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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 657263" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>I think this: That our moms could not reconcile who we grew up to be with what they needed to believe about us <em>and with what they were determined we would believe about ourselves</em>. </p><p></p><p>So they did, and still do, their best to unravel the threads that hold us together in other ways.</p><p></p><p>The abuser's reality can only be sustained if the victim believes in the abuser's legitimacy. </p><p></p><p>Snip.</p><p></p><p>Looks like Maya had scissors in her pocket.</p><p></p><p>Bye, mom.</p><p></p><p>No compassion. Not yet. If my mother is lonely, if I am hurting the internal mother by turning away from her now, leaving her with who she is, with the wrongness of that, then that is just the way it is, for this time.</p><p></p><p>Maya will step in for me, when I cannot.</p><p></p><p>Without resentment.</p><p></p><p>Snip.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>I am sorry that happened to you, Copa. That should never happen, not to anyone.</p><p></p><p>I am sorry for the pain and confusion of it. Especially, for the confusion around issues of female identity. That must be a very hard thing to look back on.</p><p></p><p>But you are doing it.</p><p></p><p>Good.</p><p></p><p>There is a way. Find it.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>This could be true. But it could also be true that your mother and your sister are ill in the same way. This could be a genetic imperative. If this is true, if you see the genetic similarities between them, then now is a time to bless your good fortune that it did not happen, to you.</p><p></p><p>Or, to me.</p><p></p><p>Close call.</p><p></p><p><em>Once upon a time in a faraway land where time and distance had lost all meaning, there were born to the peasantry a generation of female children whose task and whose talent it would be to unravel the tangled skeins of deceit, viciousness, and trickery that bound the hearts, the souls, and the bloodlines of those families into which each would be born.</em></p><p></p><p>Reality is as we perceive it to be.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>These are the patterns in dysfunctional families. It has something to do with grandiosity, but I don't have it firmly enough yet to be able to describe it clearly for you.</p><p></p><p>Again Copa, I am sorry this happened to you, too.</p><p></p><p>That's an especially deeply hurtful kind of pain, to have lived that.</p><p></p><p>Are you kind to the eldest twin, Copa? Hold a place in your heart for your sister's children. They will have been raised to hate you <em>and themselves.</em></p><p></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Yes.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Looks like I am stuck in italics mode again. I apologize. </em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>You are in their lives on purpose, Copa. </em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>I burn with resentment too, sometimes. At bottom, our jealousy or envy or hatred teaches us which direction our happiness is in. If we can determine what it is we need, we can provide those things for ourselves. Oprah Winfrey had one child. The child died. She could not have anymore children. She was so poorly mothered, and she wanted to mother other girls into strength and wholeness because of that. The unfairness of it was eating her alive. All that money. No daughter. Not one. So, Oprah opened a very special school in Africa with her money and her will and her dream . And she is changing the world, both for those girls accepted into her school, and for everyone in the world as they grow into loved, educated, cherished women.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>And Oprah claims every one of those girls, every one of those young women, as her daughter.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>And to them?</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>She is Mother.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>What a poop.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Is there no way you can recover even one of the pictures?</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>How will you explore and confront and heal this wrong done you, Copa?</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Pictures of her children, pages of their schoolwork, pictures they'd drawn, these are the only things that survived our daughter's last falling apart or hero's quest or whatever we want to name it. They are in a bin in the closet in this house, waiting for her, as I write. Before she knew we had found and cherished and saved them for her, the loss of those markers of all of their lives was more painful a thing to face than acknowledging any of the other things lost in that time.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>She was so unbelievably happy to know that we had them, to know they hadn't been lost.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Ouch, for you, Copa.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>She had no right. Your sister had no right to take those things from you.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>In her mind and heart Copa, knowing you were out there somewhere, loving her anyway, may be the thing that kept her intact enough to escape the self the mother and the grandmother taught her she was. We may not believe the things that happen to us and to our children make sense, but it seems sometimes that they do.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Good job, Copa.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Sorry for the italics.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Grrr.....</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>You were, for this child, what my own grandmother, and what SWOT's first husband's mother, and what my D H's mother, are for me and for her.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Salvation.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Good, copa. Now you can have it and heal it and let it go. Not for her sake, but for your own. We are learning to be stronger enough.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Hard work, but oh, so well worth it, to see clearly, to know what happened, and to reclaim our true selves.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>To love ourselves again or for the first time, wholeheartedly.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>I have posted before about my sister and her shenanigans. The difference is, now I know she is her own. I never did have to protect her. But because I was all wound up and guilty and loving and hating and resenting and choosing kind because nothing else made sense to me, she was able, and chose to, hurt my child.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Snip.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>But my child is not me. She absolutely turned the tables on my sister, and in just as public a fashion ~ or worse.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Our daughter has alot of her father in her. She takes no sh*t.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Isn't that a cool thing.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>So, I can let that go, too. But just like it is with so many things my mother has done, the correct response is: I see you. <span style="color: #ff00ff">I see you back.</span></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff">No italics. Now, I cannot get the color to change back, either.</span></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff">Well, for heaven's sake.</span></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff">***</span></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff"></span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff"></span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff">Neither of my children ever felt comfortable with either their maternal grandmother or with my sister.