Hands of Harm, and Hands of Beauty

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 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.

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.

“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

Read more: http://www.ncregister.com/daily-news/pope-francis-entrust-yourself-to-the-loving-hands-that-formed-you#ixzz3BGUEBpym

My Life

This is a reprint of an article that I wrote in 2010. At that time, after I posted it; my family was outraged. How dare I air our "shit" in public. How dare I speak of the bad things done to me without telling of the bad things I had done. When told I was doing it on the recommendation of a therapist the comment was "Your therapist is an ass."  After that my family decided to publically ridicule me. They said I deserved it for putting my crap out there. It was "MY" crap. I should be able to tell my own story without fear. Without having to tell yours. What happened was I went into a pretty severe depression for more than 2 years. I don't know how I survived.. It had to be God and I give him the glory as nothing else was able to reach my mind. It was Him and I in a battle for my life. I reprint it below.

Me at Four, even then I never smiled

 I would look at my brother with love and encouragement “you can do it”. My eyes, brimming with tears so heavy that I didn’t dare blink unless a tear would stray down my face and it would all start again. I couldn’t swallow because of the enormous lump in my throat. I think that lump was full of the tears I couldn’t cry that got collected on the inside. My hand would reach out to hold his and comfort him, but then I wonder if I did it because I wanted to live. If he lost it, we were doomed. If I lost it we were doomed. I didn’t want to die, but today could be they day. Then there were the days when I really hoped that line would be crossed so I never had to go through that hurt, the pain of the beatings, the screaming, the terror and the fear.

My profile picture shows a little girl that already knew what her life would be and she’s sad and she is vigilante. I want to rescue her! Shortly after this photo was taken we moved to a tiny mountain town. We had an airstream trailer that dad was working on. We heard the biggest explosion and it was like the air was sucked out of the room. My dad came to the door and he was badly burned. My dad was in shock, he didn’t speak, his eyes were wide, and he stood like Jesus with his arms outstreached with his skin all pink, red, and black, and falling off. My brother and I started to cry.

Later my mom came home without my dad and my brother and I start to cry again. I was just 3 (almost 4) and he was only 1 (almost 2). Well, she started to scream at us for crying. That she wasn’t going to get stuck with a bunch of crybabies and we better hope that he gets better, because if he didn’t, we didn’t have a mom either. We really started to cry and she hit us and pulled out hair and told us to shut up. We ended up on the floor in a corner, clinging to each other. I was whispering to my baby brother that it was okay and that I wouldn’t let her hurt him and I would take care of him. I told him that I loved him and he didn’t have to cry. He nodded his head, and his finger came up to take away a tear that rolled down my face. She told us to come out of the corner and come eat our dinner. As we got close to her she yanked us by the arms and we started to cry again. Then it started. She told us she warned us and obviously we didn’t want her for a mother. She tied us to the kitchen chairs and then built a fire in middle of the kitchen and then left the house. I can’t tell you the depth of our fear, the screams and screams, that wouldn’t stop. The fear I had for my brother, who was just a tiny baby. I was supposed to protect him. She eventually came back because she “loved us”. If we promised to be good and not cry, she would put out the fire. This is the first memory I have of my life on earth.

Later ended up being abandoned in a hotel room in Calgary. I don’t know how long we were there until the police came. They took us the Calgary Creche orphanage and when they tried to take my brother from my arms I screamed and fought and they decided to let us stay together. By morning, we were in separate rooms. More people telling us lies. There was a plate glass window that separated boys from girls, and I could see my brother crying. I went over there and climbed in the crib with him so he wouldn’t be afraid . The nuns found me and beat my butt and made me feel so ashamed, because “Girls don’t sleep with boys”.  Are you kidding me? I was 4 and he was 2. We were siblings! I had orders from the “Punisher” to take care of him. Do you have any idea what she can do to me? Eventually we went back home with her. I don’t know how or why. I had just turned 5.

