It’s been awhile since I have been able to write. I’m not even sure where I left off. Like w others, some days fly by n others crawl, but each day I get stronger. Some days this comes in waves of tears n insight, other days I feel so broken n demoralized I feel I’m just watching my destroyed life pass by w nothing happening. I remember when I first read Julia Cameron n started doing “Morning Pages,”—I loved them immediately. I loved all her books n got quite a few off Amazon back when it was a small Indy start up of us used book lovers. Over the years, I had amassed a library of wonderful books that I could go to anytime for support, help, inspiration. I miss my books, but it was time to see if I could go it alone. Sort of like removing the training wheels when riding a bike. That’s what I say now, but believe me it’s taken awhile to let go of all my books.
They were my friends, my place to hide when things got overwhelming. My first were the JRR Tolkien series when I was around 10yrs old. I remember reading them a few times n getting a gilded boxed set I loved. In my small mind, my difficult childhood became a sort of grand adventure to overcome. As abusive as my Mother was, my Grandmother was her polar opposite. My Grandmother constantly told me to get n education n read. She loved to read n taught me the same. I’m glad she told me repeatedly because when the going got tough n my mother tried to prevent me from going to college, my Grandmothers words by that time so strong I just knew there was no question n it helped me persevere applying w no help at all n the continual abuse I’m still dealing w today. Girls being educated was frowned upon not by my Grandmother but my Mother. I know today my Mother’s extremist views r tied to the gangs she had been involved w quite young. I think now how good she was to these girlfriends of hers while treating me n my Grandmother as if we didn’t matter at all—we didn’t! Her family was her gang members. Today it all makes sense, but I never knew. The violence just became part of who they were. They wanted u to feel sorry they had children, son of a bitch ex’s, n needed help because things just didn’t work out. Today I know so much of this was a lie—layers of lies. Her drug use also one of those.
Julia Cameron wrote of “resting on the page,” which is what I learned to do. No matter where I was or what I was doing or what was going on, I could pull out my pen n simple lined notebook n write; letting it all just fall onto the page. There was no censor, it would just flow like talking to a trusted friend. I could test in some magical way the pages would absorb my words taking the pain, which often was crying, trying to understand, whining—bitching, n turn it into calm. I would find peace after awhile. Not always answers, but a sense of being heard, which was odd because no one read my writing, but I felt heard. My writing had become a friend. I remember keeping little journals when I was 9 n 10, but didn’t become more serious until in my early 30’s when I became prolific about Morning pages. Every day 1hr usually 5-6 pages n more later at night if it was a hard day plus weekends. Weekends of shunning, I would spend writing trying to figure out why no one ever wanted to b my friend or there was always some excuse or fight over something that I never did or said.
All these years, I blamed myself over my Dad. For the most part I had gotten over him, I never really wrote much about him, but there was a deep grief over feeling responsible—now that has lifted. I finally know he was part of deliberately abandoning me from the beginning. Contacting me at the Psych ward after my Mother made a bunch of false allegations n her n my ex had me locked up, he then lied n abandoned me again; leaving me a number not in service n a suspect address. The Psych ward almost killed me. I had stopped eating, had become emaciated, n was in shock being told I had nothing—it was all gone. I was accused of lying about it all n everything I had accomplished had been taken or destroyed, including my precious dog. I’ve recently learned about “Emotional Support,” dogs n u can register them to protect them. I would have done this in a heartbeat; pleading repeatedly about him after Animal Control took him. I’m still speaking out, but ignored. It was all done to make me look “Incompetent,” amongst all the other horrible things n it continues.
I’m resting on the page again; writing, learning to fight again. I rarely fought w my exhusband, not effectively anyway; mostly I would cry, try to plead my case in the face of his icy voice, unwillingness to hear or understand me n his general incredulous; “I don’t know where u get this stuff” or “u think everyone is out to get u” to the humiliating “u don’t get along w anyone, even ur father didn’t want anything to do w u!”
Fighting is not wrong, but it’s been so long since I have been able to fight effectively. I basically stopped. I told myself I was taking the high road. Ignore them ur told, don’t engage, overlook it—b the bigger person, but after awhile u lose ur ability to fight at all. I had believed once I had achieved enough I would b welcomed, validated—accepted. Fighting was low class, beneath a civilized, educated, cultured person. It bespoke of being crude, out of control—hysterical. My Grandmother abhorred violence—my mother loved it. I also hated it. I wanted peace, quiet; classical music on a beautiful day. Poor people fought, ugly people fought—Welfare people fought not educated people!
