H and my father. And suggested that the two of us have coffee. And let the separation be between D H and my father.

And I said I did not think that would be a good idea but why did I not fight for my father.

Because he had rejected, had not fought for, me.

It was shame that prevented either of us fighting for the other.

I could have fought for him and taken the knocks; risked the rejection. I did not, out of fear of my mother.

Is this true.

This is what I believe, but is this true.

Something bleeding in me and I never even looked at it before.

I will, now. This is all bound together with hope. I had nothing but hope, so I hoped; after a time, I believed in what I hoped. What I should have done was fight for that relationship to him aside from either of them. Instead, I bowed out.

Just as he did.

It is impossible to fight for a relationship to a father who will not fight for his relationship to you.

And the Witch Mother has won again.

Ugly; all of it so freaking ugly.


***

And we will be finished with our families of origin too, without guilt or regret or wishing for some stupid dinner that is never going to happen so much that we put up with their nastiness as though we are still trapped in some childhood nightmare where we deserve nothing.

I was going to say nothing more but the truth of it is we were raised to believe we deserved nothing; that we were pale imitations of persons. That our mothers mattered more than we did.

More than we mattered to our own fathers.

And more than they mattered, to us.

Could it be that is the role the sisters are trying to take.

The power position.

What your mom did wasn't just mean Copa it was destructive in that it devalued both your father's memory, and you. A father is a hero to his daughter. Whether he deserves it or not is played out over a lifetime, but in the beginning, for every little girl, her father is her hero.

But my hero did not fight for me.

And I was not a hero, either.



:overreactsmiley:

This is why.


:hangoversmiley:


We didn't know. We could not know what we had no way of knowing. That we are courageous. That we had a right to fight them.

:sorrowsmiley2:

:919Mad:

Here is the question: What do I do with these feelings. This is what I know: These feelings, this understanding of the situation, is something I have created a scaffolding of denial around. These are the feelings at the heart of the hope of the dinner. Which represents family.

So I knew, then.



:9-07tears:

As I uncovered this layer, which began with our discussions of Christmas and my unacknowledged acknowledgement that I was only safe enough to love my own brother and sister at my grandmother's house...or myself, then. I was able to love myself there at her house because she loved me. That is where I was loved; that is where I knew what that felt like. Contrast it with Christmas. The magic of the tree, and of the gifts seemingly chosen for me. Nothing about my parents. When I asked that question now the answer is: Mother is happy. Here is a secret: My mother told me her parents sent money for Christmas. In Witch Mother code: And I told them what I'd gotten each child and that is the only reason you had anything at all.

Well, I am still thinking about that one. As is always the case with Witch Mother, nothing is as it seems and everything hurts.

All of which brought up remembrance of the abused woman eating her crappy abuser's cheap breakfast at a tiny table with no white linen. (Remember the family dinner theme for me.) And that was enough, for her.

And the abuser will do it again. That is why it bothered me so that he would dare look at me, sneak filthy, defensive glances she would not see because she knows he is doing it but will not look up; will not admit that she knows what she knows about him but is eating the eggs he bought her with him, her bruised face looking anywhere but into his eyes.

:warriorsmiley:

Cedar

It is all so freaking ugly.
 

Copabanana

Well-Known Member
I loved watching Paladin
Me, too. And Have Gun Will Travel and Rawhide.
"Call the police. I have nothing and no one. I am alone. Protect me. Call the police. I will not take another mouthful of this deceitful *)%$@!$ ****'s ***%^$#."
"Please," the whispered plea. "Please, don't do this."
They see this as weakness and do it more.
Did she know my father was my hero. Of course she did.
Yes, she did. My Mother wanted me back in her life. But she was very angry. So she reached out and punished me, in the worst way she could. Just like the screams and to tell the caretaker, I don't care if she comes or not.
Have you mourned your father, Copa?
It is too terrible to say, Cedar. At first I became very depressed, like this, but not as bad or as long. Maybe 6 months. Then I became convinced I was a child abuse victim. Sexual abuse. Although I had no memories. I even went to Incest Survivor's Anonymous meetings.

