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Family of Origin
Is there a time we can and should say good-bye to our past?
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<blockquote data-quote="Copabanana" data-source="post: 664263" data-attributes="member: 18958"><p>SWOT, thank you for this thread.</p><p></p><p>I am thinking about the time at the BBQ when my then 6 year old son, yelled out to my aunt "don't pinch me" as she was standing behind him at the picnic table. And my sister went in to apologize to my aunt for us (I guess, I was guilty because I did not check my son.)</p><p></p><p>If this was not blatant rejection, I do not know what is.</p><p></p><p>I lived my life estranged. I define it as something I chose. That I did not want to be around the bad behavior of my sister or mother. I tell myself that I tried to stay far away from abuse.</p><p></p><p>Maybe the reality is that I removed myself from the reality of rejection: I withdrew because I had already been invalidated. My estrangement was already a done deal.</p><p></p><p>It could well be that it did not fit the sense of myself that I wanted to or needed to have as a valuable and worthwhile person, that I submerged what was my real subjective sense: rejected and abandoned.</p><p>I had this condition in my life. My maternal grandparents were very close to us, and lived very close. My grandmother was present in our home 3 or 4 days a week, until I was 13 and we moved after my mother's remarriage.</p><p></p><p>It was when my grandmother died when I was 26 that I acknowledged the estrangement <em>that already existed between myself and my mother and sister. </em>Five years later when my grandfather died, there had already been years of formal separation.</p><p></p><p>This was my life, too. I had thought I chose it, I now think I did not.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>SWOT, I agree with Cedar.</p><p></p><p>There are places like the Holocaust Museum that honor and remember those killed. They do not see those people as victims. They see them as heroes.</p><p></p><p>As long as the Holocaust Museum exists the perpetrators will be remembered as what they were. Never Forget is the mantra of many. Never Forget. Because the minute one does those terrible deeds are swept away to be the dust of history.</p><p></p><p>I take a stand with Cedar, and with you SWOT. We first must acknowledge the truth of what happened. And then, never, ever forget it.</p><p></p><p>There are all kinds of pressures on us to forget. To go with the flow. To make amends. To move on from negativity. To get over it.</p><p></p><p>The thing is, how do you get over "evil." Should you, once you have felt, really felt and lived its effects? </p><p></p><p>The potential to evil is in everyone of us. We choose to either squelch it or cultivate it in a little petrie dish in our inner soul. Each evil thought or act breeds another, and another and another. It seems your Mother would not or <em>felt she</em> could<em> not stop</em> the breeding of evil acts in her psyche.</p><p></p><p>There is no museum, SWOT, to remember you as the little person who was so badly treated. Only you. (And here, when you post.)</p><p></p><p>Look at it this way: Here we are your museum. The place where no one will ever forget. Here we will always remember crimes against children. Do not ever forget, SWOT. Never, ever allow your experience to be forgotten. Especially, by yourself.</p><p></p><p>And now I am thinking about my son, and how he must feel. That his parents filled his little body within, still unborn with toxins and disease...uncaring how their drugs or alcohol may have poisoned him...uncaring even that he was conceived in their disease ridden bodies. And then threw him away like garbage.</p><p></p><p>Imagine the wounds of a beginning like that. It is too easy to concentrate on the markings of objective disease and limits. What about the psychic and spiritual consequences of knowing your entry into life itself, was such as this?</p><p></p><p>So many times I have thought my son's destiny was in the spiritual realm, as a leader and thinker. In what other way could someone move beyond the toxicity of his beginnings?</p><p>There was a white leather picture album. With black card stock pages. I sometimes looked at that album every day, several times. Those pictures were mostly of me. I was born quite tiny. Too tiny to live, really.</p><p></p><p>The baby in that album clearly looked celebrated and loved. The little girl who saw those pictures was not.</p><p></p><p>Let us never forget: This is a horrible thing, if this is so. Still, I cannot come to it.Yes.</p><p>Yes.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Copabanana, post: 664263, member: 18958"] SWOT, thank you for this thread. I am thinking about the time at the BBQ when my then 6 year old son, yelled out to my aunt "don't pinch me" as she was standing behind him at the picnic table. And my sister went in to apologize to my aunt for us (I guess, I was guilty because I did not check my son.) If this was not blatant rejection, I do not know what is. I lived my life estranged. I define it as something I chose. That I did not want to be around the bad behavior of my sister or mother. I tell myself that I tried to stay far away from abuse. Maybe the reality is that I removed myself from the reality of rejection: I withdrew because I had already been invalidated. My estrangement was already a done deal. It could well be that it did not fit the sense of myself that I wanted to or needed to have as a valuable and worthwhile person, that I submerged what was my real subjective sense: rejected and abandoned. I had this condition in my life. My maternal grandparents were very close to us, and lived very close. My grandmother was present in our home 3 or 4 days a week, until I was 13 and we moved after my mother's remarriage. It was when my grandmother died when I was 26 that I acknowledged the estrangement [I]that already existed between myself and my mother and sister. [/I]Five years later when my grandfather died, there had already been years of formal separation. This was my life, too. I had thought I chose it, I now think I did not. SWOT, I agree with Cedar. There are places like the Holocaust Museum that honor and remember those killed. They do not see those people as victims. They see them as heroes. As long as the Holocaust Museum exists the perpetrators will be remembered as what they were. Never Forget is the mantra of many. Never Forget. Because the minute one does those terrible deeds are swept away to be the dust of history. I take a stand with Cedar, and with you SWOT. We first must acknowledge the truth of what happened. And then, never, ever forget it. There are all kinds of pressures on us to forget. To go with the flow. To make amends. To move on from negativity. To get over it. The thing is, how do you get over "evil." Should you, once you have felt, really felt and lived its effects? The potential to evil is in everyone of us. We choose to either squelch it or cultivate it in a little petrie dish in our inner soul. Each evil thought or act breeds another, and another and another. It seems your Mother would not or [I]felt she[/I] could[I] not stop[/I] the breeding of evil acts in her psyche. There is no museum, SWOT, to remember you as the little person who was so badly treated. Only you. (And here, when you post.) Look at it this way: Here we are your museum. The place where no one will ever forget. Here we will always remember crimes against children. Do not ever forget, SWOT. Never, ever allow your experience to be forgotten. Especially, by yourself. And now I am thinking about my son, and how he must feel. That his parents filled his little body within, still unborn with toxins and disease...uncaring how their drugs or alcohol may have poisoned him...uncaring even that he was conceived in their disease ridden bodies. And then threw him away like garbage. Imagine the wounds of a beginning like that. It is too easy to concentrate on the markings of objective disease and limits. What about the psychic and spiritual consequences of knowing your entry into life itself, was such as this? So many times I have thought my son's destiny was in the spiritual realm, as a leader and thinker. In what other way could someone move beyond the toxicity of his beginnings? There was a white leather picture album. With black card stock pages. I sometimes looked at that album every day, several times. Those pictures were mostly of me. I was born quite tiny. Too tiny to live, really. The baby in that album clearly looked celebrated and loved. The little girl who saw those pictures was not. Let us never forget: This is a horrible thing, if this is so. Still, I cannot come to it.Yes. Yes. [/QUOTE]
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Is there a time we can and should say good-bye to our past?
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