I have not been posting. I feel abused. I think I am literally being abused too, aside from the feeling. The things that I want to focus upon, the things that are my passion become lackluster and trite at such times. I get angry about this, as expression to me, is surviving, and then I loop right back around to feeling abused.
I just had a very angry thought about anyone calling me or using the word victim. I swear I will hit anyone who does with something that creates large amounts of physical distress. A person, that through no fault of their own, is also forced by society to feel like a whiny victim if they can’t take it. This forces the person to shut up and not get the assistance that the person might need. What about asking me(or said victim) if he or she might like some help. And then follow through on the offer–even if it conflicts with some internal register of emotions and situations to avoid. Please forgive me there, if I created some abuse of my own. My street is buried under so much shit, that it is becoming very difficult to tell which is my shit, to be cleaned and which belongs to someone else. That belonging to someone else category is a right bitch. I can work my hardest and my best to have the life that I desire–really and not from some crap from a book, and when others in my life are abusive I am stuck with their consequences. This is beyond cruel and I feel powerless to do anything about it.
I twist and I turn trying to do the right thing and accept responsibility for my own reacting, my own fear, my own appeasing–efforts to be myself no matter what, and in so doing I believe that in some ways the abuser(s) are alleviated of responsibility. I feel fear not knowing if the abuse is a concious choice, which would make it simpler for me to make a decision or if it is wrapped within mental and neurological disorder, and the abuser cannot notice that they are doing it. Everyone has a rather vicious opinion on it. They love to share it. The load then just gets heavier. I am not doing it right, again. (please share your thoughts, I think it’s just part of the cycle and I vaguely recall that sharing and getting feedback DO help at some point)
How does a person who has been severely abused in the past NOT view life on life’s terms as abuse? Who defines what abuse is? Is the feeling of being buried a maladaptive reactionary thing from the past that is skewing the view now? If my last question has a yes answer, that will mean I lie down and swallow until I can swallow no more and I wish to cease this existence. I remember, when I was very small and growing up a defiant voice from my middle that would shout when feeling a need not to exist. “Why should I put you all out of your misery!? I will not give you what you want!”
I do not want to be my age coming along as I have, enduring all that I have and having given up all that I have for my children to have to endure abuse like this. I do not know what the next right thing is. If I do know, it just doesn’t seem right, and I keep waiting so that I do not cause injury, harm, or unforeseen consequences to humans unequipped to realize nor to understand them.
The sun is out the sky is one of my favorite shades of blue. The breeze is cold, invigorating. I am looking in at it from the chair at the computer, trapped on this side of the glass. I even resent having to miss such glories to think about it. My writing is an attempt to share this part of my daily inventory with other human beings, to see what might occur. It is too hard to tarnish that good outside of the window with these quivers and tears and shakes of fear and anger. So the last things I have that are good and that never let me down, are also being stolen away. I am in tears.
“Think on This…
. . . to meet the disturbing factors with as much joyousness as if they were bringing pleasure in the material sight, will alter . . . much in the heart and mind of the seeker. For that which is is a result of the thinking of individuals as related one to another.
Hmm. I remember when I could do this and I could say this and I could really mean it!! I truly lived it. It wasn’t fluffy self-help garbage nor delusion. Today, as I read this in my inbox, part of me said, “YES!, Remember that!?! Yes! Do that!” Another part said, “Oh Bullshit!” It also muttered some choice curses. A part that I think is probably closer to the truth recalled how such things termed heavy now were pretty much the same, though different and I had that Joy, I wasn’t tired, I wasn’t as afraid. I wasn’t clinging with my teeth gripped onto a last shred of stability. I am smiling to have shared a few of these views today, out loud. I think that being positive also means sharing how things really are. I think that many of the nudges over the last few days from friends, strangers, and even enemies are my Higher Power nudging me a bit. I notice in my now kvetching to God about fruffy messages and all the hard work I’ve done meaning shit, IS AN ATTEMPT AT COMMUNION with my God. I am at my worst when I am out of that communion. I avoid it as I do not seem able to do it ‘properly’. THIS AVOIDANCE AND PERFECTION are danger signs for me. The invisible police attack and fine me. They tell me not to bother, and that I have other, perhaps better, or worse things to attend. I think God knows what I am screaming inside in frustration and in despair. I also think that I forget to ask. Forget to share–ok avoid sharing that which will seem like a rant, but is truly my real life. I can’t survive pretending it’s ok. I can’t survive by moving back toward the If Only This or That, THEN I will have joy, be ok, be grounded, have balance, find things that please me, fill in the blank.
The joy of seeing the nudges in the things that others write, allow me to borrow them, when I cannot do it myself. They remind me of what I did do, what I CAN do. They provide me with an open window that I cannot notice because I feel trapped inside a ‘house’ where I insist that the doors are all closed. I thank one and all for this sounding spark.
The crickets are singing the breeze. I notice the teasing poke and then flow of energy across my skin that is cooled after, by the breeze. I have peace. The crickets are singing the breeze.–e