I saw a screening of the social network. I'm impressed. It's very fast paced, it made the best out of the computer programming gibberish those people were telling each other and it left me with a huge admiration for sexy Harvard graduates.
It's the story of a computer genius, freshman at Harvard, way knowledgeable about computers. He quits Harvard to develop his own interests: the social network we all came to know and love as facebook and the obstacles he had to surmount in order to become a billionaire. An upper, I'd say!
Be smart and you'll be rich, the message is. Except for the exceptions among you, who'll be exceptionally smart and exceptionally rich. Wrong message for the masses, I say.
The acting was good, mainly because Justin Timberlake made an appearance in supporting the message: This movie is cool, has Justin Timberlake in it. The protagonist was so awkward in front of the camera, that he literally looked into the camera in a scene, with a Low POV, of himself exiting a building. Thank God for mastership of Final Cut Pro, cause that way he could actually be a sympathetic character, but not thanks to any trace of talent, which would have been the preferable of the two circumstances.
The imdb profile is here.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Cip
I went to camp when I was abut 15 and memories were trying to come to my conscious mind, but I didn't have the tools to cope yet, the language to express the pain, the support I needed for such a trauma to resurface. As a result, I repressed all sexual desire from my hormone ridden teenage body, constraining myself and any sexual thought my mind would try to concoct.
I tried religion for a while, but I had a big problem with the suspension of reason. Blind faith never really worked for me, plus I could see through the cracks of church dogma and although I couldn't remember the abuse, I knew better than to blindly trust someone.
At camp, I met this boy, my age, named Cip. He had big green eyes. He was missing one front tooth. He lost it in a fight and he was wearing the gap as spoils of war. He was not ugly, although his friends continuously told him he looked that a monkey's behind. He literally crashed the camp, lodging with a friend who was attending that camp. He slept on the floor of that friend's cabin for 3 days. That sounded heroic and dangerous to me. I liked him immediately. We met on the dance floor, at the camp's disco, where I went with my girlfriends. I was dancing by myself, because my friends didn't want to dance. He saw me and started dancing with me. I spent the night on the beach with him and watched the sun rise from the sea. We didn't sleep together, we mainly talked and eventually we kissed. He was very sweet and sort of a mama's boy underneath this "tough guy" persona his friends saw. He had a hard on the entire night and told me jokingly that he'll die for lack of blood to his brain, but he didn't force himself onto me. He was funny and cool to hang out with.
He asked me to sleep a few hours with him on his friend's floor, in a sleeping bag. I accepted because i didn't know how to say no. I had no boundaries. We didn't have sex, we just slept, and that was nice for me.
Later in the year, he came to my home town with his 2 friends, to visit. They all slept in my room. My mother actually was cool for once and allowed them in, no questions asked and even fed them some food. That night he showed me his private parts and I pretended I never saw one before. It was a very playful thing, no guilt, just plain normal discovering each other. We haven't stayed in touch, but he recently found me on facebook. He's all grown up, yet still a very pleasant person to talk to. Still a nice guy I'll always remember dearly.
I tried religion for a while, but I had a big problem with the suspension of reason. Blind faith never really worked for me, plus I could see through the cracks of church dogma and although I couldn't remember the abuse, I knew better than to blindly trust someone.
At camp, I met this boy, my age, named Cip. He had big green eyes. He was missing one front tooth. He lost it in a fight and he was wearing the gap as spoils of war. He was not ugly, although his friends continuously told him he looked that a monkey's behind. He literally crashed the camp, lodging with a friend who was attending that camp. He slept on the floor of that friend's cabin for 3 days. That sounded heroic and dangerous to me. I liked him immediately. We met on the dance floor, at the camp's disco, where I went with my girlfriends. I was dancing by myself, because my friends didn't want to dance. He saw me and started dancing with me. I spent the night on the beach with him and watched the sun rise from the sea. We didn't sleep together, we mainly talked and eventually we kissed. He was very sweet and sort of a mama's boy underneath this "tough guy" persona his friends saw. He had a hard on the entire night and told me jokingly that he'll die for lack of blood to his brain, but he didn't force himself onto me. He was funny and cool to hang out with.
