Woke up to pouring rain, but at least this time I was ahead of it soaking my sleeping bags! I also felt much better after being sick all week, to pack up my gear and head to my local hangout these days—good ole’ McDonalds. I’m still grateful to them for feeding me when I had nothing, even though I can do without the gang activity or the pedos that are on the prowl or men looking for prostitutes, but that’s my small town these days and from what I read; most towns these days!
I stuff another Breakfast burrito in my face, it tastes so good, but my eating disorder is bad these days, eating so much meat now, thinking each time I will be going to Vegetarian hell for all the animals I have eaten the past year. It reminds me of my first year of college, empty and scared watching others chose new things they wanted to do, but I had to catch-up! I wasn’t used to the simplest of things; freedom to sleep, eat, even wash when I wanted. To be free of my mothers control and to make decisions for myself apart from her rages and abuse was heady stuff, but it put me behind to some degree. I was grateful I never really had to study; I never could growing up. I was able to do pretty good anyway and do what I needed, which I was to live. To enjoy just being, to enjoy just being free of such control over every little thing I did. I loved college!
I was praying each time I ate meat. My eating had gotten so clean it became spiritual in ways—mindful, contemplative, but even that fell by the wayside as me and God aren’t even speaking at all now! I laugh thinking about all the Bible lectures from my best-friend that has been apart of this deception all along. God and I were struggling, but now I’m thinking we have officially broken up. He is not the man I thought he was, but I think I hate all men these days, and well, God is masculine. I’m hoping he can get over his “mother issues,” when the truth about Mary Magdalene continues coming out and is more accepted.
I’m tired of just Jesus and Mary, his mother. I can’t imagine such an involved man being so obsessed with his mother that he could not have loved another women. Of course, I’m not talking about the carnal kind per say, but enough with mens obsession and incestuousness with their mothers! The inability for men to see them as women and the increasing degrees of Pedophilia that can result. I’m no expert, just my growing up with it and it’s constant in my life from men you would not expect that still refuse to grow up! Men that need young girls because as they get older they can’t relate to women. Men that need helpless, innocent girls because of the brutality of women in their lives that forced them to deny their feelings and forced their sexuality into some perverted form. Women so brutal they prey on these boys, ever so silently and deadly until they grow to hate women and can only relate to little girls, to—children!
I mourn the loss of innocence watching Brian Williams sign off. I loved him way back from the beginning, when I was first married 20yrs ago, 1996; forgiving him the mistake he had made one time being suspended. I have a thing for anchors. It’s funny thinking of it now, remembering even as a little girl loving the likes of Walter Cronkite, Peter Jennings—the Greats! Watching the news, as my mothers boyfriend, “Buddy,” made cakes in the kitchen. I was so grown up at 5yrs old watching the news even as they all told me I was “such a little girl.” Mr Williams signing off warning us about the growing Extremism. Thank you, Mr Williams for being the adult in the room!
So many things I’ve had to remember again. The pain often coming in unending waves like a rip tide pulling me under viciously and then repeatedly thrashing me against the rocks again and again and again. Broken dreams, layers of pain as I piece together my life again after it was all ripped apart. I have been forced to do this repeatedly beginning when I was 5yrs old. My life on the beautiful Sacandaga Lake with my cool Aunt and Uncle and their large sprawling mansion—Rockstar mansion. My rockstar dad and his music, my grandparents; my family before it was all brutally destroyed—deliberately! My ballet classes was the worse on top of losing my dad. Nothing in my life salvaged. All destroyed never to return. My pretty pink ballet shoes thrown away.
I sit watching the Nutcracker videos I have started to collect and can finally remember the trauma and pain. To release its grip on me. The pain buried so deep, the unending stalking. The loss of everything I loved when judges awarded my abusive mother custody with no regard for me. My father had never been abusive to me and I would not be able to face down her lies until recently—at 58yrs old. It’s taken the devastating loss of everything I had once again. It was like that first time so long ago and she is intimately involved once again, only this time with my ex husband!