I had edges as a girl. I wouldn’t give my ice-cream money to the bullies when we went to the New Pool swimming w my best friend who gave hers n accused me of being selfish. I spoke up when the mean girls would call me out. I even pulled back n punched a mean girl that had stalked me repeatedly w her friends in 5th grade relentlessly until I could no longer avoid her n she had cornered me one day on the street as I walked home. I had run out of places to avoid her. Her nose started bleeding n she was crying so loud, another school mate pulled me away n we left the bully w her group of friends in shock. This woman continues her abuse w the others involved, but at least I have some understanding what keeps them all together w so much power to this day. I had no idea about “Gangs,” thinking they were n inner city problem; poor people trying to overcome impossible odds, but have since learned, as many probably have by now w what is happening in Politics, that Gangs, horrible ones do still exist. I feel pretty ignorant now. My mother would often taunt me after deceiving me over something, sneering n saying n “you went to college!” she enjoyed humiliating me then telling me how stupid I was to go to college because I had no common sense. I know now it wasn’t common sense, it was deception by criminals that were good at it. I was 5 when my parents divorced n my mother preferred her new group of friends over me. Violent, crude, hateful, these people were nothing like my Grandmother, which was why I was w her all the time, while my mother went out “ramming,” today I know is “gang banging.”
Social Services did nothing then as now. The lady that came once a month or so was afraid of my mother. My mother would often tell her off, laugh at her, or get w her girlfriends n threaten her. The woman would abruptly go n my mother n her friends would laugh how stupid she was n how she thought she was so much better than them. It was a game to my mother to prove her superiority. Clever in a criminal way, my mother played the stereotypes of both sides against each other. She loved the constant confusion n they allowed her to get away w it. It was amusing to humiliate my Grandmother, to get so much attention for being a young woman from a successful upper class family, but b living like she was then tell her friends how they all thought they were so much better than her. Cops loved the rich girl party persona having a good time. Lots of men, parties—friends. They knew everybody, of course they did; my Grandparents were wealthy, successful, connected, but I never got to feel confident over any of it, most of which I never knew. I wasn’t allowed to see anyone but my Grandmother n even that relationship was continually threatened. I was taught to believe or groomed to believe my mother was the victim. I recently thought my father was after finally talking about the abuse my mother had inflicted my entire childhood n now my 20yr marriage, but have since learned “selling children,” isn’t such a shock to people here—Welfare children amongst others r disposable. I didn’t know about this heinous crime. I still struggle w such a large deception; my whole life, but I have incorporated the worst of it.
I’m learning that fighting will never stop. The Divine calls us to b shrewd. We have a right to live our life! I’m still being prevented from living my life, getting on my feet, enjoying all the assets, accomplishments I had, but the core of this pain has been healed. The feeling of being unworthy, not good enough—disposable. It went pretty deep n I had to go back to when I was 5yrs old! I had no idea I would have to go this far back, but I did.
Talk this week is about leaving Twitter by so many that see the violence, extremist gangs, White Supremacy, as so toxic they can’t stay. I understand n many times have wanted to leave, but Twitter was a life line when I had no one to talk to. An old friend like my 20yrs worth of journals they also took; evidence of the horrible Domestic abuse—coercive control. I’m staying, learning to fight again. To fight effectively for rights that r mine. Rights I earned, accomplishments I made, assets I acquired. Fighting isn’t abnormal, my anger isn’t unjustified. I hate when I break down n lose my temper mostly crying, pleading—explaining, but it feels good when I can voice my needs now assertively wo the need to self efface, back down, surrender my self to make peace. I had lost myself in my marriage. Until I got out, I had no idea how much. I know now u don’t know how bad it is until u get out n it’s been true for me. I used to call it “the Vice grip,” my ex would turn the screws until I felt I would just suffocate. I struggled all the time to know what “it,” was. The invisible controls that keep u trapped, afraid—always feeling less than. Always looking at ur feet mumbling, feeling dumb.
I’m staying to learn to fight more effectively, more eloquently more confidently, accepting that coming up from the bottom means that u will always have to fight—it’s just the way it is! Today that’s ok. Some days it’s even getting fun to fight. To assertively speak my truth, stand in my own power, tell someone to leave me alone—Fuck off! LOL—fuck u was my go to word for Menopause. I did everything I would not have done. Swore, drank, didn’t exercise, ate so much junk food I thought I would go to Vegetarian hell, but it’s over n like a kid w a new toy I needed time to balance n do some shadow stuff like telling the bullies to FUCK off again.
Namaste Dear Readers!
Thank u for being here, reading me—so very much appreciated!
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