Ain’t no sunshine

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adapting, black sheep, childhood, children, Daddy, DENIAL, depression, desperation, dysfunctional family, estranged, fear, frustration, grief, history, hopes, invisible, life, loss, loveless, manipulation, mean mothers, Mother, nightmares, nostalgia, parent issues, rape, sadness, sexual abuse, sociopath, suicidal, the ex, trust, unacceptable, unforgivable, unforgiven

http://shadowness.com/maria-amore/between-faith-and-doubt-2

Loss – true, deep, profound, crippling loss – is a loss beyond imagination and to a great degree, that loss is more profound and crippling when it’s an unnatural loss. The loss is exponentially pervasive into one’s life when it’s a loss brought on by betrayal, deceit, hatred, or brought on with the sheer intent to punish you for some unknown and/or unintentional “misdeed” of sorts, even sometimes a “misdeed” that’s merely fictional – a fabrication created solely from the dark billowing folds of a sick and twisted mind of a sociopath. I mean, there just ain’t no sunshine after this kind of loss.

People say; move on with your life. Let go of the pain. Recreate yourself. Recreate a life for you that you love. Have faith.  Everything happens for a reason.

(Which by the way, I could now happily punch myself in the throat repeatedly for EVER thinking “everything happens for a reason” is EVER appropriate to say to ANY one!  Except maybe (big maybe here) in the case of divorce or breaking up with a sociopathic narcissist.  In THOSE cases of using the term “loss” so loosely, then yes, it really does happen “for a reason” and you are truly better off.  Other than that, then everyone who falls back on that phrase (myself included), can fuck off!)

So, you look in every hidden corner of your life, your heart, and your mind…stretching your limbs and your definitions to find that possibility. You become a detective of possibilities, looking for them anywhere and in anything:

Maybe this book will help. Maybe that book will release my mind from its torment for a moment…or this movie…or a conversation with this person about the struggle….or a conversation with that person about anything but the struggle? Maybe art, perhaps painting or coloring or creating a DIY project will provide a moment of relief?
Maybe God? Worshipping Him, being grateful for the many wonderful things you know are there but no longer bring any joy, forcing yourself to look for that joy and insist it is there?  Maybe singing to Him, or listening to music praising Him?

Maybe a new pet, a colorful squawking bird or an innocent playful puppy or a soft fluffy cuddly kitten?
Maybe reminiscing? Or not allowing yourself to reminisce, removing as many painful reminders of all the places joy once stood? Maybe cleaning until your skin is raw, bleeding, and cracked and looks like your heart feels? Maybe not cleaning? Living in squalor, letting everything get and stay as messy and unkempt as your life and your thoughts feel?
Maybe music? Country music? Classic rock? Reggae? Heavy metal? Classical? Gospel? Hard rock? Really loud music? Really soft, subtle background music?

Maybe gardening? Putting your time into cultivating a beautiful plant which signifies life? Or growing tomatoes to remind you to survive, you must eat? Maybe plotting the revenge you don’t believe in and would never seek?  Maybe imagining karma or refusing to allow yourself to believe you “don’t deserve” this kind of pain?  Or forcing yourself to think you deserve this and much worse?  If “much worse” exists?  Maybe fantasizing about how “much worse” might be or feel?

Maybe too much time on Facebook or Twitter or blogging or Pinterest? Maybe joining support groups and reaching out to help others who are hurting? Maybe volunteering for a domestic violence shelter or the humane society? Maybe do daily affirmations in the mirror? Or practicing the Law of Attraction?

Maybe drinking too much wine? Or not allowing yourself to have any alcohol? Maybe writing letters? Or emails? Or joining causes you believe in? Laughing foolishly about the silliest stuff your brain can think of?

Maybe planning your suicide? Writing your will? Organizing vast piles of paperwork? Maybe dancing like no one is watching? Playing in the rain? Hand writing letters to lonely souls in prison? Reaching out to long-lost friends? Reconnecting with friends you’ve grown distant from? Maybe having sex with an old boyfriend? Or going on a date with someone new? Maybe drinking more tea? Making infused waters? Maybe browsing through hundreds of old photos? Or hiding every reminiscent photo?

Maybe living in another state? Or another state again? Or the same state where you lost everything? Maybe changing your name? maybe writing of the abuse you’ve never spoken of? Maybe writing of anything but your grief, sorrow, pain, or past abuse? Maybe writing the stories of your multiple rapes? Your mounting dealings with injustices? Maybe giving compassion to others who’ve endured similar experiences and not even speaking of your own?

