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Hands are the unspoken voice of a life and they leave
memories in the recipient’s brain just as words do. Strong words and soft
words. Evil words and comforting words.
Hands that touch with the softest feel of a slow exhaled
breath. Hands that touch and strike with a fury that was not unlike Katrina.
Items flying through the air and striking the body willy-nilly. Big and small
objects, let them strike where they may. Hands that they say can squeeze blood from a stone.
Hands with fingers that gently catch a falling tear, then those same hands striking the eye and turning it ugly colors not found in rainbows. How we, the wounded; prayed for rainbows on those stormy days.
Hands with fingers that gently catch a falling tear, then those same hands striking the eye and turning it ugly colors not found in rainbows. How we, the wounded; prayed for rainbows on those stormy days.
Hands that are soft and delicate and can pull a needle
through the finest, most delicate lace. A surgeon with hands so gentle and firm
that can sew a vein, the size of a hair; back together again.
Hands, hard and weathered, full of callouses after years of hard physical labour. Strong hands. Kind hands.
Old hand, withered and twisted with arthritis, yet still able to express love and gentleness, or bitterness.
Hands, hard and weathered, full of callouses after years of hard physical labour. Strong hands. Kind hands.
Old hand, withered and twisted with arthritis, yet still able to express love and gentleness, or bitterness.
All it takes is one finger to come up and point or shake at
your direction and no words need to be spoken. I have them memorized. They all start with “YOU!”
YOU caused this!
YOU did this!
YOU make me mad!
YOU are a waste of space!
YOU are going to get it, pay for it, wish you dead, wish you were never born, wish you had done what I told you.
YOU are no good, worthless, a waste of good air, unlovable, unwanted, a disappointment, a shame, an embarrassment.
The negatives go on ad nauseum. They never stop. OCD with its obsessive thoughts make sure I never forget. They go around and around, day and night, night and day. Never ceasing, never ending.
The hands, that reach out to hold a tiny baby and cradle it with love. Hands that reach out to brush a lock of hair from your face. Hands that reach out in comfort when in pain. Hands that hold yours and keep you safe and unafraid. Hands that tuck you in and take care of you. How I longed for them.
My memories of hands are painful. They struck at me and hurt me. They would fly when my back was turned and knock me across the room. They struck me in the mouth, the face, the head, the stomach, my back, my butt, and my legs. They pulled out my hair and knocked out a tooth. They left bruises and wounds all over my body. But most of all they struck me deep in my heart. My physical wounds healed a long time ago, but the wounds of my heart remain. It is a painful process to heal from a fear center that is on all the time. That part of my primal cortex that should have made connections that told me the world was safe, did not form. Instead, my fear center grew bigger with every assault made on my soul, my heart, and my body. Now I am trying to repair it which is not an easy fear. At 60 years of age I am trying to rewire my brain in the way it should have been done when I came wet and wailing into the world. I’m afraid abuse is not something you “get over”. I don’t dwell on it, and I certainly don’t try to think about it, but the chemicals that flow let me know it exists. It exists and it is taking my life. I want to stop that and reverse that. I want to win this battle. I don’t want to die over something I did not choose to have done to me. I don’t want my mother to win. I don’t want to be destroyed by her.
So hands pull out they tiny crying infant and hands place the old and tired, once tiny child; in the ground when their day is done. What did that child do with their hands?
My hands were uncertain. I was afraid of them. Afraid that they would be like my mom’s. Oh my mom did have some good in her hands. She was great cook, baker, and a great canner. Second to none. Yet I had none of that desire in me. My desire to not be like her included her kitchen skills. Cooking causes emotional flashbacks which are painful and difficult to deal with, so I try not to cook.
Instead, I create beauty. From a life that was so ugly, I wanted beauty. I played the trumpet. Made music, got toes tapping. I taught myself guitar and autoharp. I play badly but it sounds beautiful to me. It calms my heart. It brings peace to my soul. Some have made fun of my singing and playing but they have no idea what it does for me. The majority of people encourage me so I can’t be that bad. The fingers that gently caress the strings which then vibrate in such beautiful harmony transport me to heaven. There are few things more beautiful.
Then I create things. I do needle point, petit point, cross stitch, sew, crochet, and knit. I made things. All kinds of things. For friends and enemies, for people I don’t know. I give it away. It makes them happy and it makes me even happier. I love seeing the intricate doilies or lace patterns coming together. Sometimes they are so yummy looking it’s like looking at chocolate and I want to eat them! Oh, the adorable little hats for the preemie babies. I want to hold and cuddle them all and think I could manage at least a dozen at one time. Love goes in every stitch. The hats I have made for cancer patients. Oh those dear ladies are so brave. Prayers go with every one and I am so happy to see the smiling faces of those that made it.