I am so confused. I cannot even find the words to say what I am fearing now.

I do not have the stamina right now to have to deal with my father.

He became a hopeless drunk. Completely degraded and me with him.

And I said I did not think that would be a good idea but why did I not fight for my father.

Because he had rejected, had not fought for, me.
My father wanted to pull me into his own degradation. There was nothing to fight for. Without destroying myself.

The thing is Cedar and SWOT, our fathers had responsibility to fight for us. They did not. There is a point past which they do not deserve protecting. Except that they were all we had.
I was going to say nothing more but the truth of it is we were raised to believe we deserved nothing
Yes. This is the truest thing of all.
that we were pale imitations of persons. That our mothers mattered more than we did.
Yes.
Whether he deserves it or not is played out over a lifetime, but in the beginning, for every little girl, her father is her hero.
Yes.

I feel very sad for us.
 
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Scent of Cedar *

Well-Known Member
I will write my brother with that request.

The dread surrounding the issue is decreased immeasurably.

D H tells me that when my mother is gone what I will feel is relief; as though a weight has been lifted. It was shocking to me the first time he told me that. As D H has learned more about ~ as I have learned more about what happened to me, and as I have been able to know words to describe it, D H has come to feel a deep disgust for my mother especially. For my sister, he tells me she does not matter but that I will be vulnerable to her, and that I should guard against those feelings of protectiveness because that is how she will get in.

I am thinking this morning that I do not need to know. Which of them dies, when either dies, if I should die, first.

None of them needs to know. I do not need to know.

They were never who I believed them to be.

Now I just need to figure out who I believe myself to be, and why I miss them.

How strange is that. To this day, I miss them. The difference now is that the hope is that I will never see them again.

Maybe that is why there were never any people, in my envisionment of that family dinner I am always posting about.

I do think we know what is true.

It's a question of breaking through denial; and to do that ~ to break through denial ~ we need to stop betraying ourselves.

So...why would I hope for and believe in something I know, somewhere in my heart, I know, is a lie?

Cedar
 

Copabanana

Well-Known Member
So...why would I hope for and believe in something I know, somewhere in my heart, I know, is a lie?
Cedar, I do not know.

Except for this. Babies and children need human beings in order to develop as human children. They use whoever they have to do so, because their developing is the imperative. They have no choice about it. Good or bad. They will betray themselves in order to develop as close to normally, as possible.

Your mother was the only object you had. You had no choice. Forgive yourself.
 

Copabanana

Well-Known Member
And just because I name what I had family, that doesn't make it one.
No. You had objects. Objects onto whom to cathect. To attach energy to, so that you could develop as a person. You had no choice in the matter.

Think of it in terms of an egg donor and what do you call the woman who carries the implanted egg and baby to term for women who cannot.

As an infant and toddler you attached to your mother in the same way.

I am questioning if the women we call mothers were really that at all, in the sense of motherhood.

I have to be careful here because I am trying to get out of the thicket, not go deeper within.
 

Scent of Cedar *

Well-Known Member
Me, too. And Have Gun Will Travel and Rawhide.

Yes! And I love the Rawhide song to this day. And that cute little Clint Eastwood, too.

"Make my day", when he was Dirty Harry.

And there is my response, should my family of origin try to break in and break me, ever again.

"Do you feel lucky."

"Make my day."

Boy, I feel mean, this morning.

Cedar


 

Copabanana

Well-Known Member
D H tells me that when my mother is gone what I will feel is relief; as though a weight has been lifted.
This is interesting to me. If I had not involved myself in my mother's protection and care, would I have felt relief?

I have told myself the opposite. That had I not cared for her, it would have been way worse.
 

Scent of Cedar *

Well-Known Member
He became a hopeless drunk. Completely degraded and me with him.

I realized this morning that I have been seeing my father in a degraded way, Copa. And there was my mother. Saying rotten things about him to me behind his back. When he lost his hearing, she would say them right in front of him. Such contempt in her face when she did that, Copa.

And if he could not hear...who, in all the hells that ever were, was my mother trying to hurt.

Me.

