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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 657499" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>The reason that imagery my mother gave me, of my sister dancing in the light of my mother's approval ~ the touch of obscenity in it that I knew was there somehow but did not know what it was exactly, or how it fit, or why that imagery kept coming back, has been cleared.</p><p></p><p>What my mother celebrated, in relating that story to me ~ in making for me that imagery of my fifty year old sister, who has never taken a ballet class in her life, pirouetting through her own beautiful kitchen had been identified and is mine, now. (This was an important piece of this imagery. My sister is safe, now. She is married, there is money, enough money for sure, and there is a beautiful kitchen that is my sister's own kitchen. So, my sister got away, was able to stand up, saved herself, right? <em>Not if she was dancing, was performing an action designed to please my mother to keep her from blowing everything up and was making a fool of herself to do it</em>. </p><p></p><p>"<em>Don't tell, Mom. Don't tell them I don't deserve to be me. Don't turn my husband against me, don't ruin this for me."</em></p><p></p><p>I don't want that underlying fear, that feeling of fraudulence, in my life anymore. I want to be whole, and I want to be strong, and I want to be my own.</p><p></p><p>That feeling that there was something obscenely wrong in the way my mother described my sister, dancing in her kitchen for joy at my mother's presence in her home tied in to a birthday party when I was eight, into the WalMart experience, and into an invitation to the beach when I was eight or nine.</p><p></p><p>It was the same dynamic at work from my mother's point of view: to make us into beggars, not only dancing for her approval, but gladly buying into betraying ourselves, into naming ourselves whatever she said, so we could be safe from her in the present moment.</p><p></p><p>Vulnerability. That is the name of the circle. Once the circle joins, you cannot find the beginning of it. So, you cannot name where you are and step out. Now, I have the name of it and I see how the circle is thrown, like a net, to snag and draw us in.</p><p></p><p>So I could step away, verify it, and choose against it. Just another trap, and now I see how it works. I will recognize it, every time, from now on. Even deep inside where there are traumas I cannot recall with words.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>When you made my sister a beggar, dancing in the light of her own destroyed self for your pleasure. That is the flavor of every interaction with my mother. Fear of hurt and fear of exposure to that truth she taught us was the only thing real about us, whatever else we might have been, or might have accomplished or acquired, in the world.</p><p></p><p>And again, I can see my mother in what she does to someone else, but I can only see her as she relates to me by extrapolation, by that little "ding" that tells me I am on the path.</p><p></p><p>*** </p><p></p><p>But when you have a D H, the mother's power is usurped. And that is why my mother has tried to destroy each of her children's marriages <em>or to label their mates defective.</em> And that is why there were no weddings, no real weddings, for any of us. There is validation in a wedding, in a vow. I don't know what my mother said to my D H. I am sure she said something, because that is who she is. D H doesn't much care what anyone else says about anything and he never did, and he likes me pretty well, so that was just a weakness for us. But my mother took my sister's husbands #1 and #2 aside ~ husband #1 at the wedding, which is where my mother first met him ~ and told them both that my sister was mentally unbalanced. The year after my father died, my mother began going to stay with them (and she came to us, too) in the winter. And my sister told me that both her daughters and her new husband had come to her, and had told her what my mother had said to each of them about my sister that very same time she was staying in my sister's home.</p><p></p><p>So, with her husband and daughters there to protect her and cherish and make her strong, she confronted my mother with what each had been told.</p><p></p><p>The point being that these things really, actually, happened.</p><p></p><p>My own mother did and does want to see her children destroyed, labeled and left bereft, to this day.</p><p></p><p>Why doesn't matter.</p><p> </p><p>I see you.</p><p></p><p><em>I see you back.</em></p><p></p><p>If it will help anyone reading along for me to go through these things in a chain of consciousness way, I will. If you are doing this yourself, be aware that the old feelings of shame, of distaste for ourselves, will come back and will seem very real.</p><p></p><p>And that is where the mentor mother, as many of them as it takes to help you see through someone else's eyes and not those of your abuser, comes in.</p><p></p><p>And I used Maya and the lady from The Matrix and Lisa V to see the things I worked with yesterday. And through their eyes, that shame, that personal distaste for myself, was placed where it belonged. With the person who chose to enact it: my mother. The my mother/myself inside me has no validity, now.