</span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff"></span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff"></span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff"></span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff">Well, I don't know. but it could be:</span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff"></span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff">Once upon a time in a faraway land where time and distance had lost all meaning, there were born to the peasantry a generation of female children....</span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff"></span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff">That could be true.</span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff"></span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff"></span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff"></span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff">That is who you are, Copa. A person who chooses to love.</span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff"></span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff">I think it may have nothing to do with your mother. I love my mother, too. That is why I have put guards in place, for now, to compassion for her.</span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff"></span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff">I am affixing my own oxygen mask, first.</span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff"></span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff">Cedar</span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff"></span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff"></span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff00ff"></span></em></p><p><em></em></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 657263, member: 17461"] I think this: That our moms could not reconcile who we grew up to be with what they needed to believe about us [I]and with what they were determined we would believe about ourselves[/I]. So they did, and still do, their best to unravel the threads that hold us together in other ways. The abuser's reality can only be sustained if the victim believes in the abuser's legitimacy. Snip. Looks like Maya had scissors in her pocket. Bye, mom. No compassion. Not yet. If my mother is lonely, if I am hurting the internal mother by turning away from her now, leaving her with who she is, with the wrongness of that, then that is just the way it is, for this time. Maya will step in for me, when I cannot. Without resentment. Snip. I am sorry that happened to you, Copa. That should never happen, not to anyone. I am sorry for the pain and confusion of it. Especially, for the confusion around issues of female identity. That must be a very hard thing to look back on. But you are doing it. Good. There is a way. Find it. This could be true. But it could also be true that your mother and your sister are ill in the same way. This could be a genetic imperative. If this is true, if you see the genetic similarities between them, then now is a time to bless your good fortune that it did not happen, to you. Or, to me. Close call. [I]Once upon a time in a faraway land where time and distance had lost all meaning, there were born to the peasantry a generation of female children whose task and whose talent it would be to unravel the tangled skeins of deceit, viciousness, and trickery that bound the hearts, the souls, and the bloodlines of those families into which each would be born.[/I] Reality is as we perceive it to be. These are the patterns in dysfunctional families. It has something to do with grandiosity, but I don't have it firmly enough yet to be able to describe it clearly for you. Again Copa, I am sorry this happened to you, too. That's an especially deeply hurtful kind of pain, to have lived that. Are you kind to the eldest twin, Copa? Hold a place in your heart for your sister's children. They will have been raised to hate you [I]and themselves.[/I] [I] Yes. Looks like I am stuck in italics mode again. I apologize. You are in their lives on purpose, Copa. I burn with resentment too, sometimes. At bottom, our jealousy or envy or hatred teaches us which direction our happiness is in. If we can determine what it is we need, we can provide those things for ourselves. Oprah Winfrey had one child. The child died. She could not have anymore children. She was so poorly mothered, and she wanted to mother other girls into strength and wholeness because of that. The unfairness of it was eating her alive. All that money. No daughter. Not one. So, Oprah opened a very special school in Africa with her money and her will and her dream . And she is changing the world, both for those girls accepted into her school, and for everyone in the world as they grow into loved, educated, cherished women. And Oprah claims every one of those girls, every one of those young women, as her daughter. And to them? She is Mother. What a poop. Is there no way you can recover even one of the pictures? How will you explore and confront and heal this wrong done you, Copa? Pictures of her children, pages of their schoolwork, pictures they'd drawn, these are the only things that survived our daughter's last falling apart or hero's quest or whatever we want to name it. They are in a bin in the closet in this house, waiting for her, as I write. Before she knew we had found and cherished and saved them for her, the loss of those markers of all of their lives was more painful a thing to face than acknowledging any of the other things lost in that time. She was so unbelievably happy to know that we had them, to know they hadn't been lost. Ouch, for you, Copa. She had no right. Your sister had no right to take those things from you. In her mind and heart Copa, knowing you were out there somewhere, loving her anyway, may be the thing that kept her intact enough to escape the self the mother and the grandmother taught her she was. We may not believe the things that happen to us and to our children make sense, but it seems sometimes that they do. Good job, Copa. Sorry for the italics. Grrr..... You were, for this child, what my own grandmother, and what SWOT's first husband's mother, and what my D H's mother, are for me and for her. Salvation. Good, copa. Now you can have it and heal it and let it go. Not for her sake, but for your own. We are learning to be stronger enough. Hard work, but oh, so well worth it, to see clearly, to know what happened, and to reclaim our true selves. To love ourselves again or for the first time, wholeheartedly. I have posted before about my sister and her shenanigans. The difference is, now I know she is her own. I never did have to protect her. But because I was all wound up and guilty and loving and hating and resenting and choosing kind because nothing else made sense to me, she was able, and chose to, hurt my child. Snip. But my child is not me. She absolutely turned the tables on my sister, and in just as public a fashion ~ or worse. Our daughter has alot of her father in her. She takes no sh*t. Isn't that a cool thing. So, I can let that go, too. But just like it is with so many things my mother has done, the correct response is: I see you. [COLOR=#ff00ff]I see you back.[/COLOR] [COLOR=#ff00ff]No italics. Now, I cannot get the color to change back, either.[/COLOR] [COLOR=#ff00ff]Well, for heaven's sake.[/COLOR] [COLOR=#ff00ff]***[/COLOR] [COLOR=#ff00ff] Neither of my children ever felt comfortable with either their maternal grandmother or with my sister. Well, I don't know. but it could be: Once upon a time in a faraway land where time and distance had lost all meaning, there were born to the peasantry a generation of female children.... That could be true. That is who you are, Copa. A person who chooses to love. I think it may have nothing to do with your mother. I love my mother, too. That is why I have put guards in place, for now, to compassion for her. I am affixing my own oxygen mask, first. Cedar [/COLOR] [/I] [/QUOTE]
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