And so now for the Epic-ness

Tags

Depression, epic, Epic-ness, Family, Healing, Love, nightmare, personal happiness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, Queue the Epic, sister, sisterly friendship, wide open heart, Yoga

Just to clear things up… it’s not that I meant to be overly suspenseful or anything but when I last posted, I wasn’t quite ready to talk about Friday just then. Heck, I’m still trying to organise my thoughts into something resembling a clear picture for myself.

But in the interests of not over-selling it, I’m writing about it already. Okay? And like most things, writing about it is probably gonna help anyways…

So, Friday morning.

Had to go in to the office I’m working in for the next two weeks, just for an hour. Ostensibly for a handover but it was more like a meet and greet and then I jumped a train on Melbourne’s grandly inglorious public transport system to see my sister and nieces. Way down south about an hour from where I live.

Only this southern far reaching part of Melbourne is not known for its charm. But it is affordable for a young family such as my sister and her brood.

There’s truly nothing like the loving adoration of little children. The eyes of my almost 3½ year old niece light up when she sees me and no kidding, she breaks into a run every time. I scoop her up; covering her in hugs and kisses while she tells me what she’s been up to. The little one is about 1½ and maybe she copies my older niece’s excitement, but I get hugs and kisses and huge cheesy grins from her, too.

Truly, they are a light in my life and if I never get to have children of my own, I will always have them. Wonderful, magical creatures that they are.

And while all of this was good, no, FANTASTIC, that was not the Epic part.

Playing games with them was great; chatting to my sister while we entertained the little darlings was fun, too. Helping my niece eat her dinner by pretending I planned on eating it was hilarious. Getting introduced to Kit and Kat (names she gave her slippers) was brilliant.

Unprompted, towards the end of my visit, she melts me into a quicksilver puddle: We all love you Auntie Svasti.

Ditto, kid!

This however, was still not the Epic-ness I mentioned. Although actually, all of the above meant the entire day was at least ten different shades of awesome.

After we’d all eaten dinner, it was time for me to leave and my sister drove me to the train station.

Queue the Epic.

Might’ve mentioned that in a recent phone call, my sister told me how she (finally) realised that I’ve had a horrendously rough time since I moved back to Melbourne. Doh! Really??

A more cynical person might get angry at her for only just working that out. But hey, in the same time period she had a miscarriage and then gave birth to my two nieces. So she’s been a little pre-occupied.

When she had my oldest niece, a distinct change in our sisterly friendship occurred, and this grew more pronounced with the birth of my second niece. Once upon a time we would text/email/talk on the phone several times a week. We knew what was going on in each other’s lives. But when the babies came, all of that went away.

I never kicked up a fuss though. I understood she was going through a lot of changes, too. I guess the only difference was that her changes were positive – the blossoming of her family and beautiful children.

And mine were not.

My sister never knew the depths of my depression or the sheer insanity I went through with PTSD. No one in my family did. No one kept tabs on me directly afterwards. No one made sure I ate, or was sleeping, or able to get through a weekend without crying for hours on end. In short, no one made sure I was okay.

Hell, I guess I didn’t really realise I wasn’t okay. But when someone in your family that you supposedly love has been assaulted, don’t you check in on them? When you’ve witnessed that person shaking from head to toe, one eye blackened and bruised, when they show no discernable interest in life, do you not try to help them in whatever way you can?

My family did not. They Did Not Get The Memo.

All for their own reasons, of course. And as I hadn’t been to see a doctor, I was undiagnosed and just barely getting through each day. I didn’t understand I was an almost non-functional mess, and no one else seemed to, either. Seems ludicrous now, but that’s how it was.

Yet, here is my sister five years on, telling me in her own words that she can see it now. She sees me and what I went through. And here she is, reaching out in words that usually aren’t forthcoming in my super-buttoned-down-let’s-not-talk-about-ANYTHING family, and letting me know she is pretty much praying for me each and every day. She is wishing good things for me and hoping I catch a break. Yep, me too, sis!

And I try to explain a little, while we wait for my train. I tell her that PTSD is like being awake in a nightmare day in, day out. That it’s almost impossible to explain to another person just how terrifying PTSD really is.

She tells me she is worried that I still want to go to Thailand for my yoga retreat because she knows I have almost no money. And I tell her that yoga and all the teachings I’ve studied over the past nine years are what saved my life. They are the things I clung to when I very much wanted to kill myself. And that this is the final year of a seven year training program and even though I don’t know how, I am damn sure gonna do everything in my power to be there.

