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Family of Origin
Work and Germany; Benedictines and Buddhists: Attitude
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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 671752" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>Yes, it resonated with me too, Serenity. </p><p></p><p>These lists will help us reparent ourselves, I think. </p><p></p><p>I have such a time making decisions. It goes back to believing my choices will always be wrong, somehow. I can see my mother's eyes; can see the curl of her lip: <em>Just don't think, Cedar. </em></p><p></p><p><em>Now that I am in this heightened emotional state from all this work we have been doing, I feel tears at the corners of my eyes, when I see that, again.</em></p><p><em>That is the taste of compassion for the self, so I love it and am not ashamed.</em></p><p></p><p>Which does not mean I am going to allow boo-hooing in public.</p><p></p><p>Ever.</p><p></p><p>I most sincerely hope.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Just knowing that, just connecting that memory, those words, to compassion for myself frees me. This is the source ~ this thing I remember which holds the power of all the things I do not remember ~ of the panicked assertion that I can do this, that I will just pick one ~ pick something, pick anything: What does the other person seem to want?</em></p><p></p><p><em>Pick that, and call it my own.</em></p><p></p><p>We don't know what we like, going in. We don't know how to create a new thing because those parts of self others take so for granted were the very parts where our abusers fed. This is connected to the food thing, and to the allergy thing, I just know it.</p><p></p><p>Copa posted yesterday that in M's culture, women somaticize anxiety and depression. If she has time, she will tell us more about that, today.</p><p></p><p>Recovering these aspects of self increases internal, versus external, locus of control.</p><p></p><p>That is what was stolen. Internal locus of control. That is what was broken in us so our abusers could dance in that peculiar light.</p><p></p><p>We need to reclaim that.</p><p></p><p>Nothing to do with our abusers.</p><p></p><p>We were children then, and powerless because we did not know. Now, we do.</p><p></p><p>Even with all of this, I admire my mother and find her beautiful and so bright.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>I don't think I see my family of origin as a failure so much as I see it as having been twisted by my mother. It all leads back to her, and to how she needed things to be. That contempt piece, still live and vital in her, today. I just don't know what to think about my mother. She is frightening and mostly, very scary because she uses normal feelings, fine, bright feelings, to hurt people with rejection or ridicule.</p><p></p><p>Here is a story.</p><p></p><p>So, my mother was maybe 81 when this happened. She uses no cane, she is alert and oriented, very bright. So, I was at her house, washing the outside windows. My mother was outside, too. I realized I hadn't heard from her, and wondered whether she had gone in or what, but finished washing the window I was on before going in to be sure she was okay.</p><p></p><p>There was my mother, lying face down on the ground.</p><p></p><p>Motionless.</p><p></p><p>When she knew I had seen her, she leaped up, laughing. She was fine.</p><p></p><p>For heaven's sake.</p><p></p><p>Cedar</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 671752, member: 17461"] Yes, it resonated with me too, Serenity. These lists will help us reparent ourselves, I think. I have such a time making decisions. It goes back to believing my choices will always be wrong, somehow. I can see my mother's eyes; can see the curl of her lip: [I]Just don't think, Cedar. [/I] [I]Now that I am in this heightened emotional state from all this work we have been doing, I feel tears at the corners of my eyes, when I see that, again. That is the taste of compassion for the self, so I love it and am not ashamed.[/I] Which does not mean I am going to allow boo-hooing in public. Ever. I most sincerely hope. *** [I] Just knowing that, just connecting that memory, those words, to compassion for myself frees me. This is the source ~ this thing I remember which holds the power of all the things I do not remember ~ of the panicked assertion that I can do this, that I will just pick one ~ pick something, pick anything: What does the other person seem to want?[/I] [I]Pick that, and call it my own.[/I] We don't know what we like, going in. We don't know how to create a new thing because those parts of self others take so for granted were the very parts where our abusers fed. This is connected to the food thing, and to the allergy thing, I just know it. Copa posted yesterday that in M's culture, women somaticize anxiety and depression. If she has time, she will tell us more about that, today. Recovering these aspects of self increases internal, versus external, locus of control. That is what was stolen. Internal locus of control. That is what was broken in us so our abusers could dance in that peculiar light. We need to reclaim that. Nothing to do with our abusers. We were children then, and powerless because we did not know. Now, we do. Even with all of this, I admire my mother and find her beautiful and so bright. I don't think I see my family of origin as a failure so much as I see it as having been twisted by my mother. It all leads back to her, and to how she needed things to be. That contempt piece, still live and vital in her, today. I just don't know what to think about my mother. She is frightening and mostly, very scary because she uses normal feelings, fine, bright feelings, to hurt people with rejection or ridicule. Here is a story. So, my mother was maybe 81 when this happened. She uses no cane, she is alert and oriented, very bright. So, I was at her house, washing the outside windows. My mother was outside, too. I realized I hadn't heard from her, and wondered whether she had gone in or what, but finished washing the window I was on before going in to be sure she was okay. There was my mother, lying face down on the ground. Motionless. When she knew I had seen her, she leaped up, laughing. She was fine. For heaven's sake. Cedar [/QUOTE]
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