We moved into the house in small prairie town. It had a dirt cellar which became our place of terror. We would get pushed into the cellar and the trap door closed. There was no light as the bulb had been removed and we would stand there in the dark. We knew there were salamanders and spiders and were too afraid to sit on the steps, because there were webs behind them, and possibly even mice. Hours and hours and hours. Our legs would ache. We’d have to pee!! We’d be hungry, tired, and sometimes terrified. Something would brush you leg, or arm, face and the fear was bigger than anything you could imagine. The screams were primal and came from somewhere so deep within our souls. And no one heard them. Not a single person. The next favourite place was the coal shed. I would have to stand in the coal shed with my shoes, and white socks. I’d be told to not move and if I got dirty, well...The slightest move caused coal dust to rise up in the air. I never won this one. From the shed to a beating. That’s the way it went. I learned to disassociate from the beatings and the horror. It was like I was watching it from somewhere else and they couldn’t get me. A verse from a poem I wrote:

You never touched that little girl

She’s safe somewhere in a another world

I kept her safe from your evil hands

And the things that she can’t understand
I taught her how to run and hide
And locked her somewhere safe inside

Many bad things happened in that house. We then moved to the big house. Let’s see. In that house my mother stabbed my father with a knife. We then moved to another province and life was even worse if you can imagine.

There is a story that has been in our family about me pinching my sister. It was blown way out of proportion to what actually happened. Yes, I pinched her. What sibling hasn’t pinched, poked, or done something to their sibling? But this pinching has been heaped on me by mother about what a horrible nasty person and related and embellished to my sister. It was a Pinch!! One Pinch!! My sister was were really annoying that day, and I pinched her! End of story. I am sorry. What wasn’t told was another day, that dreadful horrible day, when I didn’t clean the kitchen to her specification. You know how she could always find a finger print, a hair. She told me that day that if I didn’t do it proper she would kill me. Well, it wasn’t proper. I’m now bargaining for my life, but she has other plans. Since it was my fault, and since I would be dead, then she didn’t want any of her kids and would kill them all. Since it was my fault, I would get to watch her. She picked up my sister who was just a few months old and the knife was above her head and I started screaming and sceaming and screaming.  I could not stop and I pushed her. She yelled at me to stop, but I couldn’t, then she said she would kill me first and shut me up and she grabbed me and the knife was above me and still I scream. I scream until everything goes black and I don’t remember. Then there were the days with guns when she was going to kill our stepfather. “Don’t let him in” she says. If you let him in, I will have to kill you too.” We were beaten so hard with the belt and the piece of conveyor belt, that not only were there welts, but the skin would break and we would bleed. During those times we would be kept home from school. When she did send us back to school, the punishment would continue. We weren’t allowed to bath, or change our clothes. We wore the same things day after day. She would do spot visits to school, with “I forget to give them their lunch”, “They forgot a book”, etc., so she could check if we changed on the way to school.

Then there was the day when I was nine, when she made me watch her die. I was a few minutes late coming home from school, so therefore I didn’t love her. If I loved her I would do what she said. If I didn’t love her, then she didn’t want to live. She told me to sit on the chair and not leave it. She had a knife and told me if I got off the chair she would kill me instead. She reclined on the couch and took a bunch of pills and started to die. I pleaded with her, I wanted to get help and every time I went to stand up, she raised the knife.  My dad got home in time to take her to the hospital. She spent a long time in the hospital

My dad worked out of town a lot. He built roads, dams, worked on oil rigs, logged, farmed. We didn’t see him often, so I don’t think he had any clue. He was always good to us. We loved him very much. Our parents divorced when I as 10 and only saw my dad once more before died when I was 13. My mother hid us from him.

My brother and I shared some really hard things. There were six of us who were severely abused, but it was a little different with the two of us. We were the eldest and the first. We shared secrets that we have never told to the world, for we were sure that no person would believe us. He was 11 and I was 13 when we were told it appeared that we had PTSD. When I was 17 and he was 15 we were told that we did had PTSD. That is when we both left our house of horror. What led up to that event was a particularly bad day for me. I wasn’t allowed to go to school, and there was screaming and the proverbial “mopping of the floor” with me. Right at 9 she told me to get my sorry butt off to school and to get out of her sight. I opened the cupboard and saw her pills and took every one of them and left for school, but instead went into the bush to die. My brother Lawrence had had a bad feeling when he left for school and waited for me. He knew. He got me to help, came with me to the hospital. The doctor talked to us and told us of PTSD. We knew our lives would never be the same. I went into the foster system, and he went to grandmas. He no longer would be beaten every singe morning. Every day he had the crap beaten out of him. I am grateful that he knew what would happen that morning, as I didn’t. We always had a close and spiritual connection, and I really miss him.