I tell her I am at peace with all of these things now, well mostly any way. But I also tell her how much she means to me, and how much those gorgeous nieces mean to me, too.

I explained how my oldest niece was born at a time when my life seemed completely grey and desolate. And how that sweet little baby coming into this world was like a brilliant light of possibility for me. She is in many ways, a complete miracle as far as I am concerned. And as much as I love both of my nieces, she will always be special to me because of that.

My sister tells me that she loves me, too.

I tell her that I don’t understand what the story of my life is meant to be, other than that I feel called to be of service. That I want to do what I can to help other people climb out of their own personal hell realms, much as I have climbed out of my own.

Finally, I ask her not to play the information giver to my parents any more. The same parents who dote on my sister’s family, spend lavishly on my nieces, and yet never call me unless it’s a family birthday or something. And then usually, it’s an email. They seem to vanish even moreso when things are crappy in my life. Go figure.

They ask her about me instead of asking me, wanting to know if I have a job yet and they pass second hand information back to me: I guess if she needs money she will come and ask us for it.

WRONG! So, very much NOT what I will do…

Not that this is the most important part of our conversation. Can you guess what it might be?

Seems, I have my sister back.

The one who used to be my back up. The person I used to be able to tell anything to.

She is trying. She openly admitted she has a hard time accessing her heart and feelings (it’s a family trait). And I explained to her that if there’s one thing the last five years has given me – that would be a wide open heart.

Wide. Open.

I’m starting to believe that I’m willing to trust again (I think). Well, trust those worthy of trust, anyway.

I can feel now. Really FEEL. Whether it’s fear or joy, I am in touch with what’s happening in my body and mind. I am learning to believe that I can have personal happiness again in my life. It’s okay to have that – because having that doesn’t mean that my life will fall apart again.

And I told my sister that it is never too late to access those things. That there is always an opportunity to become more open.

(We haven’t spoken to each other like this in YEARS)

And then my train was approaching and we said farewell. But she is back in touch many times a week, and I have my sister back. A sister who is trying, and who can finally tell me she loves me.

So as you can see, kinda EPIC.

~Svasti xo

Moving on

Tags

chasey, Family, letting go, moving on, niece

I accidentally sat down on my poor little niece on Sunday!

She’d been sitting next to me when I stood up for some-reason-or-other. Stealthily, she moved over to where I was sitting without saying a thing! Then I went to sit back down without looking behind me…

Tears!

When you’re two years and eight months old, having your thirty-seven year old aunty sit down on you – even if it’s only for seconds – is quite the shock, I’d imagine.

She wasn’t injured. But those beautiful long and dark brown lashes drowned in the backwash of her tears, and her deep dark chocolate puddle eyes were entombed in a layer of moisture.

So I picked her up and gave her many hugs and kisses. Told her how very sorry I was. Checked she was okay. Still, she cried.

Then I asked her what I could do to make things better, suggesting a game of chasey around the house (she loves chasing/being chased).

Immediately the tears dried up and she shouted “Yes!!!”.

So we played chasey. Several times. And there were tickles. More cuddles and kisses. Laughter.

And it was over. Forgotten.

Sometimes I wish that as fully grown humans, we could retain the ability to move on just like that… to just drop our shit and get on with life.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

Seems to me, that’s kinda part of what yoga is about. Or something like that.

~Svasti

The art of non-conversation

Tags

Adoption, Family, gut instinct, Hugh Jackman, irony, non conversation, Parental Units, spitefully angry people, whipping girl

This post grew out of a comment I left over at RB’s blog on a semi-related topic.

My rant started as a reply to her post before veering off into my own insanity:

At least you have conversations with your parents where they ask questions about you and your life…

I briefly mentioned last Sunday in my previous post.

Hadn’t seen my nieces or sister in a few weeks, and was invited over to check out the newly renovated bathroom.

Also, eldest baby niece was moving out of the cot and into her Big Girl Bed. A seminal moment in any young girl’s life, in need of witnessing for sure.

I was warned the Parental Units would be there too, but I thought that’d be okay with me. Sort of.

You see, my parents and I still haven’t moved beyond the ill-fated three months I stayed at their place last year on returning from Thailand. It was a bad mistake. Monumentally bad.

What’s worse is that neither of them are talkers. They don’t ever want to discuss things, not unless I agree to take the starring role of Whipping Girl, where they get to list all my ill-gotten faults.

And they really don’t really go in for the whole self-reflection thing…

So. We’ve had a kind of stalemate since then. To the point that when I was drowning in depression and unemployment earlier this year I didn’t hear a word from them.