Maybe get a tattoo? Alter your flesh somehow to tell yourself you are now officially and physically not the exact same body who experienced these things at all?

After a while, you listen to everyone tell you how to move on, let go, live again.  And you are a detective of joy survival; madly and frantically searching for brief any flashing moment of joy happiness serenity peace relief to alleviate the pain and sorrow that has somehow infused itself into every recess of your brain.

Maybe beg for a lobotomy?

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Complete culpability

Tags

adapting, black sheep, childhood, children, Daddy, depression, desperation, dysfunctional family, estranged, fear, frustration, generosity, grief, hopes, invisible, Mother, nightmares, nostalgia, parent issues, rape, sadness, safety, sexual abuse, sister, sociopath, suicidal, the ex, trust, unacceptable, unforgivable, unforgiven

I miss you, Daddy.

It’s pity party time… I’ve officially spent my second birthday and the second anniversary of my dad’s death alone. Without one single phone call on either day…not a “checking in to see how you are”, not a “hey, I’m thinkin of you”…not a single friend or family member thought of me on the two most significant days of my life.
After 44 years of life, millions of friends, several boyfriends, one husband, and two children of my own, I now realize what I feared most from my earliest days is literally true. My mother, my sister and all those other people over 44 years couldn’t ALL be wrong about me; I’m not someone who can be loved. I’m just not…
I suppose I could write of how it’s my mother’s fault. How being raised by a narcissistic sociopathic woman damaged me so cruelly, left me with huge holes in my soul that can’t be filled, making me so desperate and needy for the one thing that scared me most, love. I found it crazy ironic to discover at 26 that I have a flap in my heart which doesn’t close properly. What a perfect description of me…it was almost an explanation at last for what I am that I can’t seem to help or change. The pieces of me that are so just wrong that they’ll never be right finally made literal, physical sense when the doctors told me that back when I was pregnant with Savannah Grace.
I suppose I could write how it’s other people’s fault, as well. How being so painfully insecure and desperately needy for love and approval for as long as I can remember being alive led me directly to the kinds of people who would manipulate and abuse that…furthering the unlovable clause I was born with. Seriously, WHO gets molested as a 6 year old by a teacher and a babysitter? And WHO is ridiculous enough to get raped *three* times in 44 years? And WHO is blessed enough to have had so many wonderful men profess the most beautiful depths of undying love and still ends up alone? What kind of idiot runs so fast and so often over a lifetime from the very thing she has been praying for since the tender age of 4? I certainly could never convince myself that it was all THEM…that there was something inadequate with every one of THEM. No, the common denominator there is me…and only me. I chased, pushed, argued, and crazied every one of them away from me, even the most tenacious of them. I could try to blame any one of a hundred girlfriends who shit on me, stabbed me in the back, devastated and used me…..but again, who’s the common denominator there? Me.
And what about my daddy? I was fortunate that my mother kicked me out with just a trash bag full of clothes at 16 for lying about smoking a cigarette. Thus, I spent the majority of my life, from 16 to 42, with a most amazing parent who demonstrated love, acceptance, kindness, honesty, integrity, and joy. So many children don’t have that kind of example or love in their life from ANY where growing up, at ANY age. Hell, I was fortunate that my daddy somehow always found the strength and ability to love me at all. Why didn’t that fix those fucking holes I was born and raised with? Not everyone who is unloved by her mother is blessed enough to be unconditionally loved by her father. If the cause of this unending and irreparable unlovability issue isn’t ME, at my very core, then that shower of my daddy’s true blessings would have repaired that. It should have, right?
Yes, it should have. It would have. If it wasn’t me, my fault, my issue, my fault, my inadequacy…mine, mine, MINE.
I’ve never felt good trying to blame any of this on other people anyway. Contrary to many people’s beliefs, I’ve just never been the person who could blame someone for anything at all really and feel confident it wasn’t really my fault. When the teacher molested me at 6, I even felt guilty when he got in trouble…even at that tender age; I felt it was me, my fault. After all, I had actually appreciated the special attention he had always given me, hadn’t I? I had looked forward to his smiles in the elementary school hallways that made his face beam whenever he saw me….it actually made me think of my daddy’s huge grin whenever I got to see HIM! And my favorite was the day he lifted me up to drink from the big drinking fountain. I had appreciated feeling special to a grown-up who saw me every day and still seemed to think I