Years later I was cleaning my basement and I wanted to watch a show at 5 pm. Right about that time I got really sick. I don’t know what came over me, but I was really sick and had terrible pain in my stomach. It lasted for about 2.5 hours. About 30 minutes later the phone rang. It was a doctor in Lethbridge who called to say 3 hours earlier, my brother had been in a motorcycle accident and had died on the operating room table about ½ hour before. That spiritual connection was always there. He was 27 years old.

I have done the counseling, the psychiatrists, whatever has been suggested. I have overcome. I have moved on. I made it!! They didn’t win. Those that did the beatings, those that molested me, didn’t succeed. Now it seems the effects of Child Abuse are far reaching. If you have PTSD, it apparently never goes away. I never knew that. You can learn to control the emotional aspects, but the physical ones, you can’t. The dizziness, rapid heart rate, stomach, colon, inability to sleep is all PTSD and they were able to measure the amounts of chemical produced by me. They said when you experience a severe trauma, sometimes a switch gets turned on your DNA and it doesn’t get turned off. My body is so used to the flight or flight and it can not differentiate between good stress or bad stress. Other chemicals as well are all out of balance, that’s why the tremors and the dizziness, among others.  I am stunned that still goes on 40 years after I was set free. Is there such a thing a freedom?

The proof of some of it. My mom would take pictures of us. Here I am dressed in a diaper and pair of rubber paints after having a bed wetting accident. She was making fun of me in my princess headband with the rhinestones and wearing a diaper. She was asking me if she thought I was pretty. She said she was sending it to my teacher, and to the kids at school. She was sending to my grandma and grandpa, my aunts and my uncles, and all my cousins to show them what a beautiful crybaby princess I was in my diaper and rubber pants. A princess who "pissed the bed." I should be so proud of myself. Later on she sent me out the door just like that to go to school. I fighting and screaming to get back in the house. After a while she relents and lets me in to dress in proper clothes, but the horror for me, remained.

My beloved brother washing his clothes and blankets after his bed wetting accident. He must have been sick this day as he messed his pajamas. Later, my mother smeared the feces over his face. There is a photo of that but it is to disgusting to post. Just writing the words is disgusting enough. He is crying his poor heart out. How this could happen is beyond me. I am on the chair in the background with me feet up. I must have been "bad" as the only time my feet were up and on the chair is when I had to sleep on the chair. I tended to swing my legs and would bang the rungs, so I had to keep my feet up. To those in the world who claim it wasn't so bad, this is just a tiny peek at our lives. It was so much worse than this.

Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I will overcome this too. The abusers have no power over me. None!! I have forgiven them, it now between them and God. I am praying for healing for my body that remembers the abuse. The things I cannot control.

“They have greatly oppressed me from my youth, but they have not gained the victory over me.  Plowmen have plowed my back and made their furrows long.  But the Lord is righteous; he has cut me free from the cords of the wicked.”  Psalm 129:2-4

It's All in Your Head

Words that hurt. Words that wound. Words that cut deeper than my own self-inflicted wounds. Words that are supposed to help me get rid of my mental illness. I have been diagnosed with C-PTSD, OCD (Obsessive Thoughts and counting), Anxiety, and Panic Disorder. These are all classed as mental illnesses. These words and words like:

"Snap out of it."
"Get over it."
"It's all in your head."
"Don't think about it."
"Forget about that stuff."

Words said, I hope; by well-meaning people to make you feel better. Instead, they shred my heart and tear my mind to pieces. It invalidates me. It says that what I feel is trivial and is either not real, or doesn't matter.

Most so-called "normal" people don't understand mental illness. It has something to do with the brain, but that does not mean it is imagined or not real. It is something that happens when chemicals or neurons are misfiring in your brain and your life which was smooth, now starts to run rough. Life a car with a spark plug that misfires. It runs shaky and vibrates. You step on the gas to make it go and it coughs and dies, sputters and chokes. Yep, that's my life at times. Not firing on all cylinders. Does that mean I'm crazy, or that it's not real? This is wear the stigma comes in. A missing spark plug, or no gas is a very real thing. It is not imaginary or made up. It exists, it's a problem with mind, not the imagination. I don't imagine that I have a car. I HAVE a car and it doesn't work proper. It needs to be fixed by a mechanic because I don't how.