Her predatory behavior like a man’s, stalking me constantly until finally just about succeeding in my death when she wasn’t trying to run me over. Her abuse unrelenting cumulating in her grand sadistic revelation this time—I would have no way out. The prey cornered, like a wounded deer bleeding out in a thicket in the woods never seeing the trap that was set. It had been a set range all along—it was never a real woods. It had always been a fenced in range, but so big the edges were not seen until the predators surrounded her, springing traps everywhere repeatedly, all set to spring at the same time—even chewing my foot off would not matter this time.
Mother would laugh in that hysterical way talking about how they butchered chickens on the farm. Her eyes would sparkle and shine as she talked of them running around with their heads cut-off. I would sit in horror trying not to listen. Her sadism apparent so young and I was always her target when it wasn’t my grandmother, her mother. She hated her mother as much as she hated me. Alice Miller, the author talked about a mothers hatred, so few did and it would take me into my 50s to accept it, which is the age some say it takes to be able to accept it.
I know that acceptance is possible, but it’s not without extreme loss, pain and continual work to keep yourself doing and being—there is no real support. We still can’t challenge this Archetype, one of the strongest illusions—Mother! She is so powerful, grown men quake in her presence, reduced to 12 year olds—split. I’ve seen Doctors, Principals, accomplished Men, cower in the presence of this force even from women not even their mothers, often forced into doing things they shouldn’t, but helpless.
Eating was always a way to keep the Men away, keep mother appeased, less a threat—she liked that. Men, were her territory! I read Fat is a Feminist Issue, by Susie Orbach, I adored Geenen Roth and her books that made my recovery possible. I learned about touch that wasn’t appropriate and food was a way to deal with that which my young mind had no words for, but felt in my being. The uncomfortableness of sexual touch, looks and gestures, combined with the brutal hitting, throwing things at me my mothers touch conveyed. Food buffered me from these kinds of touches that were sexual but wrong. My mothers rages were orgasmic releases she used to regulate her extreme swings on an increasing ride of drug addiction and her own unresolved pain. Hitting me, controlling every aspect of my life and knowing she enjoyed it, helped regulate her extreme moods. Her “nerves,” she would laugh and say her Doctors told her.
“Your a masochist,” she raged. I knew it meant a person that liked pain, how did I know this? I knew, like I knew she enjoyed her Sadism, often bragging about making people “puppets!” I was often too terrified, too young, too overwhelmed to question her. Things she did to inflict pain. Simple things like cleaning my ears with a Bobby pin. The agony unbearable at times. I’m amazed I’m not deaf. She would wait until they were particularly dirty. I was so little remembering when this hell started. She would continually hit the most sensitive inside of my ear repeatedly, at times I would feel I would pass out, my ear-drum slowly going numb. It was like my constant trips to the dentist that were just torture trips with no Novocain. She would glee and laugh, her eyes ablaze with delight unless I cried, then the swift change in her demeanor to attacks. Miss high and mighty, she would start, as if on cue to tear down my perceived refusal to allow her to have her way to inflict whatever pain she enjoyed.
I would tell myself she didn’t mean it. She would often collapse in a heap after her rages—spent. Moan and cry for sympathy, reversing the roles. I was now in charge to comfort her, sooth her, feel sorry that she was so poor. That we had no money, that she could not find a nice man. It was all a lie, but I was so young. So many men, so many times, they would look at me in that way—a toy, a doll; “you’re so little,” today they say; “you were so young.” The sweat giving away the deception, small beads above their lips or their foreheads; their eyes glazed over in some kind of rapture of their own. They often made me sick. My stomach roiling in disgust, but I was a little girl. My eating disorder my friend, protecting secrets I could only tell at some future time. The little girl being told nothing was wrong, but everything was.
I finish my egg McMuffin determined to help other little girls navigate these predators, like Helen Gurley Brown helped me “MouseBurger,” my way to a good life after overcoming so much. It wasn’t about “Having It All,” like they twisted Helen’s words, it was about a life. If kids and career were your thing then fine, but Helen did not have children. The predators derailing her message. It hurts little boys also from predatory women. I had a career, a business, a life, so much success, and yet the predators continue, but so do us survivors!
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