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Family of Origin
That "why." Do we ever really know? Why does it matter?
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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 673128" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>It was helpful to me to understand how different my family of origin was. Maybe, it was my mother who was so different. Maybe that is what affected everything else. To have been able to put a "why" to it helped me understand I had been through something really bad. Worse than normal badness, maybe. So, I saw just the beginning piece that maybe I was very strong and not just intrinsically a wrongness at the core of me; something to be covered and hidden away, lest others know it too. Through the work we have done here, I was able to understand the difference in perspective attained through seeing the abuser hurting me through my own eyes, instead of seeing myself being hurt through the abuser's self-justifying eyes. </p><p></p><p>That piece was crucial to healing shame and contempt, and to giving myself permission to heal.</p><p></p><p>Crucial.</p><p></p><p>I required witness, to do that. To grant that process legitimacy, I mean. Our abusers were very sure, when they did what they did, that they had every right to do it <em>specifically to us</em>. We learned that about ourselves <em>from them</em>. That is what we need to heal: We need to relearn the value of life, and to reclaim the inalienable right to cherish our great good fortune in being alive, right here, right now, all of our lives.</p><p></p><p>So, that is why we have to scour those childhood memories clean; that is why "why" matters very much.</p><p></p><p>We need to get it in our bones that we each are so perfect; each of us, every one of us everywhere, every living bit of matter anywhere, a gift so miraculous it boggles the brain. That is what was hurt out of us.</p><p></p><p>The Light.</p><p></p><p>We could not see a thing, by the time they were finished with us.</p><p></p><p>Remember the poetry: <em>Savaged dead and stolen, blind.</em></p><p></p><p>That was exactly true.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>That is where we heal. Understanding they had no right. They are human like us. They are not specially designated superhuman people. They are human, like us, and what they did involved choice and was very wrong and not decent and not correct. So, like all twisted secret things at the heart of them, rotten. Nothing to stand on, there; no way then, to stand up.</p><p></p><p>So, we have to stand ourselves up. We have to believe we deserve to stand, first. Then, we have to believe we can.</p><p></p><p>It's harder than a person would think. Believing and deserving, I mean.</p><p></p><p>That's the key, though.</p><p></p><p>Those are the things shame destroys.</p><p></p><p>And I do not see the value in that win.</p><p></p><p>Unless the value was our presence as witness.</p><p></p><p>That could be.</p><p></p><p>And whether we were strong or whether that made us strong, here we all are.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Children are dependent beings. Parents are not meant to view them as hostages to something no one understands.</p><p></p><p>We need to get that, to heal.</p><p></p><p>They had no right.</p><p></p><p>Those feelings will have been whirling through the room during every abusive incident and during many times when the feelings were there though the abuser was not able to act on them. (And had to wake us up in the middle of the night, sleepy sentinels of sanity; targets for rage at something we did not understand, so we turned it on ourselves because they taught us that it what to do with such strong emotion.)</p><p></p><p>That is the purpose for us, for me for sure, in completing what we have begun, here: To see myself and my children and my D H and my house and clothes and pets and cars and the quality of my day through my own eyes and never again through those of the abuser.</p><p></p><p>Life is sweet.</p><p></p><p>My life is sweet.</p><p></p><p>It's like that.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>I find nothing to forgive in what happened to me, or to my sibs, or in what is happening, now. Choices are made. Play the game as written or don't play at all. It sucks to be out here in the cold, but I could no more run with the wolves now than I ever could.</p><p></p><p>But I have been contaminated by them.</p><p></p><p>I don't understand the why, but I am learning where it twisted me and deciding whether to accept the twist or refuse it.</p><p></p><p>Very lonely, either way.</p><p></p><p>It's like the piece of research Serenity found for us about flexibility versus rigidity in family roles being the defining factor in dysfunctional families. That is what I see in my family of origin insisting that our family remain a hierarchy.</p><p></p><p>The world is so cold. The tricks are so stupid, the reward in them so cheap, and so hurtful. I will never get the win in it for them.</p><p></p><p>I just don't get it.</p><p></p><p>So here I am, kicking the can down the road. No particular destination in mind, so I must already be there.</p><p></p><p>Very lonely.</p><p></p><p>Good.</p><p></p><p>I can trust myself.</p><p></p><p>Maybe that is why it matters. I believed them. I believed in them.</p><p></p><p>And they are not trustworthy. And I love them and so I am vulnerable to wanting them to be happy and safe. And the things that make them feel happy and safe hurt me. Whatever the thing was that created the dysbalance in the first place, that is still the key dynamic. It is a rigid thing, an expectation that forever floats up first, like something awful from the bottom of something that has no bottom. And they keep insisting there is nothing the matter here. And I keep saying: "Yes, but all these bodies are making it really stink."