Morning Trip (308)

“She spends half her time making herself attractive to men, and the other half trying to divine which of the attracted are serious enough to marry her, and which wish to ram her against the nearest wall and jab into her recklessly.”
–Maya Angelou

Ranting about Feeling Abused

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.

Trapped or Protected

enclosed in your fist
i was safe
what if
i feel abused
and then you sigh
and you carefully open a space between two fingers
and i peer out
and i see
that I am being
held
up
close
in the light
of the sun
there is no ground beneath me
there is no where to run
there is not yet
any safe space
to be put down
–elisabeth connelley

I forgot somehow to run and to play around and around, up and then down laughing at you watching me as the flame rises and I float off in union. Maybe I can remember how. Please forgive me. I cannot forgive myself. At least…not yet.

A Story, for Kathy

Here is a story:

Once upon a time, there was a man, oh and a woman
[this should tell you something immediately, unless it tells you the wrong thing]
the man was himself, the woman was herself–happily and gloriously so.
In fact, it took several years for the woman to even believe that the man truly did enjoy, experience, and accept even her worst fanged fits.

True, the man had his own fits. The woman watched these, sometimes with comments, sometimes with the woman managing them silently, and many many other times the woman simply observed learning about him.

The man asked about the woman’s dreams and desires and allowed her plenty of space to express them with smiles and promises to meet as many of them as he was able. I might add, as with all communications, that there were certainly correct and incorrect assumptions made about the level of importance of each item. But for the most part for a very long time the man and the woman talked about everything and thus, knowledge about what was really going in passed between them evenly. This process allowed for the man’s need for control, which the woman noted cautiously but consented as long as needs were being met…it seemed such a small concession for the exchange.

Then one day, it seemed one day though it had been happening a little chip at a time, the man asked about the woman’s desires and laughed a wicked laugh inside his heart. He thrilled at the power to withhold from himself that which he needed most from the woman, and inflicted that upon her. As his power was in his anger, he became more angry at not gaining what he needed and imposed further restrictions upon the woman’s ability to provide them.

The woman was confused and became uncertain and stopped expressing herself. She sat and she filtered through all of her observations, her wisdom, and her knowing. She went deep down inside herself, past her inner flame, into the deep inner pool of cool clear water to wash herself clean and to gather again.

The end, or another most excellent beginning!