</p><p></p><p>And that is what it took, to be free of it.</p><p></p><p>And this is how that part went, because I think that is the only part that would be helpful to anyone reading along. So, I was in a pretty bad place re: self concept. And this is what I did, and the things that came up are what happened. </p><p></p><p>"So, Maya, what do you think about this? About those feelings, about that fear, that helpless exposure."</p><p></p><p>"It taught you to be strong." (That is what I heard come back at me. I was like, WHAT?!?)</p><p></p><p>"It did, Maya." (So, I had to dance around that one for a little while. Like, thanks for nothing, Maya. Cheesh.)</p><p></p><p>And you are strong. Strong enough. You just didn't know it, then. (And when we know better, we do better.)</p><p></p><p>So I don't know exactly who said what, there. But I still felt pretty crummy, pretty much in the trauma of the thing, instead of outside it, seeing with my adult eyes.</p><p></p><p>So Maya looks through my eyes; and so does the black lady from Matrix. And Lisa Vanderpump comes to my birthday party, comes right into my birthday party and my mother....</p><p></p><p>"What are you doing" (Lisa) And as she comes, unbelievably, to understand:</p><p></p><p>"What have you done."</p><p></p><p>And the black ladies laugh and laugh at my mother because they are familiar with such things. They know what my mother has done, and she is an object of their good, rich laughter. Nothing unusual about what is going on here. Nothing a thousand million broken people, or wicked people, have not done, before.</p><p></p><p>Just that old, old black magic, come calling.</p><p></p><p>Maya smiles. White teeth, flashing in the Sun. </p><p></p><p>The black lady from Matrix. She knows too, and she laughs and smokes and bakes cookies.</p><p></p><p>And they are seeing my mother.</p><p></p><p>And my mother looks confused.</p><p></p><p>Time to go, mom.</p><p></p><p>I see how to see you.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Lisa V. She does not know about that old black magic. But she knows fair play; she knows civilized behavior. She knows what she sees, when she sees my mother. And she knows too, how to see for, how to teach, a child and all her siblings and her father too, about people like that, and about who and how they are, really.</p><p></p><p>About people who abuse those they are obligated, by everything decent or right or good, to protect.</p><p></p><p>So that's another pretty big piece.</p><p></p><p>I will say it again: I think we cannot go back for these broken parts of ourselves without letting go of rationality for a little while. If you don't think you can do it alone, don't do it. That is what we pay therapists for. To bring us, and to bring us back safely, from our own childhoods, from the trauma in them. Layers upon layers of it.</p><p> </p><p>It is working, for me.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>So the birthday party is my first clear memory of the taste of grovelling. I never grovel, never beg, refuse to cry out. Until I learned to cry for myself at the shame of it, at the stupid thereness of it, I would find a little tiny place to stand by not crying out at what she was doing; there was no one to help, so begging would not help. But I did beg, in the same way my sister did too, that day. And it wasn't the paying I surely did afterword. It was what would happen, when it happened in front of those friends, those little girls who were safe in their homes and whose mothers felt so kind, so real that they must never, ever, suspect about me and my mother.</p><p></p><p>And about the obscenity there, at the heart of things.</p><p></p><p>And that is what my mother did to my sister, and that is the fear my sister was dancing, dancing so fervently, to prevent. Knowledge of those times we did beg, of those times where we were broken, and identified with the abuser instead of ourselves.</p><p></p><p>Locus of control.</p><p></p><p>And that is what the timer was for. Time to know these things, to tie these three things that I know together.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>And that is the exact same thing my mother was doing to me at WalMart that day. Offering an ersatz approval for something that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what a series of strange men shopping at freaking WalMart think about whether I am attractive (like a whore) or spectacularly elderly and shriveled and old. (Like a used up old whore. Ridiculous and obscene.) That is part of it. I am sixty when this happens. I am a well preserved and even, a pretty sixty year old, when it happens. That is the little grain of truth that made the wheel turn, in this piece of abuse my mother committed to enacting. I am whatever I look like, whoever I am, just having a day <em>and she brings up the issue, the forever issue of appearance and that, whatever else it brings up, brings up, for me, the issues of aging and not enoughness and whoredom. And that is a point I made too, in the initial post I did on this WalMart thing. </em></p><p></p><p><em>I did not have the whore piece, then.</em></p><p></p><p><em>I do now. Thank you Maya/matrix lady/Lisa.</em></p><p></p><p><em>"Unacceptable."</em></p><p></p><p><em>That is Lisa.</em></p><p></p><p><em>No resentment. No angst. No regret. Over and done.