It’s especially bad with mum though. She can barely contain her resentment, she can’t even look me in the eye and talks to me in this tight, pinched voice – the one she reserves for people she can’t stand.

Dad has his own passive-aggressive tendencies, but they play out quite differently. He’s still nice-ish to me, mostly. Just horribly detached.

Woke up Sunday morning and almost rang my sister to cancel. But I wasn’t sure if it was gut instinct or laziness speaking.

Turns out it was the former.

Rode le bike to the train station, got on board, only to find out several stops along that there were ‘disruptions on the line’. Buses were replacing trains most of the way.

At that point, I did ring to cancel but apparently dad offered to ‘drive me there and back’ so I could still make it for lunch. Thought that was pretty nice of him, and quite unexpected really. I had no way of knowing then, that the return trip would not only be late-ish but that they’d drop me at a train station far far away from where I’d been picked up. Nice touch, dad.

‘Course, on the trip to my sister’s place (thank goodness my older niece was in the car too), we managed some conversation. I asked him about his imminent retirement and related plans, what he’d been up to. He managed to ask me about work.

Dad: So, how’s work?

Me: Pretty boring, just like I last told you. I’m still looking for a permanent job; don’t want to end up unemployed again come December.

Dad: Yeah that was a pretty bad time.

Me: Yes, it was! [Funny you mention that since you and mum sorta ignored me the whole time…]

Well, that kinda exhausted the topic. On to talking about my nieces and my sister. Apparently, mum is giving my sister our nan’s crystal cabinet since mum already has one.

I pretty much wanted one thing of my nan’s – a tea cup, plate and saucer set. There were three sets that my nan, sister and I used to use regularly at nan’s house for tea and biscuits. It’s just one of those irreplaceable childhood memories.

Dad: We brought down the crystal cabinet for your sister. If she doesn’t want it, then we’ll just sell it on eBay and she can have the money instead.

Me: Right… so, what happened to the tea cups?

Dad: I don’t know, you’d have to ask your mother. [He *knows* about the crystal cabinet but *not* the tea cups?!!]

Me: I didn’t want anything of value. Just something that was part of my childhood memories.

At which point the topic was changed like a TV channel.

But later when everyone was sitting around, it surfaced again.

Mum: Gee, you should have said something and put them aside. I don’t know where they are now.

Somehow, my mother conveniently forgot about the conversation we had when I was helping her sort things out (nan had been moved into nursing care). She also apparently forgot that she told me to leave the cups there for now, and we’ll sort it out later.

Dad: There’s things there that belonged to your other nan [the one I wasn’t close to].

Me: That’s not the point. I have nothing of *this* nan’s now since R [uncle] has cleared the house out.

At which point the topic was changed. Again.

Conversation shifted a few times. Then, my sister mentioned a two year old-ish boy in the same playgroup as her two year old-ish daughter. And how it was extremely clear already that he’s downright-dyed-in-the-wool camp.

Mum: Well, you know Hugh Jackman is gay. He and his wife both are.

Stunned silence. In which dimension is that an appropriate response to what my sister was saying?

Right then, I hadn’t put two and two together – mum absolutely hates anyone who’s adopted a child (her firstborn was adopted against her will in the late 60’s).

Me: You just can’t say that. You don’t know for sure unless you have first-hand eye-witness evidence.

Mum: Oh, I *know*. My friend knows someone who went to school with one of them… (mumbles into silence)

I say nothing more. Why? Because you can’t argue with crazed and spitefully angry people.

Moral of the story…

My parents don’t know much about what’s going on in my world, nor do they care to enquire. They can, on-purpose, make sure I don’t get one of my nan’s tea cups.

But my mother knows for CERTAIN that Hugh Jackman is gay.

~Svasti

Uselessness

Tags

anti-heroine, bird eggs, blood kin, fairy floss, Family, helpless, Surrender, Truth, useless

Sometimes we say stuff, just to try and fill the gaps with a kind of explanation, even if it doesn’t make much sense. Not when you examine it properly.

What are we running from anyway? Are the words just a way to put some distance between things that cause us pain? Are they better than silence?

I’m a little confused and constantly surprised with all the strangeness, although I don’t really get why… I mean, if there’s one thing that’s predictable…

Can’t help but think of tiny baby bird eggs and how easily the shells are crushed. Which in a way is good… makes it easy for those tiny new birdlings to peck their way out when its time… but also means they’re quite fragile right up til…

Sand with crumbled sea shells, crunchy underfoot. So flimsy and yet remains in one piece, somehow. A piece of a larger whole. Thankfully. Well, at least for the time being.

