A few things have been leading me up to writing this....from the pain in my hip that won't be quiet, to subtle reminders in the latest books I am listening to and/or reading.
Today I heard...."A child's unconditional love isn't enough to make a parent love them."
And, a woman thinking back to her childhood, asking "Is that what family does? Is this how family acts?"
Although I have written many words and faced many things, I have yet to come face to face or sat with the emotions of myself as a young child AND to feel what I feel about my parents: uncensored.
I know I do lump them both together as the contributors of feelings.
What are my feelings about them?
What did I feel as a child?
Has it been easier for me, when I took away their titles and called them by their first names....when I left them behind?
I am suspicious of me being too kind.
Of not wanting to blatantly meet them one on one.
Even though I have met my mother face to face since discovering my father's pedophilia...I haven't stood with my honest feelings of her.
I have kept away from her and him....and my feelings.
This may be the juncture of where I parted ways with honesty...about what I feel.
For, in order to feel this, completely, I have to meet them meeting me.
To see them treating me.
To see me being treated by them.
To get into the ring of three.
Of two.
Alone.
Child to parent.
Parent to child.
Can I?
In the story today, the author was writing about being part of a lie. And to be part of a lie, you agreed to leave the truth behind.
Mine....and theirs.
When I look back on my childhood it appears to be heavy, very tough to breathe in. The feelings there are divided...in as much as the two very distinct lives of my parents.
I don't really have feelings about their abuse and denial.
I oddly have feelings of a child toward a parent.
Which is why I don't have access to or the connection of my feelings of their abuse.
In living with the lies and denial, I have severed myself from my feelings about the abuse.
I have written blogs and have talked about my estrangement and have delved into the survival self....but have done very little with the child and her parents.
A child and her childhood.
A child and her feelings.
Feelings that stand in contrast to that of a child and parent.
It is said that the link between child and parent is extremely strong...and one that isn't easily broken. I have separated them as parents by using their given names, and in doing so spared me the onslaught of feelings while I separated myself from them.
Now, comes the time to feel me and them.
Bringing together my child and her feelings about them.
What does she really feel and see?
As I sit here, my art is across the way....on my couch.
I see the brightness and free spirit and joy.
I know these feelings.
I have to follow them backwards to where no lies live and see what I feel about my parents...Mom and Dad.
At this point, I went out to mow the grass, to be lulled by the hum of the motor and to be in Nature.
I didn't find anger or rage.
I didn't find any essence of my parents.
I found instead Me.
The little girl who thought she was responsible; who tried so hard.
Who did so much, who was so compliant.
I felt her innocence; not her wound.
The wound I feel was to live in denial for 40 years...and to feel her goodness wasn't good enough; to matter.
There is a separation.
Between their (parents) treatment and what I deserved.
It is unconscionable.
In order to have parents I was willing to do almost anything.
I was willing to shut off my feelings and help them with the lie.
The lie being, I wasn't good enough.
To love and protect.
I thought I would see them wounding me...instead I saw Me doing too much to make it work.
I will visit them again tomorrow and see if I can feel what they did.
Today, I felt who I was...and there was no malcontent.
I had to look up the word "Malcontent" to see if this fit.
"A person who is dissatisfied and rebellious...
Synonyms - troublemaker, mischief-maker, agitator, dissident, rebel, rabble-rouser
"Dissatisfied, complaining or making trouble."
In my mind and the way I have been treated, I was the malcontent.
I saw or felt myself as a malcontent in my younger years and there were two of me; the bad and the artist...the wound and the artist...the denial girl and the artist.
When really I have not done bad.
When folks feel drawn to the art - but steer clear of my wound....I felt that it was the bad part of me.
There is no bad part.
those who can't stand with me in my truth and near my abuse are not repelled by my badness; but my innocence.
If I am innocent....that makes my parents bad.
My life, my past, my wounds and my survival self all did what they did to keep my parents good.
I loved them that much.
And it wasn't enough for them to love me.
To protect me and keep me safe.
I know what I have sacrificed in order to love them.
I gave up feeling my innocence my brightness; the art of me.
I believed I was a Malcontent and an Artist....part bad and part good.