was someone special in this world. I would have never told on him intentionally. Not EVER! And I really didn’t want him to get in so much trouble either. Somehow, even way back then, at such a young and innocent age, I just knew it was my fault. Everything was my fault, so that had to be too. All three times I was raped, no matter how cruelly, I still felt deep down it was my fault…that I HAD gotten what I deserved. And I think I was always afraid to tell my mother because I knew she would be sure to bring that to my attention immediately and then all doubt of me “not deserving” to be raped would be totally eliminated. Hell, somehow I’ve been “asking for it” since the age of 6! I’m sure at 17 and older, I was REALLY asking for it. I just wanted to blame them because I never figured out HOW I “asked for it” and thus, couldn’t figure out how to stop “asking for it”. I only blamed them in my own mind out of frustration that I couldn’t fix what had always been wrong with me.
I’ve never minded taking the blame for things, actually I usually prefer it. After all, if it’s MY fault, then I can fix it. If it’s not, then I’m powerless to ever get it right. And yet, in spite of years of therapy, and so many wonderful years with a loving father, a zillion self-help books and strategies, I’ve never been successful at fixing it. And I still don’t feel satisfied trying to put the blame on other people for anything really… It’s been my life problem as long as I can remember; therefore, it’s still MY problem. My ex-husband even said to me once, “NO one in this world has such chronic shitty luck as you. The shit that happens to you regularly, just doesn’t happen to anyone…not even one of then usually, much less a lifetime of them!?” He was so right. I’ve always known that deep inside too. It’s me…it’s GOT to be. There is no other logical explanation. Hell, my mother abused the hell out of me physically, mentally, and verbally for 26 years and I was STILL desperate for her to love me. I’ve counseled so many children whose parents were fiercely abusive and still, they loved them and would do anything for their love. Me? I have two children who tossed me AND my love in the garbage without a second thought or one single look back to just wave good-bye….just threw me in the trash like the worthless garbage I’ve always been. And in spite of all my mistakes and failings as a mother and a human being, I gave those two children the very best of anything good I have ever had inside me to give, which was still apparently utterly worthless.
And since it seems to get worse the harder I’ve tried to repair whatever this is I was born with, what does that even really mean? If I own it all, I still can’t fix it; if I blame everyone else, I can’t fix it either.
I have so many of my daddy’s amazing qualities…deep down I think, where most can’t see them, but I have them damnit! So, why don’t they make me and my life even a fraction as valuable as my daddy was in this world to almost everyone who ever met him? Why can’t I fix what’s wrong with me?
Why?
I realized recently that I’ve never really been afraid to die… Well, as a mom I was because I felt my children deserved to know the love and nurturing of a mother…the love I never knew and started my desperate journey toward a life of failure lacking. Other than that, I never was afraid to die though. Obviously, my greatest fear is living. And figuring out why I’ve been forced to do something for 44 years that I’m just not able to do well. I’d rather not do something at all, than try for 44 years just to get worse and worse at the effort.
I did always hope that someday, before he passed or I did, I’d have the opportunity to deserve to matter in this world by giving back to my daddy somehow. I always told him, “someday Daddy, I’m going to get myself together and do something REALLY amazing for you to repay all you’ve ben and done for me over my life time”. It still wouldn’t have ever been enough, but I really always hoped I’d have that opportunity and ability someday. I didn’t. He is gone and I’m still fucking alive and every bit as unworthy, useless, and unlovable as I was born.
I’m sorry Daddy. I’m sorry I didn’t get it together in time to return your wonderfulness to you even a little bit. I’m really sorry. I know it made no difference to you whatsoever, but it really would have made the world of difference to me.
It seems so cruel. So much death all around me over the last two years since my daddy passed. All these beloved people and children dying and leaving behind heartbroken masses of hurting folks who loved and admired them. Yet, on and on and on I go…. 44 years of nothing but worthless efforts to somehow give the world what I always dreamed of. A life of nothing; worth nothing, for nothing, meaning nothing. No one notices or cares I’m alive and who can blame them? I don’t. So, why does God take the cherished ones and leave the insignificant failures to continue being a burden.
Yet, on I go…

Nostalgic nightmares

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Christmas, desperation, loveless, Mother, nightmares, nostalgia, rape, safety, sexual abuse

Fear overcomes Grace

Your mother sent you an e-card for Christmas.  Did you get it?

