Forums
New posts
Search forums
What's new
New posts
New profile posts
Latest activity
Internet Search
Members
Current visitors
New profile posts
Search profile posts
Log in
Register
What's new
Search
Search
Search titles only
By:
New posts
Search forums
Menu
Log in
Register
Install the app
Install
Forums
General Discussions
Family of Origin
Family of Origin (FOO) Support Thread Part 2
JavaScript is disabled. For a better experience, please enable JavaScript in your browser before proceeding.
You are using an out of date browser. It may not display this or other websites correctly.
You should upgrade or use an
alternative browser
.
Reply to thread
Message
<blockquote data-quote="Copabanana" data-source="post: 664503" data-attributes="member: 18958"><p>I have come to the conclusion that I became bereft as my mother died and after, because I blamed myself for all that had happened between us for a lifetime.</p><p></p><p>That I was responsible for the break between us. I was responsible for her lack of love for me. I was responsible for not loving her, as much as I should have. I was responsible for being afraid to love her. I was responsible for not fixing myself so that I no longer feared.</p><p></p><p>I spent almost 2 years in bed as my punishment.</p><p></p><p>And when my son was lost, and I with him, I believed that this confirmed by fault in all, and on some level that was my punishment, too, for failing with my Mother. </p><p></p><p>The question I am asking now, is why? Why did I do this to myself? (I may already know, but it seems I keep forgetting. As often as I need to remind myself, I will.)</p><p></p><p>I knew my mother's limits. I knew she was indifferent to me. I knew on some level she blamed me. I knew she was toxic to me, and had been so for all or most of my life, etc.</p><p></p><p>Why did the instant she was dead, did I forget?</p><p></p><p>And the answer must be (drum roll): The power to kill. At one time I was so angry at my mother, I wished her dead. I convinced myself that wishes would kill. I loved my mother and I needed her.</p><p></p><p>At that time I would have done anything to protect her, and indirectly, myself.</p><p></p><p>To kill off my anger, I killed myself off...And that is why when others are afraid of my power, I convert myself to prey. My own.</p><p></p><p>And so when my Mother died, I followed suit. I tried to substitute myself, to take down myself, in order to save her. Oh, I knew she was dead but I still had my love for her. And that I wanted and needed to save. </p><p></p><p>I sacrificed myself so that my love for my mother could live on. Blinding myself to the realities of what for me had been our love. On some level, too, I must have believed that she had died, because my love for her had not been good enough, or strong enough, or pure enough...And maybe, too, I believed I had killed her, or my childhood wishes that she die, had killed her...and that her death had been proof of my power to do so.</p><p></p><p>I devised a punishment to fit the crime. I killed myself off. And I went to bed.</p><p></p><p>So over these past couple of weeks here in Foo, we have contemplated the various crimes of which children can believe themselves to be capable.</p><p></p><p>To cause a child to be desperate enough to long for their own death as the only possible escape. *Which is indeed what came to be.</p><p></p><p>To inspire the desire to kill the person who cares for you...a rage born from neglect, and cruelty born from spiteful intention to hurt. </p><p></p><p>Those were my mother's offenses, not my own. But I borrowed these crimes. As a means to keep myself and my mother alive.</p><p></p><p>In the bed these past two years I have served the sentence my own mother avoided. </p><p></p><p>I did not do this to myself to spare her in my heart. I did it to spare myself the awareness of the ways she hurt me and was indifferent to. </p><p></p><p>What would be so hard about accepting her indifference to hurting me? After, all I had known it my whole life. </p><p></p><p>Every child needs to be somebody. After all, that is the cornerstone of identity and our distinction among the species: our individuality. I think a sense one is special awakens identity. The babies in the orphanages die of this lack. As my son nearly did. </p><p></p><p>I think my mother's indifference to me put me at risk in the same way. I could not bear that to her I was not that important. But I was not that important to her. I do not doubt she loved me. But she loved herself most of all.</p><p></p><p>I tried to live my life trying to hold myself as if I was special, and did things to show myself that I might be somebody. It worked to a point. </p><p></p><p>I constructed an identity and a life of somebody who looked like she was strong. Looked like she had value. And strength, and purpose. I became that person...to a point.</p><p></p><p>Until my Mother died. And then the truth of it all came crashing down. All of the things that I had done had not touched the truth that my mother had been indifferent to me for my whole life. That my self had slipped through the cracks. What I had achieved patched up holes but it had not touched what was broken.</p><p></p><p>That is the reason that I was as if unaware of having a self...because my parents had not treated me in a way that I mattered. They had been indifferent to me and worse. While I am not making the equation between my situation and those babies who die of lack of care in an orphanage, it is on the same continuum of absence of care.