</p><p></p><p>And some of the bodies have my face, and some have theirs.</p><p></p><p>And they pretend there are no bodies.</p><p></p><p>And I am like, in a gas mask and astronaut hazard gear so I don't get any on me.</p><p></p><p>But they are having dinner. Together, those dirty rats!</p><p></p><p>And I am not.</p><p></p><p>Circle.</p><p></p><p>So, one day soon, I will remove myself and then, the astronaut hazard gear will go too, because I will have accepted something I don't yet understand. And whether I do accept it or whether I don't it will be too late.</p><p></p><p>It is already too late.</p><p></p><p>It was always too late.</p><p></p><p>So, we have time, then. </p><p></p><p>And I will breathe and the air will be fresh, and I will be used to the silence.</p><p></p><p>And find the tiniest flowers, and the overarching trees and the waterfalls and make a Garden.</p><p></p><p>So, that will happen after I remove the astronaut hazard suit. </p><p></p><p>I am alien to them, then.</p><p></p><p>Different than them.</p><p></p><p>Huh.</p><p></p><p>I call my own dead bodies home.</p><p></p><p>I am my own. Like the Marines, we do not leave our dead behind for them to see or make fun of or prove themselves against.</p><p></p><p>There are still plenty of bodies floating in that water.</p><p></p><p>None of them are mine.</p><p></p><p>Not anymore.</p><p></p><p>A choice.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>I think I learned compassion for myself through our work here, Leafy. And I learned how hurtful the way I had been taught to understand everything was, how toxic it is to think along those patterns my family of origin finds rewarding. </p><p></p><p>"Just don't think, Cedar."</p><p></p><p>I heard that a million times.</p><p></p><p>"Don't you dare."</p><p></p><p>Who talks like that.</p><p></p><p>People who abuse their own children in the first place.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>And it may not even be that they are the wrong ones. It's that I cannot walk that way. It seems wrong to me, and the prize at the end seems to be some tin thing that could never ring with the true, timeless clarity of crystal. But I am lonely, and I miss them, and I wish I could hear and see and laugh with them...but then I remember that never happened.</p><p></p><p>It's a very strange thing, to get that piece.</p><p></p><p>I still miss them, though.</p><p></p><p>From a very far distance is the best way to miss them. Up close? I want to kick them in the pants. Maybe they are right. Maybe everything should be done to my mother's specs. But it is too hurtful. </p><p></p><p>So, I'll be having my lunch all by myself.</p><p></p><p>Like in that Eagles song.</p><p></p><p>Pretty shaming, to sit there stupidly trying to eat lunch when the food is crummy and ill-prepared and people are throwing it at me because in the end, none of this has anything to do with nourishment.</p><p></p><p>So now I feel like Kung Fu.</p><p></p><p>No particular place to go.</p><p></p><p>Hair a mess.</p><p></p><p>:O)</p><p></p><p>Sun coming up.</p><p></p><p>I suppose I was hoping for a triumph. Hoping they would want me enough to change their ways. That didn't happen. I may be eating alone, but I am eating nourishing food that I am not allergic to, and that does not make me sick, and that has been prepared with devotion and purpose and intent.</p><p></p><p>I guess that is fine, then.</p><p></p><p>Lunch on the road; nourishment, complete and perfect, in what is at hand.</p><p></p><p>Another choice.</p><p></p><p>Everything to do with how we choose to see.</p><p></p><p>Cedar</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 673128, member: 17461"] It was helpful to me to understand how different my family of origin was. Maybe, it was my mother who was so different. Maybe that is what affected everything else. To have been able to put a "why" to it helped me understand I had been through something really bad. Worse than normal badness, maybe. So, I saw just the beginning piece that maybe I was very strong and not just intrinsically a wrongness at the core of me; something to be covered and hidden away, lest others know it too. Through the work we have done here, I was able to understand the difference in perspective attained through seeing the abuser hurting me through my own eyes, instead of seeing myself being hurt through the abuser's self-justifying eyes. That piece was crucial to healing shame and contempt, and to giving myself permission to heal. Crucial. I required witness, to do that. To grant that process legitimacy, I mean. Our abusers were very sure, when they did what they did, that they had every right to do it [I]specifically to us[/I]. We learned that about ourselves [I]from them[/I]. That is what we need to heal: We need to relearn the value of life, and to reclaim the inalienable right to cherish our great good fortune in being alive, right here, right now, all of our lives. So, that is why we have to scour those childhood memories clean; that is why "why" matters very much. We need to get it in our bones that we each are so perfect; each of us, every one of us everywhere, every living bit of matter anywhere, a gift so miraculous it boggles the brain. That is what was hurt out of us. The Light. We could not see a thing, by the time they were finished with us. Remember the poetry: [I]Savaged dead and stolen, blind.