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Family of Origin
Relationship Patterns / Dysfunctional FOO Issues
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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 670999" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>I think the first part of the dream represents the theory and therapy that should have worked and didn't, and what we are doing here, which shouldn't work, but does, somehow. In the second part, what I think I see is the adult's fear of the loss of identity involved in daring to define and reclaim yourself. </p><p></p><p>It is frightening to come real.</p><p></p><p>There comes a time of silence.</p><p></p><p>Yet, that is what is happening. </p><p></p><p>When we have lived through roles, how can we begin to know who we are without them? </p><p></p><p>Do we even like red? Chocolate? The taste of coffee? Whose life are we living, anyway? Everything feels so strange, and we don't know even how to speak correctly as ourselves. All of our lives, we have been so committed to doing the right thing, so wrapped up in guilt and apology and responsibility.</p><p></p><p>Real can be frightening; confusing.</p><p></p><p>Who are we, anyway. We are stepping into real. Like Pinocchio, when he was coming real, it was the lies he told to pretend he was already real that gave him away, that enslaved him, every time.</p><p></p><p>Here is the poetry about coming real, about self recognition, about the loneliness of living from role and not real. You are there, Copa. Trust in yourself, do your best (which is very amazingly perfectly correct), know this is meant to be.</p><p></p><p>I celebrate with you, Copa. I wish we'd been more aware of the patterns each of us was taking to reclaim ourselves. Each in her own way, we are following the same ones and I think Copa, that it might be even in the same sequence and time frame. </p><p></p><p>Here is the poetry. It is from the Self, imprisoned, to the Self, awakening years <em>or lifetimes</em>, later.</p><p></p><p>I am the Prisoner, Copa. You are the Prisoner. We are also the waiting mother, the waiting lover; the Prisoner, freed.</p><p></p><p>It is a love story, and a story of courage and intent.</p><p></p><p><em>Tomorrow will find me</em></p><p><em>a prisoner</em></p><p><em>Locked from sight</em></p><p><em>from scent and sound</em></p><p><em>of you.</em></p><p></p><p><em>So, come near to me, now.</em></p><p></p><p><em>Come gaze upon those brilliant, icy stars.</em></p><p></p><p><em>Then let this be the memory, deep engraved</em></p><p><em>on both our hearts</em></p><p><em>Etched </em></p><p><em>into both our fallible brains</em></p><p></p><p><em>So that when I return</em></p><p><em>years hence</em></p><p></p><p><em>Though your beauty then be spent</em></p><p><em>though my face be a caricature of the face </em></p><p><em>before you now...</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Yet will I know you, by the stars</em></p><p><em>by those brilliant, icy stars</em></p><p></p><p><em>Shining undiminished in your eyes</em></p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>The little girl, the consciousness expanding illegal substance she has already used <em>without apology </em>could be seen as the core self, coming real whether everything she did to get to this place was legal or proper or not, without shame. </p><p></p><p>She is honest.</p><p></p><p>This and this and this, I did. I will be real. I will claim myself unashamed. <em>This is MY life.</em></p><p></p><p><em>Which is becoming precious to me. I see the patterns; see the pieces fall into place; watch the mosaic as it forms, as it comes so beautifully real.</em></p><p></p><p>Determined to be free of the roles (and of the blindness to them, and of the shame and the guilt <em>automatically adhering to every role</em> ~ that is the empty bag of marijuana. Shame and guilt exposed and the choice of honest, of real, of self acceptance, made instead. What was done, what someone else thinks should or should not have been done or would frown upon if they knew, or that you frown upon having done ~ none of that matters, now. </p><p></p><p>The little girl will be free.</p><p></p><p>You must protect her.</p><p></p><p>You must fight for her.</p><p></p><p>In a way Copa, this is like my question: "Who is the liar, here? Me, or my absuser."</p><p></p><p>The little girl is refusing to be ashamed of her femaleness in a patriarchal society. </p><p></p><p>There are papers to be signed; a case to be pled.</p><p></p><p>That is beautifully apt symbolism for those raised in dysfunctional family systems.</p><p></p><p>The adult Copa is there to protect, is there to fight for and plead a case for...and the girl brings in things indicating she is not perfect <em>by choice. </em>She refuses to hide "it". Refuses to hide or feel shame for the core self that she is. </p><p></p><p>You do hide it.</p><p></p><p>You understand the powerful psychiatrist (who is male, and thus part of the system that harmed the girl in the first place, and who is arrogant, and who makes <em>you</em> feel small, but not the girl, because she has known him, who he is, what he represents, all along: the patriarchal system. The system requiring that she be the good, guilty girl because she <em>is</em> a girl. Even if she is invited to travel on his boat for an afternoon, even that will be a thing done to glorify him and to shame her. You fear the psychiatrist and those attending the meeting will not grant the girl her freedom unless she is what he (and they) say she must be.