Yes, I lived with evil and come out the other side. A little battered and bruised but I made it. She did not make me like her. I want to love the world. Did I mess up along the way and make mistakes. You bet I did. How could I not? If it took almost 60 years for the doctors to diagnose me, how could I be expected to know when I had my first child at 19. I knew what I wanted. I just didn’t know how to get there, and the harder I tried, the further away it got. Now I understand. That is exactly the ways c-PTSD, Anxiety, and OCD, along with panic disorder work. I didn’t know what it was to feel good until I felt good.
If you are in a relationship with an MNPD please seek help. Even if they have left, please get help. You need it and you owe it to yourself. They leave seeds of doubt that will grow and flourish and they need to be weeded out and it calls for a professional. You really cannot do it on your own.
Be good to yourselves my fellow world travellers. You are worth it.
YOU caused this!
YOU did this!
YOU make me mad!
YOU are a waste of space!
YOU are going to get it, pay for it, wish you dead, wish you were never born, wish you had done what I told you.
YOU are no good, worthless, a waste of good air, unlovable, unwanted, a disappointment, a shame, an embarrassment.
The negatives go on ad nauseum. They never stop. OCD with its obsessive thoughts make sure I never forget. They go around and around, day and night, night and day. Never ceasing, never ending.
The hands, that reach out to hold a tiny baby and cradle it with love. Hands that reach out to brush a lock of hair from your face. Hands that reach out in comfort when in pain. Hands that hold yours and keep you safe and unafraid. Hands that tuck you in and take care of you. How I longed for them.
My memories of hands are painful. They struck at me and hurt me. They would fly when my back was turned and knock me across the room. They struck me in the mouth, the face, the head, the stomach, my back, my butt, and my legs. They pulled out my hair and knocked out a tooth. They left bruises and wounds all over my body. But most of all they struck me deep in my heart. My physical wounds healed a long time ago, but the wounds of my heart remain. It is a painful process to heal from a fear center that is on all the time. That part of my primal cortex that should have made connections that told me the world was safe, did not form. Instead, my fear center grew bigger with every assault made on my soul, my heart, and my body. Now I am trying to repair it which is not an easy fear. At 60 years of age I am trying to rewire my brain in the way it should have been done when I came wet and wailing into the world. I’m afraid abuse is not something you “get over”. I don’t dwell on it, and I certainly don’t try to think about it, but the chemicals that flow let me know it exists. It exists and it is taking my life. I want to stop that and reverse that. I want to win this battle. I don’t want to die over something I did not choose to have done to me. I don’t want my mother to win. I don’t want to be destroyed by her.
So hands pull out they tiny crying infant and hands place the old and tired, once tiny child; in the ground when their day is done. What did that child do with their hands?
My hands were uncertain. I was afraid of them. Afraid that they would be like my mom’s. Oh my mom did have some good in her hands. She was great cook, baker, and a great canner. Second to none. Yet I had none of that desire in me. My desire to not be like her included her kitchen skills. Cooking causes emotional flashbacks which are painful and difficult to deal with, so I try not to cook.
Instead, I create beauty. From a life that was so ugly, I wanted beauty. I played the trumpet. Made music, got toes tapping. I taught myself guitar and autoharp. I play badly but it sounds beautiful to me. It calms my heart. It brings peace to my soul. Some have made fun of my singing and playing but they have no idea what it does for me. The majority of people encourage me so I can’t be that bad. The fingers that gently caress the strings which then vibrate in such beautiful harmony transport me to heaven. There are few things more beautiful.
Then I create things. I do needle point, petit point, cross stitch, sew, crochet, and knit. I made things. All kinds of things. For friends and enemies, for people I don’t know. I give it away. It makes them happy and it makes me even happier. I love seeing the intricate doilies or lace patterns coming together. Sometimes they are so yummy looking it’s like looking at chocolate and I want to eat them! Oh, the adorable little hats for the preemie babies. I want to hold and cuddle them all and think I could manage at least a dozen at one time. Love goes in every stitch. The hats I have made for cancer patients. Oh those dear ladies are so brave. Prayers go with every one and I am so happy to see the smiling faces of those that made it.
Yes, I lived with evil and come out the other side. A little battered and bruised but I made it. She did not make me like her. I want to love the world. Did I mess up along the way and make mistakes. You bet I did. How could I not? If it took almost 60 years for the doctors to diagnose me, how could I be expected to know when I had my first child at 19. I knew what I wanted. I just didn’t know how to get there, and the harder I tried, the further away it got. Now I understand. That is exactly the ways c-PTSD, Anxiety, and OCD, along with panic disorder work. I didn’t know what it was to feel good until I felt good.
If you are in a relationship with an MNPD please seek help. Even if they have left, please get help. You need it and you owe it to yourself. They leave seeds of doubt that will grow and flourish and they need to be weeded out and it calls for a professional. You really cannot do it on your own.
Be good to yourselves my fellow world travellers. You are worth it.
“Let us think of the hands of Jesus,”
he said, “when he touched the sick and would cure them. … They are the hands of
God: They cure us. I can’t imagine God slapping us. I can’t imagine it.”
He added, “Reproaching us, yes, I can
imagine, because he does that! But he never, never hurts us. Never. He caresses
us.” - Pope Francis
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