</em></p><p></p><p><em>"Unacceptable."</em></p><p><em></em></p><p>And there was more, but I lost the rest of it.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><em>My mother did this too. </em></p><p></p><p>And from your comments, I was able to trace and deactivate the things that I learned about myself there, and that have affected me, that have affected my ability to be rational and strong and to have access to my sane mind.</p><p></p><p>Thank you.</p><p></p><p>It sucks to be afraid, to know that kind of wild, unrational fear where all you can do is leap into the darkness and do it anyway. She had no right.</p><p></p><p>And that is why she did it, of course. To prove to me that she did.</p><p></p><p>I see you.</p><p></p><p><em>I see you back.</em></p><p></p><p>We, those of us broken in the ways I was broken at my mother's hands, we were not broken over one instance of abuse. We were broken, with malice, at ever possible opportunity. We lived with, and were absolutely dependent upon, our stalkers.</p><p></p><p>That is the feeling I am always trying to find a word for when I describe what it feels like to interact with my mother. Or to try to make sense of things from the perspective of the internalized mother, my mother/myself. Where well mothered people find wisdom and strength and courage and acceptance, we find a broken place.</p><p></p><p>And we don't even dare go there.</p><p></p><p>And if we are very strong, we leap into the situation and fly by the seats of our pants. and how many times has that imagery come up for me, lately.</p><p></p><p>Hearts in our throats, flying by the seats of our pants.</p><p></p><p>Good.</p><p></p><p>Good for us.</p><p></p><p>And what I learned from all this hard work I have been doing, is that my mother is still stalking me, and every one she has anything to do with, anyone she can see, with her predator's eyes, to this day.</p><p></p><p>And that is an important thing to know, if you are a compassionate person, if you are a person who believes we are all essentially good.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Maybe, for me, grandiosity is that thing I named vengeance.</p><p></p><p>Yes.</p><p></p><p>When you cannot accept what is, then you make an imaginary place where those things cannot happen to you ever again. But you know in your heart it isn't real. We have posted about that, before. </p><p></p><p>Maybe that is where insanity begins.</p><p></p><p>If it ever stops feeling like pretend. </p><p></p><p>Here is the proof of it: It never once stopped a freaking thing. It was pretend. Pretense. Safety imagined to cope with, to mount some sort of defense to, the living insanity that happens, like a trap door and a hanged man. There is nothing to stop what happens between the time the trap door is opened and the hanged man. Nothing but a miracle will save him, now.</p><p></p><p>So, I, we, those of us who lived that reality as children, created that miracle for ourselves and believed it with all our hearts.</p><p></p><p>And so, we lived; we held on to our sane mind.</p><p></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff4dff">When traumatic things happen, when we lose a daughter and then, a son and a therapist turns on us, we go back to that place where somehow, we held on to our sane mind.</span></em></p><p></p><p><span style="color: #ff4dff"><em>And it comes out in our poetry.</em></span></p><p></p><p><em>Slippery stuff, real.</em></p><p></p><p><em>But it didn't help us then and it is not based in objective reality now. And if any of it were true, then our responsibility is not to let it go. Just in case. And so we are back in the thick of it.</em></p><p></p><p><em>And I came through with flying colors, with colors flying.</em></p><p></p><p><em><span style="color: #ff4dff">"And yes, it goes against what we are "supposed" to do. But we live in the rabbit hole now. We do what we have to do, to keep our boundaries intact."</span></em></p><p></p><p><em>Albatross</em></p><p></p><p>So in a way, that is what I am doing, now.</p><p></p><p>Do we all live in the rabbit hole?</p><p></p><p>At some level yes, or there would not be imagination or creativity or the language of music or math or color.</p><p></p><p>Or we would not sing.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>And that is the way to see this. That is the way to welcome those parts of us, too. We did live in the rabbit hole, then. Other impossible things were happening, things that absolutely did not make sense and they kept happening and no one knew correct answers at all. Not the authorities. Not the professionals. Not anyone, at all. (Talking about our children and families falling apart, here. This is chain of consciousness stuff.)</p><p></p><p>Grandiosity is a thing we create when we cannot accept what is because it doesn't make sense. I wonder who I might have been had these things never happened to me. In a way, I admire my capacity to do that ~ to create that beautiful and dangerous and powerful world. That is where I write from, I suppose. How I do it, how every writer does it, I mean. </p><p></p><p>This part of me, this writing part, that is something I love. Something my mother touched only once. Oh, wait; I meant a million times. What I meant was that this is the part that witnesses, that lived, that remained present. This is who I am, the hidden self choosing now to come naked. So I am sifting through the events that called me to protect myself and seeing them, seeing even that, through my own eyes.