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Did I give birth to an unicorn? Or three easy steps to become a guru
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<blockquote data-quote="Copabanana" data-source="post: 665079" data-attributes="member: 18958"><p>So, I my Dad was somewhat like Suzir's. I am trying to find the book I read about 40 years ago that captured the dynamic. Self-centered, attractive, irresponsible father and a responsible son. In my family I let my feet do the talking. Not until that final encounter with my sister in the hospital, did I speak any words. Before that, I just withdrew. For years. I regret I did not speak sooner. I was afraid.</p><p>D H is right. My Mother would hang up on me. Over and over again.</p><p></p><p>And then I blame myself for it. And blame myself for the consequence: That I was afraid to be close to her. And then she was very old. And there were no more chances. And somehow, although I know on an intellectual level she bore at least some responsibility, I am left holding the bag.</p><p>Is staying away "standing up"? That is the question, I have.</p><p></p><p>When I said to her, "your life is not more important than mine." And then as a consequence she endured agony in that board and care home, with the pressure ulcer that was concealed and the screaming. Was that standing up? Or was it standing down?</p><p>This is correct. Our parents not one time held their weight. Not even their own. And the common denominator is that they expected their children to carry their weight. Not just their own. But the weight of their parents. And when the child balks or utters a word, they are punished.</p><p>This is it. But the thing is, Cedar, it may not change, except in you, in your marriage and in your own family...not in the system that your mother still controls.</p><p></p><p>I fear that there is no incentive for changing by your mother or sister. I fear they will always act against the deviant, and in this situation it is you.</p><p></p><p>I woke this morning from a dream. A few crumbs of it I was able to hold onto. </p><p></p><p>I was in an affluent suburb with green rolling hills with my sister and mother (not far from where we would go on summer weekends to escape the cold coastal weather where we lived.) </p><p></p><p>We were on foot. I commented to my mother, have you ever been here in xxx? No, she answered. Never.</p><p></p><p>And then there is a broad street we have to cross, at an intersection. With an occasional car whizzing by. Both intersecting streets are very, very wide. </p><p></p><p>It is a question of judgment as to when and if to cross. I do not remember our destination, but the urgency to get there is very great and intense. And there is a question of the correct direction to go. While not speaking, my sister and I each have a different idea (and will) of where or whether to cross. </p><p></p><p>And then my sister decides and through her wordless action moves forward with my Mother in tow. And I hold back. Alone. </p><p></p><p>Because I feel it is the wrong direction. I hold back.</p><p></p><p>And they are now separate from me and out of sight. I realize I had wanted to be with them. It is too late. They are now lost. </p><p></p><p>I know then that even though it was the wrong direction, and unsafe, I wanted to be with them. I try to find them. Now retracing my steps. Irregardless of the dangers.</p><p></p><p>I see a cute shopping street. Like a small village. Upscale. Darling. With all of the arty things in windows that attract the very, discerning shopper who wants to pay premium prices for the uniquely crafted thing. Distracted for a second from my mission, I soon return to my trek.</p><p></p><p>I see a man a handicapped man on a gurney counting money, with his wife. Because he has stories to tell about life, wise and special tales...he had been paid as a curiosity...to tell of his experiences, adventures and wisdom, by those affluent shoppers. As a curiosity. I take note and I go on.</p><p></p><p>And my Mother and sister are lost to me.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Copabanana, post: 665079, member: 18958"] So, I my Dad was somewhat like Suzir's. I am trying to find the book I read about 40 years ago that captured the dynamic. Self-centered, attractive, irresponsible father and a responsible son. In my family I let my feet do the talking. Not until that final encounter with my sister in the hospital, did I speak any words. Before that, I just withdrew. For years. I regret I did not speak sooner. I was afraid. D H is right. My Mother would hang up on me. Over and over again. And then I blame myself for it. And blame myself for the consequence: That I was afraid to be close to her. And then she was very old. And there were no more chances. And somehow, although I know on an intellectual level she bore at least some responsibility, I am left holding the bag. Is staying away "standing up"? That is the question, I have. When I said to her, "your life is not more important than mine." And then as a consequence she endured agony in that board and care home, with the pressure ulcer that was concealed and the screaming. Was that standing up? Or was it standing down? This is correct. Our parents not one time held their weight. Not even their own. And the common denominator is that they expected their children to carry their weight. Not just their own. But the weight of their parents. And when the child balks or utters a word, they are punished. This is it. But the thing is, Cedar, it may not change, except in you, in your marriage and in your own family...not in the system that your mother still controls. I fear that there is no incentive for changing by your mother or sister. I fear they will always act against the deviant, and in this situation it is you. I woke this morning from a dream. A few crumbs of it I was able to hold onto. I was in an affluent suburb with green rolling hills with my sister and mother (not far from where we would go on summer weekends to escape the cold coastal weather where we lived.) We were on foot. I commented to my mother, have you ever been here in xxx? No, she answered. Never. And then there is a broad street we have to cross, at an intersection. With an occasional car whizzing by. Both intersecting streets are very, very wide. It is a question of judgment as to when and if to cross. I do not remember our destination, but the urgency to get there is very great and intense. And there is a question of the correct direction to go. While not speaking, my sister and I each have a different idea (and will) of where or whether to cross. And then my sister decides and through her wordless action moves forward with my Mother in tow. And I hold back. Alone. Because I feel it is the wrong direction. I hold back. And they are now separate from me and out of sight. I realize I had wanted to be with them. It is too late. They are now lost. I know then that even though it was the wrong direction, and unsafe, I wanted to be with them. I try to find them. Now retracing my steps. Irregardless of the dangers. I see a cute shopping street. Like a small village. Upscale. Darling. With all of the arty things in windows that attract the very, discerning shopper who wants to pay premium prices for the uniquely crafted thing. Distracted for a second from my mission, I soon return to my trek. I see a man a handicapped man on a gurney counting money, with his wife. Because he has stories to tell about life, wise and special tales...he had been paid as a curiosity...to tell of his experiences, adventures and wisdom, by those affluent shoppers. As a curiosity. I take note and I go on. And my Mother and sister are lost to me. [/QUOTE]
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