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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 642620" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>I feel that way, too. I wonder if it's because we have known one another so well for so long. I feel heard and validated and clean. It is always so hard to speak the words that describe what happened without awakening a shame load so toxic that it seems healthier to just let it be. That happened after I posted about some of the things that happened, but I was okay. I came through it okay.</p><p></p><p>I was always so raw, so vulnerable after therapy. There was nothing to do with the reawakened shame. It was almost like being abused all over again. Here, I can write as much or as little as I like without time constraints. I hear all of our stories too, and become angry for each of us. </p><p></p><p>There is strength in anger.</p><p></p><p>I can see the wrongness in it when I think of these things that happened to one of you as little girls in a way I cannot see the wrongness in the things that happened to me. I know what I saw my mother do was wrong...but you don't see it from the same perspective when it is happening to you, of course. </p><p></p><p>One of the strangest things to me is that terrible things would happen (in the night, mostly ~ my father worked nights, when we were younger) and we would go to school the next day with all the other kids. If there were tests, we took them. If it was time to learn long division, we tried. Whatever it was that we were supposed to do, we did it. I know you all did that, too. Looking back as an adult, I wonder how we were able to do it. </p><p></p><p>I wonder how we were able to function, at all. How could we have learned, and been graded, and have succeeded as we did with what was happening to us?</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>They have taken their last pounds of willing flesh from me, too.</p><p></p><p>I don't know that I have been this angry about what happened to me, before. </p><p>How little we were....</p><p></p><p>I could see that, in the stories each of us told.</p><p></p><p>How little, and how scared, and how innocent we all were. This is a major thing, a major shift in perspective. The abuser in my memory looks twisted, now, instead of powerful.</p><p></p><p>So much of the spiritual damage lived in the abuser's eyes, in the certainty in them.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>I'm so glad, Witz.</p><p></p><p>So happy for you both.</p><p></p><p>Here is an interesting thing. My mother has done all she can to subvert the way each of her children feels about their mates. I wonder if on some level, you broke through some layer, some abusive layer comprised of what you felt about yourself in relation to your mate.</p><p></p><p>That has happened, for me.</p><p></p><p>It is a choice, you are right. I feel that.</p><p></p><p>And when I do that, I feel strong, too. Defiant, almost, to have those good things like respect for my mate, or joy and trust in him. I think it may be true even with our pets, Witz. So, maybe, with any smallest joy that is there for us, our abusers rotten little ghosts are tucked away inside us somewhere, requiring that we choose against ourselves on some level when the option for joy appears.</p><p></p><p>Simple joy in affection, or in the way the sun shines through, or a breeze. I think all those things were forbidden to us on some level. We weren't supposed to be happy. It was risky to be happy. It was better to be prepared, and we never knew when or how or why we would be hurt, next.</p><p></p><p>Our husbands must love us more than we can understand <em>or believe</em>.</p><p></p><p>How cool is that?!?</p><p></p><p>Cedar</p><p></p><p>.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 642620, member: 17461"] I feel that way, too. I wonder if it's because we have known one another so well for so long. I feel heard and validated and clean. It is always so hard to speak the words that describe what happened without awakening a shame load so toxic that it seems healthier to just let it be. That happened after I posted about some of the things that happened, but I was okay. I came through it okay. I was always so raw, so vulnerable after therapy. There was nothing to do with the reawakened shame. It was almost like being abused all over again. Here, I can write as much or as little as I like without time constraints. I hear all of our stories too, and become angry for each of us. There is strength in anger. I can see the wrongness in it when I think of these things that happened to one of you as little girls in a way I cannot see the wrongness in the things that happened to me. I know what I saw my mother do was wrong...but you don't see it from the same perspective when it is happening to you, of course. One of the strangest things to me is that terrible things would happen (in the night, mostly ~ my father worked nights, when we were younger) and we would go to school the next day with all the other kids. If there were tests, we took them. If it was time to learn long division, we tried. Whatever it was that we were supposed to do, we did it. I know you all did that, too. Looking back as an adult, I wonder how we were able to do it. I wonder how we were able to function, at all. How could we have learned, and been graded, and have succeeded as we did with what was happening to us? They have taken their last pounds of willing flesh from me, too. I don't know that I have been this angry about what happened to me, before. How little we were.... I could see that, in the stories each of us told. How little, and how scared, and how innocent we all were. This is a major thing, a major shift in perspective. The abuser in my memory looks twisted, now, instead of powerful. So much of the spiritual damage lived in the abuser's eyes, in the certainty in them. I'm so glad, Witz. So happy for you both. Here is an interesting thing. My mother has done all she can to subvert the way each of her children feels about their mates. I wonder if on some level, you broke through some layer, some abusive layer comprised of what you felt about yourself in relation to your mate. That has happened, for me. It is a choice, you are right. I feel that. And when I do that, I feel strong, too. Defiant, almost, to have those good things like respect for my mate, or joy and trust in him. I think it may be true even with our pets, Witz. So, maybe, with any smallest joy that is there for us, our abusers rotten little ghosts are tucked away inside us somewhere, requiring that we choose against ourselves on some level when the option for joy appears. Simple joy in affection, or in the way the sun shines through, or a breeze. I think all those things were forbidden to us on some level. We weren't supposed to be happy. It was risky to be happy. It was better to be prepared, and we never knew when or how or why we would be hurt, next. Our husbands must love us more than we can understand [I]or believe[/I]. How cool is that?!? Cedar . [/QUOTE]
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