The ache is heavy, dragging, spreading, stretching. Taking up space in my chest cavity leaving way less room for my lungs. Making it harder to breathe deeply.

Can’t blurt out what I really want to say, it’ll upset people. That’s not what I want. But what happened to being able to be really honest?

Perhaps it’s against the rules (no matter what they say) in this strange world where planning for the future is given higher priority than seeing the world straight up as it is, right now.

It is easier, sure, to just… not. Apparently.

But then I think – wow, it must look all-so different as you survey your version of this story.

I don’t belong here. But I can’t really get too far away – your story needs its anti-heroine, doesn’t it?

So you paint me shades of your discontent. A vagabond, in need of a proper frame of reference. According to you.

Tricky, tricky, fairy-floss-like melt-in-your-mouth confusion and not quite there-ness, and then, oh, just then you’ll say what I wish you’d said a while back.

But seems those words never come out when they would’ve been useful. It’s easier to look like you might be helpful, without having to potently act in that capacity, ever.

Alone, alone, alone. Always alone. Sitting around that table but there’s no warmth in your embrace. It’s a kind of a game.

And it’s silent. Can’t say those words. Just have to learn to say nothing. But then, that makes me like the rest of you, not what I want at all.

I’ve no idea what you think of this mess. Help is only help when it’s given freely, not when you make me beg.

Loving people in my life, it seems, is often a game of peeling the onion. Remove another layer, I just have to keep on shifting my viewpoint, because I’m never quite in the right position and that gets painful after a while.

Always, I try to forget what’s been, just to trust again afresh. But you never have anything new for me, just the same old same old…

I don’t belong here.

Where are the others like me? Those who don’t run from, but towards wounded people?

Certainly, I won’t find the answers here amongst blood kin.

Never have. Never will.

~Svasti

How was your Sunday?

Tags

Bikes, Bogans, Cave in the Snow, Cycling, Family, Flat tyre, Hermit, Humour, Laughing at myself, Mona Lisa, Nieces, peek a boo, Spirituality, Sunday, Surrender, Tenzin Palmo

What to say to a day where you try to do a nice thing (for your 94 year old and increasingly senile grandma) only to be insulted quite rudely (by said grandma – we’re not sure how much dementia is ruling the roost and how much is just her), and then on the way home, discover a flat bike tyre as you get off the train, and the spare tyre tube’s faulty too (but you didn’t know til after you’d been trying to pump it up fruitlessly for at least ten minutes).

Argh!!!

When trying to repair the original tube, discover the hole is in the worst possible spot, and while waiting to see if one of the many things you’ve tried has worked, get approached by a totally drunken bogan who says… ooooh, hey honey, what do YOU neeeeed? …as you frantically pace around trying to work out how to/if you can fix the damn tyre tube at all!

Mumbling more to yourself than anything, Need a band aid or something that might work as a stop-gap to get home!

For some reason the long haired drunken bogan leans in and salaciously whispers, Ohhhh I think I really want yoooouuuu! To which you reply, That’s great but I DON’T want you.. (why don’t really cute guys EVER say things like that?). Standing too close still, Mr Bogan is smoking (a major pet hate) so you tell him to smoke elsewhere. Anywhere else!

Another dude on a bike wanders by to commiserate at which point, Mr Bogan again feels the need to stick his face right near yours, PLEASE get out of my personal space!

Damn bogan!

So you give it up. Put the original tyre back together, wheel back on the bike and resign yourself to more train travel (two trains) and wandering home from the closest station with your poor limp bike and its sadly flaccid front tyre squeaking in protest at having to roll with not enough air in there…

Thank goodness for adorable two year old nieces playing peek-a-boo with your hair and chanting 1-2-3-ready-not! (translation = coming, ready or not!). Giggling in a way even the Mona Lisa couldn’t resist. And three month old baby nieces smiling wide cheesy baby grins, highly infectious those…

Not to mention being grateful for some time to re-read a rather wonderful little book, Cave in the Snow (will do a write up soonish), allowing those latent hermit-like tendencies to quietly re-surface… twas enough, too, to make me laugh at the madness of the day.

~Svasti

Response to BlissChick – part 2

Tags

abuse-o-meter, Anger, Anxiety, Assault, Depression, Family, Fear, in-utero, Internalising pain, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Recovery, Relationships, Repression, sex trade, Trust, Truth, Violence

After my rather long comment on BlissChick’s post, I wrote up part 1’s post (which was kinda hard to write)… but she also emailed me some other (rather confronting) questions:

In psychological circles it is said that abusers are not born but MADE. So I wonder (not knowing anything about your home life as a child) what kind of environment your parents created in order to turn your brother into an abuser?