</p><p></p><p>I wonder why I need to know this, now.</p><p></p><p>It isn't shaming, any more than religious belief is shaming; telling us more about the believer than about the belief.</p><p></p><p>This is the part of me that leans in.</p><p></p><p>Preferring objective, to subjective, reality.</p><p></p><p>On we go.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>How does one stop being a beggar.</p><p></p><p>By having nothing to protect. By knowing what there is to know. Nothing hidden; nothing to protect.</p><p></p><p>No wonder my abusive mother/myself was always telling me not to think.</p><p></p><p>I think in the most amazing fashion.</p><p></p><p>So do you, for anyone reading along. </p><p></p><p>Cedar</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 657499, member: 17461"] The reason that imagery my mother gave me, of my sister dancing in the light of my mother's approval ~ the touch of obscenity in it that I knew was there somehow but did not know what it was exactly, or how it fit, or why that imagery kept coming back, has been cleared. What my mother celebrated, in relating that story to me ~ in making for me that imagery of my fifty year old sister, who has never taken a ballet class in her life, pirouetting through her own beautiful kitchen had been identified and is mine, now. (This was an important piece of this imagery. My sister is safe, now. She is married, there is money, enough money for sure, and there is a beautiful kitchen that is my sister's own kitchen. So, my sister got away, was able to stand up, saved herself, right? [I]Not if she was dancing, was performing an action designed to please my mother to keep her from blowing everything up and was making a fool of herself to do it[/I]. "[I]Don't tell, Mom. Don't tell them I don't deserve to be me. Don't turn my husband against me, don't ruin this for me."[/I] I don't want that underlying fear, that feeling of fraudulence, in my life anymore. I want to be whole, and I want to be strong, and I want to be my own. That feeling that there was something obscenely wrong in the way my mother described my sister, dancing in her kitchen for joy at my mother's presence in her home tied in to a birthday party when I was eight, into the WalMart experience, and into an invitation to the beach when I was eight or nine. It was the same dynamic at work from my mother's point of view: to make us into beggars, not only dancing for her approval, but gladly buying into betraying ourselves, into naming ourselves whatever she said, so we could be safe from her in the present moment. Vulnerability. That is the name of the circle. Once the circle joins, you cannot find the beginning of it. So, you cannot name where you are and step out. Now, I have the name of it and I see how the circle is thrown, like a net, to snag and draw us in. So I could step away, verify it, and choose against it. Just another trap, and now I see how it works. I will recognize it, every time, from now on. Even deep inside where there are traumas I cannot recall with words. *** When you made my sister a beggar, dancing in the light of her own destroyed self for your pleasure. That is the flavor of every interaction with my mother. Fear of hurt and fear of exposure to that truth she taught us was the only thing real about us, whatever else we might have been, or might have accomplished or acquired, in the world. And again, I can see my mother in what she does to someone else, but I can only see her as she relates to me by extrapolation, by that little "ding" that tells me I am on the path. *** But when you have a D H, the mother's power is usurped. And that is why my mother has tried to destroy each of her children's marriages [I]or to label their mates defective.[/I] And that is why there were no weddings, no real weddings, for any of us. There is validation in a wedding, in a vow. I don't know what my mother said to my D H. I am sure she said something, because that is who she is. D H doesn't much care what anyone else says about anything and he never did, and he likes me pretty well, so that was just a weakness for us. But my mother took my sister's husbands #1 and #2 aside ~ husband #1 at the wedding, which is where my mother first met him ~ and told them both that my sister was mentally unbalanced. The year after my father died, my mother began going to stay with them (and she came to us, too) in the winter. And my sister told me that both her daughters and her new husband had come to her, and had told her what my mother had said to each of them about my sister that very same time she was staying in my sister's home. So, with her husband and daughters there to protect her and cherish and make her strong, she confronted my mother with what each had been told. The point being that these things really, actually, happened. My own mother did and does want to see her children destroyed, labeled and left bereft, to this day. Why doesn't matter. I see you. [I]I see you back.