</p><p></p><p>The girl is unafraid.</p><p></p><p>The power is hers. It never was theirs.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Copa.</p><p></p><p>I am so proud and happy for you.</p><p></p><p>Cedar</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 670999, member: 17461"] I think the first part of the dream represents the theory and therapy that should have worked and didn't, and what we are doing here, which shouldn't work, but does, somehow. In the second part, what I think I see is the adult's fear of the loss of identity involved in daring to define and reclaim yourself. It is frightening to come real. There comes a time of silence. Yet, that is what is happening. When we have lived through roles, how can we begin to know who we are without them? Do we even like red? Chocolate? The taste of coffee? Whose life are we living, anyway? Everything feels so strange, and we don't know even how to speak correctly as ourselves. All of our lives, we have been so committed to doing the right thing, so wrapped up in guilt and apology and responsibility. Real can be frightening; confusing. Who are we, anyway. We are stepping into real. Like Pinocchio, when he was coming real, it was the lies he told to pretend he was already real that gave him away, that enslaved him, every time. Here is the poetry about coming real, about self recognition, about the loneliness of living from role and not real. You are there, Copa. Trust in yourself, do your best (which is very amazingly perfectly correct), know this is meant to be. I celebrate with you, Copa. I wish we'd been more aware of the patterns each of us was taking to reclaim ourselves. Each in her own way, we are following the same ones and I think Copa, that it might be even in the same sequence and time frame. Here is the poetry. It is from the Self, imprisoned, to the Self, awakening years [I]or lifetimes[/I], later. I am the Prisoner, Copa. You are the Prisoner. We are also the waiting mother, the waiting lover; the Prisoner, freed. It is a love story, and a story of courage and intent. [I]Tomorrow will find me a prisoner Locked from sight from scent and sound of you.[/I] [I]So, come near to me, now.[/I] [I]Come gaze upon those brilliant, icy stars.[/I] [I]Then let this be the memory, deep engraved on both our hearts Etched into both our fallible brains[/I] [I]So that when I return years hence[/I] [I]Though your beauty then be spent though my face be a caricature of the face before you now... Yet will I know you, by the stars by those brilliant, icy stars[/I] [I]Shining undiminished in your eyes[/I] *** The little girl, the consciousness expanding illegal substance she has already used [I]without apology [/I]could be seen as the core self, coming real whether everything she did to get to this place was legal or proper or not, without shame. She is honest. This and this and this, I did. I will be real. I will claim myself unashamed. [I]This is MY life.[/I] [I]Which is becoming precious to me. I see the patterns; see the pieces fall into place; watch the mosaic as it forms, as it comes so beautifully real.[/I] Determined to be free of the roles (and of the blindness to them, and of the shame and the guilt [I]automatically adhering to every role[/I] ~ that is the empty bag of marijuana. Shame and guilt exposed and the choice of honest, of real, of self acceptance, made instead. What was done, what someone else thinks should or should not have been done or would frown upon if they knew, or that you frown upon having done ~ none of that matters, now. The little girl will be free. You must protect her. You must fight for her. In a way Copa, this is like my question: "Who is the liar, here? Me, or my absuser." The little girl is refusing to be ashamed of her femaleness in a patriarchal society. There are papers to be signed; a case to be pled. That is beautifully apt symbolism for those raised in dysfunctional family systems. The adult Copa is there to protect, is there to fight for and plead a case for...and the girl brings in things indicating she is not perfect [I]by choice. [/I]She refuses to hide "it". Refuses to hide or feel shame for the core self that she is. You do hide it. You understand the powerful psychiatrist (who is male, and thus part of the system that harmed the girl in the first place, and who is arrogant, and who makes [I]you[/I] feel small, but not the girl, because she has known him, who he is, what he represents, all along: the patriarchal system. The system requiring that she be the good, guilty girl because she [I]is[/I] a girl. Even if she is invited to travel on his boat for an afternoon, even that will be a thing done to glorify him and to shame her. You fear the psychiatrist and those attending the meeting will not grant the girl her freedom unless she is what he (and they) say she must be. The girl is unafraid. The power is hers. It never was theirs. *** Copa. I am so proud and happy for you. Cedar [/QUOTE]
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