See, I think the masses think mental illness is something that people make up because they are, well; crazy. No! mental illness is something that happened because we live in a world that is crazy. It can happen, and does happen to many people. It comes on after wars, violence, abuse, and trauma. It comes on because chemicals become imbalanced. It comes on because neurons misfire in the brain, the wiring has gone awry. You don't image it, pretend it, or want to be the way it is. You can't make it go away. It is just as real as a broken leg, a tooth ache, or a pain in the butt! I am not weak, selfish, seeking attention, or malingering. I am so tired of the stigma attached to having a mental disorder.

Can you imagine the following conversation?

Girl: Mom! I've fallen in love with the most wonderful guy!
Mom: Oh, get over it, it's all in your head. You're not really in love.
Girl: Oh no. Mom, he makes me feel so special, you have no idea.
Mom: Oh, forget about that stuff. You're special with or without him.
Girl: Oh mom, he asked me to marry him. I'm the luckiest girl in world. I feel I'm on cloud nine.
Mom: Snap out of it, it's all in your head. There is NO cloud nine.

Do we tell people who are in love to "Snap out of it"?  Do we tell people who are crying because they just got the news that they have a terminal illness that their grief is "All in your head!"? Do we tell someone who is dying of heart disease to "Not think about it?"  Do we tell people who are happy to "Forget about it."

No, we don't. Some emotions are acceptable, some are acceptable if they come with a visible reason. The rest are unacceptable by many of societal standards.

"You've been sad long enough, move on."
"That happened a long time ago, get over it."
"You should be glad they're gone."
"Calm down."
"Stop crying!"

I am told to deny my existence, my being, my life. People ask me to remember only the good. They mean well, but they had no understanding of a life filled with bad. Yes, I am 43 years away from what was done, but the wiring was put in place the day I popped out of the birth canal. There was never a safe place. A child that is loved and nurtured learns that when it is hurt or frightened, that someone comes to help and makes them better. They learn when they are in pain, that someone takes care of them. The learn when they are happy, others are happy. They learn the world is safe. The primal fear center in their brain start to make connections that say "You are okay, your are safe".

In my brain, when I was sick, I was punished and made sicker. If I was sad I had the sadness knocked out of me. If I was happy I had it knocked out of me. If my MNM was sick, or tired, or upset she took it out on me. My very existence depended on me being afraid on guard all the time. My brain never developed the connections that said the world is safe. Consciously I know that, but where my primal cortex is, the most primitive part of the brain, where everything develops and comes from; does not. My lack of nurturing did not let the connections develop.

I'm sure that many have heard or read of infants that were not held or touched after they were born. They grow up with an attachment disorder because the brain did not develop the wiring for being touched, comforted, held. Every human being deserve that very basic need of being held in their mothers arms. These infants fail to thrive and many die. Those that survive have significant problems. Tell that adult in that position to just "Snap out of it." Scientific American does a great job on describing it.

Once that wiring is in place that is the way it works. I want to turn on the kitchen light but when I flick the switch the television in the family room goes on. I want to stop being anxious, and if I try, then I obsess. If I try not to obsess I get anxious. If I try to do neither I panic. If I try to control my panic I slash my arms. I know what I want but I am unable to get there because the pathway does not exist. The switch to turn off the fear center does not exist. Adrenaline and cortisol are out of whack. No human being has the power by their own will to control the amount of hormones or chemicals that flow in their body. Insulin is an example. Too much or too little you have diabetes. Too much or too little of another you have Addison's Disease. The list is long. Can you imagine telling a diabetic that it is all in their head? No you can't. That would be crazy. Just as crazy as telling me that it is all in my head when adrenaline flows unchecked out of my adrenal glands.