[/I] If it will help anyone reading along for me to go through these things in a chain of consciousness way, I will. If you are doing this yourself, be aware that the old feelings of shame, of distaste for ourselves, will come back and will seem very real. And that is where the mentor mother, as many of them as it takes to help you see through someone else's eyes and not those of your abuser, comes in. And I used Maya and the lady from The Matrix and Lisa V to see the things I worked with yesterday. And through their eyes, that shame, that personal distaste for myself, was placed where it belonged. With the person who chose to enact it: my mother. The my mother/myself inside me has no validity, now. And that is what it took, to be free of it. And this is how that part went, because I think that is the only part that would be helpful to anyone reading along. So, I was in a pretty bad place re: self concept. And this is what I did, and the things that came up are what happened. "So, Maya, what do you think about this? About those feelings, about that fear, that helpless exposure." "It taught you to be strong." (That is what I heard come back at me. I was like, WHAT?!?) "It did, Maya." (So, I had to dance around that one for a little while. Like, thanks for nothing, Maya. Cheesh.) And you are strong. Strong enough. You just didn't know it, then. (And when we know better, we do better.) So I don't know exactly who said what, there. But I still felt pretty crummy, pretty much in the trauma of the thing, instead of outside it, seeing with my adult eyes. So Maya looks through my eyes; and so does the black lady from Matrix. And Lisa Vanderpump comes to my birthday party, comes right into my birthday party and my mother.... "What are you doing" (Lisa) And as she comes, unbelievably, to understand: "What have you done." And the black ladies laugh and laugh at my mother because they are familiar with such things. They know what my mother has done, and she is an object of their good, rich laughter. Nothing unusual about what is going on here. Nothing a thousand million broken people, or wicked people, have not done, before. Just that old, old black magic, come calling. Maya smiles. White teeth, flashing in the Sun. The black lady from Matrix. She knows too, and she laughs and smokes and bakes cookies. And they are seeing my mother. And my mother looks confused. Time to go, mom. I see how to see you. *** Lisa V. She does not know about that old black magic. But she knows fair play; she knows civilized behavior. She knows what she sees, when she sees my mother. And she knows too, how to see for, how to teach, a child and all her siblings and her father too, about people like that, and about who and how they are, really. About people who abuse those they are obligated, by everything decent or right or good, to protect. So that's another pretty big piece. I will say it again: I think we cannot go back for these broken parts of ourselves without letting go of rationality for a little while. If you don't think you can do it alone, don't do it. That is what we pay therapists for. To bring us, and to bring us back safely, from our own childhoods, from the trauma in them. Layers upon layers of it. It is working, for me. *** So the birthday party is my first clear memory of the taste of grovelling. I never grovel, never beg, refuse to cry out. Until I learned to cry for myself at the shame of it, at the stupid thereness of it, I would find a little tiny place to stand by not crying out at what she was doing; there was no one to help, so begging would not help. But I did beg, in the same way my sister did too, that day. And it wasn't the paying I surely did afterword. It was what would happen, when it happened in front of those friends, those little girls who were safe in their homes and whose mothers felt so kind, so real that they must never, ever, suspect about me and my mother. And about the obscenity there, at the heart of things. And that is what my mother did to my sister, and that is the fear my sister was dancing, dancing so fervently, to prevent. Knowledge of those times we did beg, of those times where we were broken, and identified with the abuser instead of ourselves. Locus of control. And that is what the timer was for. Time to know these things, to tie these three things that I know together. *** And that is the exact same thing my mother was doing to me at WalMart that day. Offering an ersatz approval for something that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what a series of strange men shopping at freaking WalMart think about whether I am attractive (like a whore) or spectacularly elderly and shriveled and old. (Like a used up old whore. Ridiculous and obscene.) That is part of it. I am sixty when this happens. I am a well preserved and even, a pretty sixty year old, when it happens. That is the little grain of truth that made the wheel turn, in this piece of abuse my mother committed to enacting. I am whatever I look like, whoever I am, just having a day [I]and she brings up the issue, the forever issue of appearance and that, whatever else it brings up, brings up, for me, the issues of aging and not enoughness and whoredom. And that is a point I made too, in the initial post I did on this WalMart thing. [/I] [I]I did not have the whore piece, then.[/I] [I]I do now. Thank you Maya/matrix lady/Lisa.[/I] [I]"Unacceptable."[/I] [I]That is Lisa.[/I] [I]No resentment. No angst. No regret. Over and done.