To hold him in contempt like that. I thought that was normal, Copa and Serenity. I saw my own D H in those terms. Under everything, I mean. I thought that was how you did it; how you treated the person you were married to. To my father's face, my mother behaved in a disgustingly servile way.

And my D H told me, early in our relationship, never to do that to him. That I was not his mother; that I was his woman. (Added on rereading before posting: With all the power accruing to the Mother, the Universal Mother. That is why my mother did that. Well, I don't know. I am getting ahead of myself, here.)

You asked me once Copa, when I began to trust my D H.

Then.

That was the beginning of it.

I was puzzled at the time. I did not know another way to behave with a husband.

I did not begin to treat D H that way until after we were married.

My mother, whispering, whispering contemptuous things to me about my own husband, about my own father. "Us" against them. Against our own men, against those who reflect ourselves to us in lust and in cherishment and in children.

Geez, I hate that.

How much have we lost, all of us, to have been taught to see the men in our lives in these ways.

What a nasty, tangled up mess.

They see this as weakness and do it more.

Yes; and when I wrote it initially, I wrote in contempt for myself. In these few minutes since that initial response, I see instead the Child.

And I see her victimization.

At last, I see her innocence, her bruised face, her confusion and pain and puzzlement.

I see me, see the Child that is me.

Finally.

The others ~ the mother, the sister, the brother, the father betrayed ~ none of this matters, now.

We are coming real.

And heard, with bated breath
the tale with which its Listener replied


I...believe you, Child


So she reached out and punished me, in the worst way she could. Just like the screams and to tell the caretaker, I don't care if she comes or not.

Did these people never, ever stop?!?

He became a hopeless drunk. Completely degraded and me with him.

This morning, believing myself to be posting for you Copa, I have seen my mother's degrading influence in my father's life. I posted about the "confession", supposedly because everyone needed to know the "truth" about who my father was, really, and not the "big boss" at all...that my mother had had an affair a zillion years before.

Do these people never, ever stop.

And I have posted before about the crash and burn of that business my father had begun. He went on to make more businesses.

With my mother at his side.

Why did he stay with her.

Why does my D H stay with me.

I am feeling pretty ugly, this morning.

Sullied.

Dirtied.

roar

Cedar roars off on the Conduct Disorders motorcycle to run the perimeter naked. Cleansing herself, proving herself.

Naming, herself.

There is such anger and such strength, here.

I am angry, you guys. Helpless and oh, man. Somewhere in our stories there is courage and choice. Or we would be like our mothers, like our sisters.

I don't see it right now.

I will hold faith with myself that it is there, then.

If this weren't true I would not be who I am.

And there is no "F you, mom" in these feelings. In these feelings, the mother figure is seen. She has no value. She latched onto the dignity of the Universal Mother, twisted that to her advantage, but it was again and forever, the same twisted meaningless meanness that is always the flavor of her. Meaningless, powerless puppet player facsimile of the honor the Universal Mother incorporates and is due.

And in this assessment, a tiny flash of compassion. Guilt, and compassion.

Why.

Why compassion, why protection, why "There but for the grace of God go I."

I still think I might be her, might be like her.

Still think there must be some reason to it; some woundedness in her she could not rise above, maybe.

Here again, D H comes to my rescue just by being who he is. "Don't treat me that way. You are not my mother; you are my woman."

Servile is how my mother turned my father into a child, in her mind.

And we all know what she did to her children.

There is a point past they do not deserve protecting. Except that they were all we had.

True, Copa.

:sorrowsmiley2:

I feel very sad for us.

I do too in a way, Copa. But you know how I was just posting about holding faith that, though I sure don't feel it this morning, there must be courage here in me?

There it is.

We are choosing to see it when we might have remained comfortably in denial.

We are breaking through on two levels here, then. Breaking through to what it was for us growing up, and breaking through denial strategies that have kept that truth safe from us for all of our lives.

No wonder I feel all ugly this morning.

Phew.

Okay. So one more F you, mom. But there is no fire in it. It's like holding up a sign that says ~ that has a portrait of my family of origin.

No surprises.

Flash the picture.