I don’t remember much of my early years, just tiny splotches. But I do remember my brother never liking me. It seemed to start when we were fairly young (he’s only two years older than me).

Perhaps this will sound new age-y, but I have this theory:

My brother was the next little being to inhabit my mother’s womb after the grief, illness, anger, sadness, stress and loss she experienced in giving up her first son. Never having had permission to deal with it openly, I believe much of her pain was simply absorbed.

I’ve had my own experiences with the body internalising pain… I know this is what happens.

So, in-utero my brother imbibed suffering as he grew. Marinated in it, really.

And what must it have been like, for my mother? Being pregnant again after that first time? She once said when we were little, she was always afraid someone would come and take us away… this fear must have affected each of the three kids that followed, right?

Also, my brother was part of a soccer club from a very young age, and in the 70’s/early 80’s, Australian soccer clubs were dominated by masochistic men and boys. He grew up as part of that culture, every weekend for years.

My parents I believe were just… too involved in their own lives and pain. They didn’t see what was happening in front of them. They weren’t equipped to handle it. They’d never been given the appropriate tools themselves.

Do you have to experience such things for yourself in order to recognise what’s going on?

I don’t know if something else happened to my brother or not. If it did, I don’t believe it happened in my parents’ home.

I also wonder why they enabled his abuse of you? That is what they did — they enabled.

These two sentences were very difficult for me to read. I truly believe they were unaware.

When I’d go to my parents and say ‘my brother hit me’, how could they work out how bad it was? That it wasn’t the usual sibling rough-housing (it never happened with them in sight)?

How could I understand what to tell them? What could I measure it against to give them some context?

People will claim they had no idea what was going on under their own roofs, but 99% of the time, they are lying (perhaps not even consciously so). The other 1% you have to ask HOW and WHY they did not know? WHY were they so utterly self-involved that they did not see your pain?

Because it was their job to love and protect you.

A little voice I don’t want to know about whispers in my ear… it was ongoing, though. It wasn’t infrequent. So why didn’t they stop him?

My dad was the youngest child with two older sisters and I don’t believe he’s ever hit a woman. My mum has a younger brother and I don’t believe he hit her either. Why then, was my brother allowed to continue to target and bully me?

I don’t know! It’s a question that pains my heart, and I have no answers. It makes a part of me feel raw and hungry and empty… it makes my lips purse up and I want to just stop thinking for a while.

How could they put up with my complaints of constantly being used as a pummelling bag? Then, it’s not just that he was physically abusive. But verbally too, and viciously cruel at every opportunity.

But, I was off with the pixies a lot. Did I just withdraw? Did I make it harder for them to know the truth? Should they have known anyway?

Thinking about this stuff, it makes me squirm. Does it matter if I ever know, or not? I kinda think right now it doesn’t matter any more… as long as I’m not pretending, and as long as I’m admitting to myself, that it wasn’t okay.

Whenever I see or hear about a woman who has chosen a partner who is or becomes abusive of her, I know (know know deep in my heart) that she came out of her childhood deeply wounded. Women who are raised in healthy households with healthy self esteem do not pick bad partners. They have an innate radar and can sense abusiveness in even the most charming people.

Today I read a post by a blogger I don’t know, via one of my blogger friends. And it really made me think. How do children get to the point where they taunt another person so mercilessly? She makes a good point – it’s because nobody stops them. They get away with it because they can.

And yes, I know my self-esteem was in tatters by the time I left home, aged nineteen. Through my own actions as well as those of others. But I think you’re right – had I been given a stronger sense of self-worth and self-love, I don’t think I would have let my first boyfriend treat me as he did. Nor do I think I would have ended up working in the sex trade.

Or, allowing myself, as you say, to pick bad partners. One after the other. To this day, I still can’t sense abusiveness in others. But those who are weird and wounded like me, sure, I can pick them a mile off…

Then again, my sister didn’t go through any of this. What was it in me that meant this was my path? My sister saw how our brother treated me and although he was mean to her, he never hit her. Just teased her all the time about her weight, resulting in a wounded self-esteem. But then, that’s bad enough, isn’t it?

Eventually wounded women who struggle and fight and put themselves back together again have even better radar. So do not fear. The work you do now most assuredly will lead you to a loving relationship some day.

I really, truly hope you’re right. I do. I get it when you say this is going to take a while. So far, it’s taken all of my life. If ever I can repair that abuse-o-meter radar, I know it’ll be good!

Of course, until then I know I need to keep moving. Like my therapist said, I can’t let the habits of my PTSD and depression, continue to lead the way.