[/I] [I]"Unacceptable." [/I] And there was more, but I lost the rest of it. [I]My mother did this too. [/I] And from your comments, I was able to trace and deactivate the things that I learned about myself there, and that have affected me, that have affected my ability to be rational and strong and to have access to my sane mind. Thank you. It sucks to be afraid, to know that kind of wild, unrational fear where all you can do is leap into the darkness and do it anyway. She had no right. And that is why she did it, of course. To prove to me that she did. I see you. [I]I see you back.[/I] We, those of us broken in the ways I was broken at my mother's hands, we were not broken over one instance of abuse. We were broken, with malice, at ever possible opportunity. We lived with, and were absolutely dependent upon, our stalkers. That is the feeling I am always trying to find a word for when I describe what it feels like to interact with my mother. Or to try to make sense of things from the perspective of the internalized mother, my mother/myself. Where well mothered people find wisdom and strength and courage and acceptance, we find a broken place. And we don't even dare go there. And if we are very strong, we leap into the situation and fly by the seats of our pants. and how many times has that imagery come up for me, lately. Hearts in our throats, flying by the seats of our pants. Good. Good for us. And what I learned from all this hard work I have been doing, is that my mother is still stalking me, and every one she has anything to do with, anyone she can see, with her predator's eyes, to this day. And that is an important thing to know, if you are a compassionate person, if you are a person who believes we are all essentially good. Maybe, for me, grandiosity is that thing I named vengeance. Yes. When you cannot accept what is, then you make an imaginary place where those things cannot happen to you ever again. But you know in your heart it isn't real. We have posted about that, before. Maybe that is where insanity begins. If it ever stops feeling like pretend. Here is the proof of it: It never once stopped a freaking thing. It was pretend. Pretense. Safety imagined to cope with, to mount some sort of defense to, the living insanity that happens, like a trap door and a hanged man. There is nothing to stop what happens between the time the trap door is opened and the hanged man. Nothing but a miracle will save him, now. So, I, we, those of us who lived that reality as children, created that miracle for ourselves and believed it with all our hearts. And so, we lived; we held on to our sane mind. [I][COLOR=#ff4dff]When traumatic things happen, when we lose a daughter and then, a son and a therapist turns on us, we go back to that place where somehow, we held on to our sane mind.[/COLOR][/I] [COLOR=#ff4dff][I]And it comes out in our poetry.[/I][/COLOR] [I]Slippery stuff, real.[/I] [I]But it didn't help us then and it is not based in objective reality now. And if any of it were true, then our responsibility is not to let it go. Just in case. And so we are back in the thick of it.[/I] [I]And I came through with flying colors, with colors flying.[/I] [I][COLOR=#ff4dff]"And yes, it goes against what we are "supposed" to do. But we live in the rabbit hole now. We do what we have to do, to keep our boundaries intact."[/COLOR][/I] [I]Albatross[/I] So in a way, that is what I am doing, now. Do we all live in the rabbit hole? At some level yes, or there would not be imagination or creativity or the language of music or math or color. Or we would not sing. *** And that is the way to see this. That is the way to welcome those parts of us, too. We did live in the rabbit hole, then. Other impossible things were happening, things that absolutely did not make sense and they kept happening and no one knew correct answers at all. Not the authorities. Not the professionals. Not anyone, at all. (Talking about our children and families falling apart, here. This is chain of consciousness stuff.) Grandiosity is a thing we create when we cannot accept what is because it doesn't make sense. I wonder who I might have been had these things never happened to me. In a way, I admire my capacity to do that ~ to create that beautiful and dangerous and powerful world. That is where I write from, I suppose. How I do it, how every writer does it, I mean. This part of me, this writing part, that is something I love. Something my mother touched only once. Oh, wait; I meant a million times. What I meant was that this is the part that witnesses, that lived, that remained present. This is who I am, the hidden self choosing now to come naked. So I am sifting through the events that called me to protect myself and seeing them, seeing even that, through my own eyes. I wonder why I need to know this, now. It isn't shaming, any more than religious belief is shaming; telling us more about the believer than about the belief. This is the part of me that leans in. Preferring objective, to subjective, reality. On we go. *** How does one stop being a beggar. By having nothing to protect. By knowing what there is to know. Nothing hidden; nothing to protect. No wonder my abusive mother/myself was always telling me not to think. I think in the most amazing fashion. So do you, for anyone reading along. Cedar [/QUOTE]
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