On we go.

Smoke and devastation in our wake, and the tiny, greening plants that come first, after destruction and before the burgeoning hardwood forest is reborn.

All we had before was a picture of ~ a distillation of haunted desires, right? An intense longing for something that never was.

Us.

What we wanted was never them. It was us. Here is the question: Where is the wisdom in seeking redefinition from those whose every smallest intent was to see to it that we would forever define ourselves as they presented us to ourselves.

These people are like, snaky mean.

My sister, praying a ring of thorns and keeping a picture of the two of us in her bathroom so she could fixate on me every single day of her sad little life.

What.

Nothing here makes sense.

Until we pull the threads out.

:starplucker:

Your mother was the only object you had. You had no choice. Forgive yourself.

Oh. Good thinking, Copa.

I am not clear on how to forgive myself.

It's all so cheap and ugly. If there were a win here, if there were some ~ there must be some sense to be made of this.

I am thinking of those articles we read about sociopathy and gaslighting and psychopathy.

Those people in those articles were never able to make sense of things, either.

When I think like that I feel stronger, a little. Like, "Whew. What a really bad way to grow up. Even if I did get a John Wayne doll for Christmas."

And I really liked it, too.

And that brings the feeling of the woman with the bruised face, eating the breakfast her abuser bought.

Circle.

This is interesting to me. If I had not involved myself in my mother's protection and care, would I have felt relief?

I have told myself the opposite. That had I not cared for her, it would have been way worse.

You compromised every value you had lived by, every painful admission you had made about your upbringing, to provide not only the responsibility to see that your mother was cared for, but love.

To love her.

We have posted about the feeling of "automaton" each of us has experienced, has lived from, in our adult interactions with our mothers.

Could it be that you forced yourself to give to her an honor she did not deserve.

D H sneers at my mother's contention that she is the matriarch of our family. He says she does not deserve that title.

My mother held D H mother in contempt; she hated the love her children have for their mother. It is a different kind of thing than I have ever seen. I have posted about the feel of D H family being the way it feels to watch a litter of puppies. Everyone getting what each needs; all being cared for and cleaned and protected by the mother. all of them sleeping together, comforted by the warmth and the struggle and the certainty of the milk and the mother and the safety and nourishment she represents.

They still feel that way as they now protect the mother.

There is that feeling to them.

That is nothing like my family of origin feels.

Scorpions; a nest of scorpions. Ugly and poisonous and really, really black and wicked.

And scary.

Whew.

:916wildone:


:9-07tears:

***

Thank you, each of you witnessing for me, here. I can move through it when I know you are here. I would get stuck in devaluation without you.

You matter.

Thank you.

It truly sucks sometimes, but we are doing this.

I go on about D H all the time here, I know that. But this is what he said to me the other day re: family of origins stuff. "I feel badly for you that you have to use this time, this time that is your time for your life, for assessing your life and the things you've loved and the things you've won or lost or survived, on them. I will be happy for you to be done. You deserve better. They weren't worth it the first time." He added something about my own life, the time I will be here, alive in this life, drawing down to the time it will be done.

The other side of that is when I think back to how scared I was of them. Remember my being so afraid that my sister would call, or that they would show up, uninvited, at my door.

I am not afraid, now.

Okay. A little trepidation.

For heaven's sake.

:919Mad:

Cedar

That's okay. LIke D H said yesterday about the mud: "Good. Now we know where we are."

In mud.

Speaking of which, that is where I am going, now. Out to dig a trench.

Know what, you guys? There was an unuspected frog in that water yesterday. And when he leaped out because I was mucking around in there, trying to drain the water?

I nearly wet my pants.

:cutie_pie:
 

Copabanana

Well-Known Member
I have not read your recent posts, Cedar. First, I tried so hard to remember something I heard on the way home. It was about the FDA or something, and their fighting the study of Lyme Disease.

And after all, I forgot the phrase, when I got carried away unloading groceries.

It was something like this: A lie too big to own. And I thought of our Mothers. That is why my mother could not tell me she was sorry. Or even Thank You.

And that is why your mother doubles down instead of softens. They are in so deep there feels no way out.