So I have to try and reach out, to trust. And accept I guess, I might still get it wrong for some time to come.

~Svasti

Response to BlissChick – part 1

Tags

Abuse, Anger, Anxiety, Assault, Confusion, Depression, Family, Fear, Rant, Relationships, Surrender, Trust

In case you missed it, my world was well and truly rocked by BlissChick’s incredible post on depression, and some of her subsequent posts…

So here’s sort of an abridged version of her post (in italics), and my replies…

…People on anti-depressants are, from my own experience of them, still sad. Why? …Because they are putting a band aid on a broken limb…

I’ve never considered medication seriously, and the question has only been put to me once.

I understand there may be short term relief, but like you, I think it’s not something that ever fixes anything. So, I’m not interested in that path. Sure, it means things might be a little rougher for me, but I’m willing to tough it out.

…our souls are made of stories… They must be integrated into your essence or they will always be there. No amount of positive thinking will get rid of them. No amount of medication, eating “right,” supplements, herbals, or exercise… you will react because of them; you will be their slave…

I can see the truth this statement. Oh yes.

When I started writing my blog, I thought I was just writing about being assaulted. But what I learned along the way is, I’m actually writing about everything in my life that led up to that one fateful night.

Fateful, because it was a turning point, even if I didn’t start doing anything about it for almost three years.

…( (Honesty + Witness) + (Compassion + Patience) ) x Commitment

The hardest part of this formula is the first variable: Honesty about our stories.

We do everything we can to avoid this. We try to gloss over our stories… The first question to ask yourself is this: Who are you trying to protect by not being honest and why are you going to such lengths to protect them?

I was protecting both my parents, trying so hard to be who they needed me to be …a parent or both parents are exactly who most people are trying to protect…

I’ve really, really shied away from looking at my parents as neglectful. The physical abuse came from my brother, but it was ignored. And my parents were, and remain busy with their own emotional issues. It’s been that way for pretty much my whole life.

I haven’t wanted to admit these things so openly. I’ve wanted to accept them as they are and do what I can to compensate, because it’s cleaner, simpler. Because I know they won’t change. And because there’s nothing to be gained from blaming them for how they are.

…Regardless of someone else’s past, they were cruel to you. YOU were the child. YOU had the right to be the child. Your parents were not and are not your responsibility…

The crucial part, the part I’ve protected the most, has been to avoid admitting my parents were kind of shitty at their parenting job. I still have trouble with that.

I feel like, as a grown up, I should just take responsibility for myself and be done with it.

But perhaps that’s the point – how can the adult truly take responsibility when their inner child is having trouble being heard?

…Trying to understand your abuser is a classic psychological survival method… Your mind has to try to understand why this person is treating you this way, so you start to feel badly for them…

I recognise this. I do. My brother. My mother. My father. I never understood. I still don’t. And I feel bad I can’t be part of the “let’s all be close and loving” fantasy family relationship. I can’t be the “friend” my mother wants, either, especially considering she’s still self-centred and not interested in whatever I might be going through…

Every time my dad loudly has a conversation in front of me with my brother-in-law, about the importance of family (the same one on repeat), I want to be sick. Because he says those things and I KNOW he’s really chastising me indirectly for not being in touch a lot.

But heck, here I am on the brink of bankruptcy and where are they? NOWHERE.

When I was assaulted and hurting and hiding for years… THEY DID NOTHING.

What did they do when I complained again and again and again about my brother hitting me? MADE HIM APOLOGISE EACH TIME BUT NEVER STOPPED IT.

There’s more, much more. YES, they were neglectful and unsupportive parents. YES THEY WERE!!

And YES! I DO feel badly for them. I know they both had unhappy childhoods. I know my mother’s father was an alcoholic and her mother was controlling and manipulative. And that my father’s mother was the most self-centred person I’ve ever met. And my father’s father was adopted and emotionally vacant.

I expect less from them as a result. And yet, if ever I am blessed with children, I know I’d do whatever I can to make sure they feel loved and adored.

…You must be heard and seen… As an adult going through your stories and trying to order them and integrate them, a witness is the person who will give you that “real” feeling…

My witness, of course, has been Marcy. But I have also been graced with others…

Unfortunately I don’t have a ‘Marcy’ in my life. Instead, I write. And write, and write, so I can breathe.

But, those stories are slowly coming out on my blog. Which makes my blog readers my witnesses, I guess (hope you folks don’t mind!).