Each time those words are spoken, it invalidates my life, my experience, and my well-being. It triggers emotional flashbacks and takes me back to my youth."It's all in your head, you're not sick, you are trying to get attention." Then I'd have to clean my own vomit, still cook, and clean. After being beaten and humiliated having to kiss my MNM on the lips and have to tell her I love her. And sound like I meant it. "Don't think about it, don't think about it." After being beaten being told not to cry or you'll get some more. "Snap out of it! I barely touched you. Wait until I really give you something to cry about." Cut marks and welts on my legs, buttocks, shoulders, that were put there by a 3 inch wide piece of conveyor belt. Please, as a favour to all of us who suffer with some sort of mental illness, please don't say those words to us. If you don't know what to say, just give us a hug. Hold our hand. Just don't ask us to deny our life. We want to get over this, more than you you want us to.

Most people don't know of my journey. They wouldn't get it. How do I know that? I was out for an evening with my mother-in-law with a friend of hers. They were talking about the boys on a hockey team that had undergone years of sexual abuse by their coach and had decided as adults to finally speak their truth. This woman friend of my mother-in-law said, "For god's sake, it went on for years without them saying anything. They must have enjoyed it then."  I felt the air sucked out of my lungs. People just don't get it. They don't know the tricks that keep you silent. The fear, the shame. And now here is a woman that blames the child. They must have liked it! Really? Even if they begged for it, they are a child and an adult should know better! Outrageous. She is a reason many won't tell of their sexual abuse. You get victimized again. She re-victimized me without knowing it. I was sexually abused for years. By many people. I must have been a real tramp. Gosh, I must have even carried a sign advertising the fact I was easy. Shame on me? NO! Shame on you who think that. Shame on a world that judges and treats people unfairly. Shame on a world that makes a group of people feel less than they should. Shame on a world for making me feel bad because I was mistreated. Shame on a world that makes me cry. Shame on a world that makes me feel like I have to apologize for being alive. Shame on a world that makes me feel bad for asking for help. It's always about shame. That is one of the way abusers control people.

I am so glad that I not any less than anyone else in the eyes and heart of my God. His opinion is the only one that matters.

Romans 14:10: You, then, why do you judge your brother? Or why do you look down on your brother? For we will all stand before God's judgment seat.

In the end, He will treat us all the same. There is no difference between you and I in the eyes of my creator.

Cutting the Pain

I'm sure these photos will shock some of my friends. It is my secret shame. These are pictures of my arms taken last November. They are evidence of the pain I am about to talk about. The nurse and the doctor, when they came in to see me both said kindly, "this girl is in so much deep emotional pain." This is how it comes out.

Self-harming. Who would do such a thing? Only crazy people right? But what IS a crazy person? One definition is a mentally deranged person. Are you deranged when you consciously cut yourself? Perhaps. I could be out of mind and unhinged. Another definition of crazy is extremely enthusiastic. Well I can't say that THAT definition fits the bill. If I was extremely enthusiastic about slashing my body, then I would say that I was definitely insane.

What causes one to cause injury to their body? No sane person enjoys pain, so why would one inflict pain on themselves. Willingly, or so it would seem. To do so wouldn't one be a masochist? Well to be a masochist one would have to enjoy harming one's self. I don't enjoy it, and in fact; feel such shame and embarrassment afterwards.

When I was growing up I was not allowed a voice. I couldn't voice sadness, unhappiness, anger, happy, nothing! Eventually some people called me "Stone Face". Every emotion I had was well hidden, because it would be beaten out of me. I could never get it right and display the correct one at the correct intensity level to please my exacting MNM.

If I was sick, I hid it. I threw up at dinner and she told me to move it aside and to keep eating what was on my plate. It would teach me to try and invoke sympathy. I threw up all over the floor and wall. Projectile. I had to clean it up as punishment for pretending to be sick. I had mononucleosis. If I was sick, I got something to really make me sick.

My dad died when I was 13. My mother warned us not to cry and embarrass her at his funeral. She reminded us that "He was nothing to you! NOTHING! Do you hear me? There is NOTHING to waste your tears over! Don't you dare cry or you'll have something to cry for!" I loved my dad. With all my heart. With everything I had. He was my last hope to be free and now he was gone. I held it together, going to my corner in the room. At the end when they called the family up for one last viewing and then closed the lid...Well, the lights went out in my world. I can't describe and internal, wracking, heaving sob that you hold in so tightly you think you shall explode. The long, deep inhale with eyes open so wide, you think they will pop out. Your lips and teeth clenched tightly together so you won't inhale a sob. The wrenching cry of a child for her dead father that could only be kept deep inside, never to reach the outside.