Maybe that is how I feel about my father. Because it could well have been I piled on to him, what I could not give to my mother. I do not know.

Now I will read your recent posts.
 
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Copabanana

Well-Known Member
some woundedness in her she could not rise above, maybe.
Yes. For sure, this. But go back to that quote, A lie to big to own.

Now, on one level every identity is this. Because so little about any of us is authentic. We borrow it from modeling those people like our mother and father, combined with genetics and other environmental influences. But there comes a point in the late twenties and thereafter where there is some possibility of choice. I know that people can be damaged so severely that modification is not permitted by the rigidity of their personalities.

I do not know if this is the case with our mothers, or not.
But I know that my mother knew what she was doing and she knew what she was. She knew it.
What we wanted was never them. It was us.
I do not know if this is true. Except if you mean that the picture you had of a Mother was something created out of whole cloth from your own need.
Where is the wisdom in seeking redefinition from those whose every smallest intent was to see to it that we would forever define ourselves as they presented us to ourselves.
The lie too big to own.

Cedar, I believe that you nurtured a hidden self. Apart from her. From the time you were tiny. Serenity and I did too.

It is a big, big question if our mothers could see us ever in any way other than they needed us to be. Except for short intervals. I am really missing my Mother right now. There were dinners out, a lunch out, that were my best memories in my life. My mother did not remember.
 
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Copabanana

Well-Known Member
Could it be that you forced yourself to give to her an honor she did not deserve.
I see it this way, Cedar. I gave myself an honor that I deserved. I could not leave my mother to be preyed upon and to die alone. As I cared for her I fell in love. It required me to undue every ounce of self-protection that I had built up in a lifetime. I as if betrayed the person I had become. How to reconcile what I did, to betray myself by honor has taken me two years since my mother died.
 

Copabanana

Well-Known Member
That I was not his mother; that I was his woman.
D H has been so patient with you. Your whole life together, it seems.

Spanish has two words for wife that I know. One is most literally wife, and that is esposa. The other is mujer, or woman. At first it was jarring to hear proper wives being called "my woman." To English speaking ears, it sounded degrading or private. Not any more.

It feels like being claimed, owned in the best possible sense.
 

BusynMember

Well-Known Member
Here is a secret I keep from myself: My mother has done the same. She has cheapened my father's memory and my sister has gone along with every bit of it.
This is interesting. My mother made her horrible marriage all about abusive dad (her opinion). I'm quite sure the others see it more his fault too, but I'm not sure.

I certainly don't. She was impossible to live with.Nobody would have been able to have lived with her in peace for a long time. And my dad was a poor choice because he could be baited. But any normal man would have had problems with her.

I have my own fantasy: If my mother had actually seen my sister and brother every day, things would have been very different and far uglier. She couldn't get along long term with anybody. Her only long term relationship in which she lived with somebody was my father and that was a disaster. It was totally dysfunctional. She had no long term friends. She moved away from Illinois so she didn't see my sister often. Golden Child brother was in NJ. It's not that hard to act halfway normal for a week or so.

I'm thinking if the t hree of them had lived within blocks of one another and seen each other all the time, they would not have the same nice memories and my sibs may not even be speaking.

Distance.

Distance is a blessing.

My move to Wisconsin was the beginning of my Born Again life. Oh, there were phone and e-mail problems, but that's still a state apart. Yes, she called the cops and told the man who knew me well that jI was bipolar, and, yes, she did it with malice in her black heart, but it wasn't the big deal she probably thought it was. In my new town, people liked me and he did too. And since she kept calling, he started thinking she was the crazy one.

The distance did help.

I never had to worry about running into her. That's huge.

My mother did not get along well with her own mother. I knew that first hand.

Actually, she worshipped her brother, Uncle Vain, so I believe she was so in awe of him she didn't misbehave or lose her temper to him. At one time they both lived in the same state and got together...how often, I have no idea.

She never found her own true love...well, she did, but he betrayed her.

The women in my family do not have good track records finding love.

Ok, sorry. Go back to the topic please. Vent is over.
 
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