So witness this: I feel crappy about writing this stuff, like I’m betraying my family. Making a mountain out of a mole hill. It feels wrong and childish to sit here and write about things that have hurt my feelings over so many years and that, truth be told, still hurts my feelings.

And I’m not even half-way done yet! Not even close… however, I don’t know if it’s all for public consumption. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

Read part 2…

~Svasti

BlissChick’s story

Tags

Anxiety, BlissChick, Confusion, Depression, Family, Recovery, Relationships, Stress, Truth, Unemployed

I am tired. And stressed to the eyeballs. I still don’t have a job, and very soon I’m about to be very, very broke unless the universe interferes. I’m working hard in so many ways, and I’m being assailed and tested constantly right now, on the planes of mental health, spiritual life, family and friends and… kinda everything. My belief in myself. The core of who I think I am.

Anyway, I just wanted to say that despite all of that, I’ve just read a marvellous post by BlissChick: Can I Get a Witness: Overcoming Depression through Story.

Go and read it now!!

There’s some highly truthful truths within that post, stuff I’ve thought about timidly under the covers with the flashlight on, but never ever out in the open.

Christine (BlissChick) and her partner Marcy (Ordinary Enchantment) really have got somethin’ goin’ on. Together, they’re a force to be reckoned with (not to mention their wonderful and wise pets). I hope some day I get as lucky as these gals, in meeting that person, where we just fit into each other’s lives. And support each other with strength and love when we need it most.

I read BlissChick’s post and I bawled, big heavy wet and salty tears. I’m gonna have to re-read it before I can coherently process the things that’ve touched my heart and soul so deeply at 1.30am in the morning.

But I want to say a big thank you to BlissChick for her post, honestly, and from the bottom of my heart.

~Svasti xo

Keeping mum

Tags

Adoption, Depression, Empathy, Family, Half-brother, Mother as Guru, Mother's Day, PTSD, Therapy

I’ve got some confessions to share with y’all. And some venting.

Today is Mother’s day. I’ve always had a problem with those cards expressing gooey sentiments about wonderful mythical mothers who are loving and generous to their children. I’ve felt a little guilty that I don’t feel that way about my own mother… that I’ve never once wanted to write ‘thanks for being a great mum’ on her card…

Anyway, the family plans for today changed when mum came down with a nasty dose of the flu, all aches and pains and totally bed-ridden. So, Mother’s day lunch was transferred to my sister and brother-in-law’s place with everyone except mum.

Sorry as I am that she’s unwell, to be honest it was something of a relief that mum wasn’t there. Sounds horrible, I know.

Jaliya has written a thought-provoking post for Mother’s day, and the innate ability within us all to develop mothering-type qualities. Even if we aren’t mothers, or even females.

In Tantra and Hindu traditions, one’s mother is considered the first Guru (teacher) – for many years, the mother is everything to the child. Then, as the child gains independence, the mother’s role morphs to provide support, love and advice, but her life-sustaining qualities are no longer required. All children eventually need other teachers.

While I understand the reasons its hard for mothers to let go, it’s crucial for the health of the parent/child relationship. Mothers and fathers must learn to adapt their ‘job description’, for want of a better term… to grow with their children and enable new ways of relating to them.

So I confess… I love both my parents, but I’m finding increasingly difficult to have a relationship with my mum.

Partly, the reason for that has to do with her inability to see me as an adult. The few months I spent living at my parents’ place revealed this very clearly.

The other part of the problem has to do with our seemingly incompatible emotional states.

As I’ve mentioned before, my mother had a child out of wedlock in the 60’s. The method of dealing with such things in Australia at the time was to put pressure on young mothers to give their children up for adoption.

This happened to my mother. Between the doctor and my nan, mum was coerced into giving up her child (one she almost died giving birth to). She wasn’t allowed to see her boyfriend, and never saw her newborn child.

There’s way more to this story than I’ll ever know, and I’ve heard plenty. Neither my grandmother or mother have a penchant for telling the truth. Rather, they’re both proficient at re-writing history to suit their tastes. Possibly, this has coloured my desire to be as utterly and painfully truthful with myself and other people as I can be.

According to my mother, nan destroyed the adoption papers and told mum they would never speak of the matter again. She was expected to keep it all a secret. And she did that for a long, long time.

When she met my father, mum did tell him at some point. Maybe part of the reason they suited each other is because she doesn’t want to let stuff out, and he colludes with her desire to remain as she is…

Because of the ‘lost’ papers, mum never knew her son’s exact date of birth (til they met decades later – another story). She only knew it was some time in February. And apparently she’d always ‘go a little funny’ around that time of year. Not that I ever noticed, because while growing up my experience of mum was that of an emotional yo-yo. There was always a crisis, she was always mad about something and then in tears. We kids would have to be quiet, say nothing, and walk on egg-shells for days afterwards to avoid any flare-ups.