I learned to hide all my emotions; deeply, tightly, and securely. No one would know what I thought or what I felt. These emotions remain in your mind and your body. The conscious may no longer remember but the subconscious will never forget. The body never forgets either. It reacts in illnesses. Auto-immune diseases, heart disease, high blood pressure, cancer, and strokes. It comes out in very physical ways.

The mind is different. Deep emotional pain is one of the most distressing pains you experience. I'm not talking about crying over a loved one, although that is pretty emotional. I'm talking about pain and emotions that get bottled up over years, and decades of not being able to let them out. At some point the brain gets full. It gets overloaded and it cannot hold anymore. It is said that people who die by suicide don't want to end their lives, they want to end their pain. That was me when I was 12, when I was 13, when I was 14, when I was 17, when I was in my 30's and attempted suicide. I wanted the pain to stop. When you get to that point of deep emotional pain you are moving your body but there is no mind. It is closed firmly to everything except the thought of ending the pain. No logic, no reason. Stop it! Now! There is no thought of dying. Only of ending the pain. It is such a desperate and lonely place to be. Those who criticize you for being weak and taking a permanent solution to a temporary problem, have not gone through years of abuse. Years of no hope, no way out, no end, no miracles, no justice, no anything. I was not weak. I was strong and I survived. When you say I am weak, you victimize me all over again.

As I went through counseling I began to have suicidal ideations and thoughts but no longer acted on them. Instead I started to self-harm. How is that better I wondered. Well, it seems that by self-harming you are demonstrating a very strong desire to live. One cannot see emotional pain, but by making marks on your arms or legs you can then see the wounds heal. That makes sense to me. It also releases the emotional dam that in danger of becoming so overwhelming that you are afraid you may die. When I harm myself I distract myself from the emotional pain by creating a different pain. It changes my focus. Psychology Today explains it so much better than I can:

I have not done it for some time now but the thoughts are there daily. The voice that said "You'd be better off dead." bounces around the padded walls of my brain. "Why don't you kill yourself, because if you don't and I have to, you'll wish you did." Yes, they echo. Along with the repressed memories of the beating, being tied up and beaten, naked and beaten, sleeping on the floor of the porch by the garbage can because I was trash, and many other kinds of humiliations and shamming. Sorrows, deaths, loss of loved ones and being unloved and unwanted. Never able to express it. Every now and then it explodes out of me and it isn't pretty. But neither was my life. I do wish I could make it prettier and I 'm trying very hard. It's just taking a very long time.



Where do I find my help?

Psalm 147:3 He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.

and Galatians 6:2 says to "bear one another's burdens."

I thank everybody who has helped me to bear this burden without judgment and condemnation. You have understood that it is not my fault and I did not cause this pain. You have been the face of Christ to me. You have showed me love where I had none. Thank you.

The Deafening Silence

I guess 25 years of silence was non enough for my mom including 40 years of almost no contract. She has now embarked on the the silent treatment which is starting the 3rd week. She is angry because I did not stay with her when hubby went away so I am being punished. People with my mother's disorder will invoke the silent treatment upon their victim for days, weeks, and even longer, often with no explanation, as a way to control and demoralize their victim. These disordered people are fond of using the Silent Treatment as a cruel (but not unusual) punishment for doing nothing wrong at all and, from experience, I can tell you that the affect of this method of control is sheer torture. At time same time I relish the peace,but stress at the potential call which may come soon. It is likely to hateful, spiteful, venomous, and full of rage and reasons why it is all my fault. It is no wonder sleep escapes me and anxiety levels are climbing. She says if my God was as good as I claim that he would have fixed me already, and her too, so what good is he?

It is exhausting being with her, thinking about her, staying one step ahead of her, avoiding the traps, the pitfalls, and the web she is constantly weaving to ensnare you. Sometimes I have to stop writing and to stop thinking. I have to forget she exists in order to remain sane, but she will not beat me. She will not win because I have love on my side. Love always wins.

My heart beats love
tiny beads of love that burst
into big balloons that fill the sky.

There are so many
that hate can't find it's way
to fill my heart like it did yesterday.

Just great giant balloons
pressing together the pieces
of my broken and beating heart.

God turns my hate into love, my pain into beauty. She cannot destroy what God has spoken into being.