[/I] That was exactly true. *** That is where we heal. Understanding they had no right. They are human like us. They are not specially designated superhuman people. They are human, like us, and what they did involved choice and was very wrong and not decent and not correct. So, like all twisted secret things at the heart of them, rotten. Nothing to stand on, there; no way then, to stand up. So, we have to stand ourselves up. We have to believe we deserve to stand, first. Then, we have to believe we can. It's harder than a person would think. Believing and deserving, I mean. That's the key, though. Those are the things shame destroys. And I do not see the value in that win. Unless the value was our presence as witness. That could be. And whether we were strong or whether that made us strong, here we all are. *** Children are dependent beings. Parents are not meant to view them as hostages to something no one understands. We need to get that, to heal. They had no right. Those feelings will have been whirling through the room during every abusive incident and during many times when the feelings were there though the abuser was not able to act on them. (And had to wake us up in the middle of the night, sleepy sentinels of sanity; targets for rage at something we did not understand, so we turned it on ourselves because they taught us that it what to do with such strong emotion.) That is the purpose for us, for me for sure, in completing what we have begun, here: To see myself and my children and my D H and my house and clothes and pets and cars and the quality of my day through my own eyes and never again through those of the abuser. Life is sweet. My life is sweet. It's like that. I find nothing to forgive in what happened to me, or to my sibs, or in what is happening, now. Choices are made. Play the game as written or don't play at all. It sucks to be out here in the cold, but I could no more run with the wolves now than I ever could. But I have been contaminated by them. I don't understand the why, but I am learning where it twisted me and deciding whether to accept the twist or refuse it. Very lonely, either way. It's like the piece of research Serenity found for us about flexibility versus rigidity in family roles being the defining factor in dysfunctional families. That is what I see in my family of origin insisting that our family remain a hierarchy. The world is so cold. The tricks are so stupid, the reward in them so cheap, and so hurtful. I will never get the win in it for them. I just don't get it. So here I am, kicking the can down the road. No particular destination in mind, so I must already be there. Very lonely. Good. I can trust myself. Maybe that is why it matters. I believed them. I believed in them. And they are not trustworthy. And I love them and so I am vulnerable to wanting them to be happy and safe. And the things that make them feel happy and safe hurt me. Whatever the thing was that created the dysbalance in the first place, that is still the key dynamic. It is a rigid thing, an expectation that forever floats up first, like something awful from the bottom of something that has no bottom. And they keep insisting there is nothing the matter here. And I keep saying: "Yes, but all these bodies are making it really stink." And some of the bodies have my face, and some have theirs. And they pretend there are no bodies. And I am like, in a gas mask and astronaut hazard gear so I don't get any on me. But they are having dinner. Together, those dirty rats! And I am not. Circle. So, one day soon, I will remove myself and then, the astronaut hazard gear will go too, because I will have accepted something I don't yet understand. And whether I do accept it or whether I don't it will be too late. It is already too late. It was always too late. So, we have time, then. And I will breathe and the air will be fresh, and I will be used to the silence. And find the tiniest flowers, and the overarching trees and the waterfalls and make a Garden. So, that will happen after I remove the astronaut hazard suit. I am alien to them, then. Different than them. Huh. I call my own dead bodies home. I am my own. Like the Marines, we do not leave our dead behind for them to see or make fun of or prove themselves against. There are still plenty of bodies floating in that water. None of them are mine. Not anymore. A choice. I think I learned compassion for myself through our work here, Leafy. And I learned how hurtful the way I had been taught to understand everything was, how toxic it is to think along those patterns my family of origin finds rewarding. "Just don't think, Cedar." I heard that a million times. "Don't you dare." Who talks like that. People who abuse their own children in the first place. *** And it may not even be that they are the wrong ones. It's that I cannot walk that way. It seems wrong to me, and the prize at the end seems to be some tin thing that could never ring with the true, timeless clarity of crystal. But I am lonely, and I miss them, and I wish I could hear and see and laugh with them...but then I remember that never happened. It's a very strange thing, to get that piece. I still miss them, though. From a very far distance is the best way to miss them. Up close? I want to kick them in the pants. Maybe they are right. Maybe everything should be done to my mother's specs. But it is too hurtful. So, I'll be having my lunch all by myself. Like in that Eagles song. Pretty shaming, to sit there stupidly trying to eat lunch when the food is crummy and ill-prepared and people are throwing it at me because in the end, none of this has anything to do with nourishment. So now I feel like Kung Fu. No particular place to go. Hair a mess. :O) Sun coming up. I suppose I was hoping for a triumph. Hoping they would want me enough to change their ways. That didn't happen. I may be eating alone, but I am eating nourishing food that I am not allergic to, and that does not make me sick, and that has been prepared with devotion and purpose and intent. I guess that is fine, then. Lunch on the road; nourishment, complete and perfect, in what is at hand. Another choice. Everything to do with how we choose to see. Cedar [/QUOTE]
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