Eventually, I was told about my half-brother, but sworn into secrecy too (which I found to be rather impossible). I’ve given as much support to mum as I’ve been permitted… I was there to support her the first time she met him, suggested ways to get professional help, and talked to her about it whenever she felt like talking.

However as the years passed, I noticed her unavailability whenever I was a mess. I don’t mean physically, just emotionally. If I called in tears, she couldn’t find anything to say. So she’d say things that were just… inappropriate… awkward… strange.

My sister and I gradually realised that mum has no plans to ever put down the mantle of her life-wounds. In fact, I’m certain she intends to carry them to the grave.

All of which means she has no capacity for other people’s issues. This has been particularly hard for me in the last few years, while I’ve been dealing with depression and a vicious case of PTSD.

Except for the weekend directly after the assault, I was never once asked how I was doing. There wasn’t a single attempt to find out what happened, offer support or even anything practical. And there was a long time there when I could barely take care of myself. Cooking was impossible. Getting out of bed was outrageously tough.

But it wasn’t just a lack of care from mum – seems to be a trait going back generations on both sides of the family. And maybe that’s part of the reason I over-share, and feel the need to talk about things so much? I seem to be the polar opposite of my family in so many ways!

Then, maybe I’m like her in other ways… do I focus too much on what’s happening in my life to the detriment of those I love? Perhaps sadly, I do…

It’s been an added source of pain, and I’ve often discussed it in therapy – it’s natural to want to turn to one’s family in times of need. But mine is not available.

Additionally, things haven’t exactly been good between mum and I since I stayed with my folks after my return from Thailand.

But it’s tough to resolve problems with someone who won’t talk, and lets you know they’re mad in very subtle ways, every time they see you. So, we’ve limped along in this half-life of a familial bond for months now… when I lost my job, mum didn’t call me, not even once.

On one level, I really do find it hard to understand how my own mother has no empathy for the suffering of others. Even though I understand what she’s been through.

But my own experiences of trauma cause me to feel for others very much, and it’s generated a desire to help other people.

And so, on this Mother’s day, day of thanks for the gift of this life, I find myself glad I didn’t have to see my own mother.

It’s not something I’m proud of – it just is what it is… part of my process of recovery, I suspect.

~Svasti

Keeping it in the family

Tags

Depression, Expression, Family, Father, Feelings, Lies, Mother, PTSD, Repression, Secrets

• Being assaulted was not my first episode of depression, although it was the first time I’ve dealt with PTSD.
• Previously I’d thought that most of the rage and repression within my blood and my genes came from my mother’s side of the family, but its really both sides.
• I grew up with a mother who suffers from depression and possibly even PTSD.
• I grew up with a mother who isn’t comfortable in her own skin, who has always been afraid of herself and others.
• I grew up with a mother who doesn’t want to let go of the trauma she went through, not ever, and we’ve had to live with the result of that.
• I grew up with an emotionally distant father who is himself, a towering inferno of repression. Possibly much moreso than my mother.
• I grew up in a family where secrets and lies were considered to be better than the truth, easier to deal with.
• I grew up in a family where both parents had issues with their own parents.
• I grew up in a family that wasn’t very social. My parents have never had alot of friends and neither have my sister or myself.
• I am not the person my parents expect, even when they think they have a hold on who I am. This upsets them no doubt.

I was always told as a young child that I was over-sensitive, over-emotional, that I lived in a fantasy land. I know now that wasn’t true. I am just a sensitive, emotional person in touch with the bigger picture of this world, beyond what we perceive with our eyes.

We don’t have to be a product of our past, although that’s what we have to work with. Its the materials we’re given. People forget to tell us we can swap materials out along the way, but we can.

The main reason for the tension between myself and my parents? I want to talk about things that make them shiver and shake. They wish to talk about the garden, the grandchildren, what to buy next. Or in extremes, gloss over the surface of the scary issues and consider the topic covered.

They find me intense, morose. They wish to have the younger version of me back, the one who was always acting and performing. Being a large personality, sparkling and shining. But things are now stripped back, simplified and I don’t have a desire to put on that costume any longer.

I want to work and work, and dive into the depths, unlocking all the doors, liberating myself from my perceived constraints.

In a household of “sweep it under the carpet” people, I am the anomaly. I am shouting it from the rooftops, even if no one is listening. I am expressing every last inch of what I feel, because I know no other way.

~Svasti