</p><p></p><p>I think at some point in my life I stopped seeking my mother's attention. With my decision to adopt my son, I sought to address that need. We soldiered on.</p><p></p><p>Until my mother died. There was no image or metaphor that could contain my pain except my own death in life. And to know why I had to get to that point, I will have to re-read this post. </p><p></p><p>And as many times as I need to post in order to understand this, I will.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Copabanana, post: 664503, member: 18958"] I have come to the conclusion that I became bereft as my mother died and after, because I blamed myself for all that had happened between us for a lifetime. That I was responsible for the break between us. I was responsible for her lack of love for me. I was responsible for not loving her, as much as I should have. I was responsible for being afraid to love her. I was responsible for not fixing myself so that I no longer feared. I spent almost 2 years in bed as my punishment. And when my son was lost, and I with him, I believed that this confirmed by fault in all, and on some level that was my punishment, too, for failing with my Mother. The question I am asking now, is why? Why did I do this to myself? (I may already know, but it seems I keep forgetting. As often as I need to remind myself, I will.) I knew my mother's limits. I knew she was indifferent to me. I knew on some level she blamed me. I knew she was toxic to me, and had been so for all or most of my life, etc. Why did the instant she was dead, did I forget? And the answer must be (drum roll): The power to kill. At one time I was so angry at my mother, I wished her dead. I convinced myself that wishes would kill. I loved my mother and I needed her. At that time I would have done anything to protect her, and indirectly, myself. To kill off my anger, I killed myself off...And that is why when others are afraid of my power, I convert myself to prey. My own. And so when my Mother died, I followed suit. I tried to substitute myself, to take down myself, in order to save her. Oh, I knew she was dead but I still had my love for her. And that I wanted and needed to save. I sacrificed myself so that my love for my mother could live on. Blinding myself to the realities of what for me had been our love. On some level, too, I must have believed that she had died, because my love for her had not been good enough, or strong enough, or pure enough...And maybe, too, I believed I had killed her, or my childhood wishes that she die, had killed her...and that her death had been proof of my power to do so. I devised a punishment to fit the crime. I killed myself off. And I went to bed. So over these past couple of weeks here in Foo, we have contemplated the various crimes of which children can believe themselves to be capable. To cause a child to be desperate enough to long for their own death as the only possible escape. *Which is indeed what came to be. To inspire the desire to kill the person who cares for you...a rage born from neglect, and cruelty born from spiteful intention to hurt. Those were my mother's offenses, not my own. But I borrowed these crimes. As a means to keep myself and my mother alive. In the bed these past two years I have served the sentence my own mother avoided. I did not do this to myself to spare her in my heart. I did it to spare myself the awareness of the ways she hurt me and was indifferent to. What would be so hard about accepting her indifference to hurting me? After, all I had known it my whole life. Every child needs to be somebody. After all, that is the cornerstone of identity and our distinction among the species: our individuality. I think a sense one is special awakens identity. The babies in the orphanages die of this lack. As my son nearly did. I think my mother's indifference to me put me at risk in the same way. I could not bear that to her I was not that important. But I was not that important to her. I do not doubt she loved me. But she loved herself most of all. I tried to live my life trying to hold myself as if I was special, and did things to show myself that I might be somebody. It worked to a point. I constructed an identity and a life of somebody who looked like she was strong. Looked like she had value. And strength, and purpose. I became that person...to a point. Until my Mother died. And then the truth of it all came crashing down. All of the things that I had done had not touched the truth that my mother had been indifferent to me for my whole life. That my self had slipped through the cracks. What I had achieved patched up holes but it had not touched what was broken. That is the reason that I was as if unaware of having a self...because my parents had not treated me in a way that I mattered. They had been indifferent to me and worse. While I am not making the equation between my situation and those babies who die of lack of care in an orphanage, it is on the same continuum of absence of care. I think at some point in my life I stopped seeking my mother's attention. With my decision to adopt my son, I sought to address that need. We soldiered on. Until my mother died. There was no image or metaphor that could contain my pain except my own death in life. And to know why I had to get to that point, I will have to re-read this post. And as many times as I need to post in order to understand this, I will. [/QUOTE]
Insert quotes…
Verification
Post reply
Forums
General Discussions
Family of Origin
Family of Origin (FOO) Support Thread Part 2
Top