Who would think that simple sentence would wreak havoc in a woman’s mind, heart, and body?  It shouldn’t, right?  It should be a mere kindness to all; perhaps even a compromised expectation to most…  It’s not dangerous.  It’s not a threat.  It’s a simple thoughtful gesture!  What could possibly be wrong with that?  I don’t know.  I don’t want anything to be wrong with it!  In fact, the moment my father said those words, I actually felt excited for a minute.  Really??  My mother thought of me this year?  Enough to take the time to create and send an e-card?  And no one will ever know(much less understand) how much it would mean to me to this day, to think, believe, even hope, that my mother actually has some genuine feeling in her heart for me…something other than disgust, disappointment, resentment, and negativity.  Could it be possible?  I just don’t know.  The literal moment I allowed that flash of hopeful thoughts to flood through my mind, my instant reaction was “NO!  STOP IT!  You know better, you hopeless, foolish girl you!”  But at the least I wanted to acknowledge the safety of it.  No harm can be done by this, right?  It’s just a simple, thoughtful positive.

Yet, from that moment on, I’ve been drowning in mental chaos…

My thoughts flash from memory to memory so quickly it’s physically exhausting and mentally straining.  It has created this dull throb in my temples and behind my eyes.  Thoughts of ugly words being hurled at a little girl, innocent and full of hopes and dreams.  Thoughts of bad choices that little girl made as she grew up desperate for love, affection, and positive attention.  Desperate little girls with dead dreams and  remnants of youthful faith peeling off her heart like the paint off an ancient farmhouse abandoned and forgotten.  She once had so much faith, nothing could shake it off her, but by the age of 12, she left crusty old fragments of paint chips all over wherever she went and she frantically and perpetually tried to pick every last piece of evidence up before anyone saw the Hansel & Gretel like trail she inadvertently left all over.

But that was so long ago and her world is entirely different now.  She has two daughters of her own and her only desperation is to be the best mother ever – to send out perpetually warming rays of love to every individual, creature, or plant that crosses her path. To love so purely and unconditionally that maybe before she’s gone, she’ll have finally earned the right to be loved herself…for herself, flaws, mistakes, tarnish and all.

Anyway, why this simple act would raise a million other well buried memories back from the depths is confounding.

Her mother didn’t rape her at gunpoint in a baseball field behind her apartment.  Her mother didn’t use her for sex for five years, sucking every last tiny fragment of esteem and value she had worked so hard to build up since leaving home at 16.  Her mother didn’t force her to have abortions or make her go to parties to be gang raped like the house blow up doll.  Her mother didn’t shove beer bottles up her vagina and laugh as she screamed.  Her mother did NOT do those things to her…nothing so terrifying as the rest of the world did once she thought she’d “escaped” the abuse and hatred.

So why does the Christmas e-card bring ALL these nostalgic nightmares right back to the surface?  After all, her mother was nowhere near as cruel to her as the world was going to be.  She should be thankful that her first 16 years were not as rough as the following 16.  In fact, in comparison, life with Mother was a safe haven of sorts.  She should be grateful and happy that it wasn’t worse always.

Grace is just an ungrateful bitch.

No piggy back rides for little girls!

Tags

Darlene Higgins, depression, hopes, invisible, mean mothers, sadness, sexual abuse, suicidal

I scarcely recall any era of my life when I didn’t wish to be one of two things:  invisible or dead.  Perhaps under the age of 6 before I had any concept of suicide or free will whatsoever and I was still filled with an optimism that as long as I was the very best little girl ever…someday I’d be loved and nurtured without paying a price.  Someday my mother would love me. Or my daddy would save me.  Or I’d be the babysitter’s favorite…and not just when she wanted to practice sex acts, but really her favorite, as in her favorite little girl…the best little girl she’d ever babysat.

I remember our babysitter used baby powder on her vaginal hair.  It was bitter and really bothered me…but I really wanted to be her favorite – somebody’s favorite – anybody’s favorite.  So, I never complained about the taste of baby powder or not wanting to play those games.  I was just happy I had someone’s attention, kinda, at last…and not to be yelled at or punished, but for good stuff.  This was good stuff, right?  It had to be.  These couldn’t be things she’d do with just anyone.  It had to mean I was special.  Being special like this felt really weird and gross, but at least I was special to someone at last.

Once I had a babysitter who was my most favorite of all.  He would give me piggyback rides and play candy land with me or checkers or operation or tiddlywinks.  And he never, EVER made me put my mouth places where it tasted bad.  He just did the things I thought babysitters were supposed to; he colored in coloring books with me. And played games I wanted to play. He seemed to like me just like I was and didn’t want me to do yukky things.  I really REALLY wanted to be HIS favorite.   But when I told her how much fun he was and about all those games we played, mother said t it wasn’t appropriate for a boy babysitter to give a little girl piggy back rides.  So although he was the most fun, nicest babysitter in the whole wide world, he only babysat once. The other babysitter who played those weird games would be our regular babysitter.  I don’t recall for sure just how long she was our babysitter, but it was a really long time… Up until I didn’t have a babysitter at all anymore.