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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 646127" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>Lil, hello there!</p><p></p><p>Thank you. I never can tell, when I write something, whether I am communicating, or not. I already have the triggers inside, so whatever I write is going to seem to be describing the way something felt <em>for me</em>. It will make me very happy to think any one of us here could see those reflections, those ways I made sense of our situation to myself, in her situation too, and come through it stronger sooner.</p><p></p><p>Ha! </p><p></p><p>I will definitely look for the rest of that piece, now.</p><p></p><p>Ego is involved.</p><p></p><p>:O)</p><p></p><p>Here is what happened with writing. I do write. I love it. It happens to me that I lose time, that the writing writes itself and I am cleansed by it, somehow. But when difficult child daughter fell apart, I put it away.</p><p></p><p>I could not throw it away, but I stuffed everything away, hid it away. It seemed to have been something selfish I had done. Maybe, it seemed to me that if I had not been selfishly focused on writing, this would not have happened.</p><p></p><p>The poetry posted here was written on the sly, out of desperation, against the rules of the bargain I had made with God.</p><p></p><p>I think putting the writing away was where I first began to betray myself. Or maybe, I was bargaining with God that if I had nothing in my life but my children, I could bring those dreams of a whole, healthy family to fruition.</p><p></p><p>Or maybe it was a shame and an ego thing. Sort of who did I think I was, writing meaningless words and paragraphs while my child (and then, my children) suffered.</p><p></p><p>It was something like that.</p><p></p><p>It was what happened in my childhood compounded by what happened to my children.</p><p></p><p>I was not to understand the dynamic of what happened to all of us until the unbelievable things that happened in difficult child daughter's life within the past three years ~ long after I was no longer mother to a child in trouble.</p><p></p><p>difficult child daughter was an adult, when she made the choices she did, this time.</p><p></p><p>I was able to consider and believe the diagnoses made in this time because otherwise, I would have been too disgusted, too deeply offended at what she had done, to love her, anymore.</p><p></p><p>We break, and break, and break.</p><p></p><p><em>I still have trouble writing that phrase that describes difficult child daughter's issues.</em> If it were anything else, if it were something I'd done, I could help her.</p><p></p><p>I could try.</p><p></p><p>So, sometimes I have to cry for myself over that one.</p><p></p><p>Anyway, I have not written seriously since. I have not taken writing seriously since. I have not been myself since this happened to all of us.</p><p></p><p>It would be an appropriate thing, if I were to break through and begin writing again because of posting that piece on this site.</p><p></p><p>You all have been so much a part of my recovering myself.</p><p></p><p>Women are amazing. (And Jabber too, of course.)</p><p></p><p>:O)</p><p></p><p>Cedar</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 646127, member: 17461"] Lil, hello there! Thank you. I never can tell, when I write something, whether I am communicating, or not. I already have the triggers inside, so whatever I write is going to seem to be describing the way something felt [I]for me[/I]. It will make me very happy to think any one of us here could see those reflections, those ways I made sense of our situation to myself, in her situation too, and come through it stronger sooner. Ha! I will definitely look for the rest of that piece, now. Ego is involved. :O) Here is what happened with writing. I do write. I love it. It happens to me that I lose time, that the writing writes itself and I am cleansed by it, somehow. But when difficult child daughter fell apart, I put it away. I could not throw it away, but I stuffed everything away, hid it away. It seemed to have been something selfish I had done. Maybe, it seemed to me that if I had not been selfishly focused on writing, this would not have happened. The poetry posted here was written on the sly, out of desperation, against the rules of the bargain I had made with God. I think putting the writing away was where I first began to betray myself. Or maybe, I was bargaining with God that if I had nothing in my life but my children, I could bring those dreams of a whole, healthy family to fruition. Or maybe it was a shame and an ego thing. Sort of who did I think I was, writing meaningless words and paragraphs while my child (and then, my children) suffered. It was something like that. It was what happened in my childhood compounded by what happened to my children. I was not to understand the dynamic of what happened to all of us until the unbelievable things that happened in difficult child daughter's life within the past three years ~ long after I was no longer mother to a child in trouble. difficult child daughter was an adult, when she made the choices she did, this time. I was able to consider and believe the diagnoses made in this time because otherwise, I would have been too disgusted, too deeply offended at what she had done, to love her, anymore. We break, and break, and break. [I]I still have trouble writing that phrase that describes difficult child daughter's issues.[/I] If it were anything else, if it were something I'd done, I could help her. I could try. So, sometimes I have to cry for myself over that one. Anyway, I have not written seriously since. I have not taken writing seriously since. I have not been myself since this happened to all of us. It would be an appropriate thing, if I were to break through and begin writing again because of posting that piece on this site. You all have been so much a part of my recovering myself. Women are amazing. (And Jabber too, of course.) :O) Cedar [/QUOTE]
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