He asked me to sleep a few hours with him on his friend's floor, in a sleeping bag. I accepted because i didn't know how to say no. I had no boundaries. We didn't have sex, we just slept, and that was nice for me.
Later in the year, he came to my home town with his 2 friends, to visit. They all slept in my room. My mother actually was cool for once and allowed them in, no questions asked and even fed them some food. That night he showed me his private parts and I pretended I never saw one before. It was a very playful thing, no guilt, just plain normal discovering each other. We haven't stayed in touch, but he recently found me on facebook. He's all grown up, yet still a very pleasant person to talk to. Still a nice guy I'll always remember dearly.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Shame
I was between 8 and 11 years old, when I reenacted some of the sexual abuse done onto me by both father and uncle.
I was on my summer vacation, at Grandma's and asked all the other little girls that we all pee in a circle, so that I could see their private parts and compare them to mine. I knew mine was broken and wondered if it was different than other little girl's parts. I also took my cousin to the lake and touched her down there to find out if she was different than me. She was. I could put fingers inside me, I couldn't put fingers inside her. I also showed my private parts to 2 little boys, hoping I could share my secret with them. They laughed at me. Their reaction got me very upset, cause father and uncle had told me, that's all boys want: to touch girls down there. It wasn't true. Both my father and uncle were liars.
One of the little boys saw how upset I was and held tight the other boy, for me to punch. I hit him with anger only to notice that hurting him wasn't satisfying at all. I really wanted to hurt father and uncle, not that little boy who simply didn't know any better than laugh at a little girl's private parts. That was a normal reaction at his age. Only I had trouble recognizing normal. Later that day, the boy's grandma came with him to our door and I had to apologize for the harm done mainly to his face. I felt ashamed when I saw the bruises.
I met that boy again when I was about 15 years old and I held his hand and we caressed each other, and kissed, but I think he was still afraid of me. I also met some of the little girls when they were teens and totally alienated from me.
I left that country behind in shame. I carried the shame of father and uncle on my shoulders, without having the chance of explaining to those little girls, that I wasn't trying to hurt them, I just wanted to know how different I was after the harm done to me. I never meant to hurt that little boy either, I merely wanted to know if all boys were like father and uncle.
Ultimately, I was ashamed of the fact that I let father and uncle take advantage of me. I was ashamed of the fact that I couldn't defend myself, that I had no power. I imagined that other kids must have been smarter and stronger than me because they didn't let their father and uncle take advantage of them. I thought I was a failure and I was ashamed of that.
I was on my summer vacation, at Grandma's and asked all the other little girls that we all pee in a circle, so that I could see their private parts and compare them to mine. I knew mine was broken and wondered if it was different than other little girl's parts. I also took my cousin to the lake and touched her down there to find out if she was different than me. She was. I could put fingers inside me, I couldn't put fingers inside her. I also showed my private parts to 2 little boys, hoping I could share my secret with them. They laughed at me. Their reaction got me very upset, cause father and uncle had told me, that's all boys want: to touch girls down there. It wasn't true. Both my father and uncle were liars.
One of the little boys saw how upset I was and held tight the other boy, for me to punch. I hit him with anger only to notice that hurting him wasn't satisfying at all. I really wanted to hurt father and uncle, not that little boy who simply didn't know any better than laugh at a little girl's private parts. That was a normal reaction at his age. Only I had trouble recognizing normal. Later that day, the boy's grandma came with him to our door and I had to apologize for the harm done mainly to his face. I felt ashamed when I saw the bruises.
I met that boy again when I was about 15 years old and I held his hand and we caressed each other, and kissed, but I think he was still afraid of me. I also met some of the little girls when they were teens and totally alienated from me.
I left that country behind in shame. I carried the shame of father and uncle on my shoulders, without having the chance of explaining to those little girls, that I wasn't trying to hurt them, I just wanted to know how different I was after the harm done to me. I never meant to hurt that little boy either, I merely wanted to know if all boys were like father and uncle.
Ultimately, I was ashamed of the fact that I let father and uncle take advantage of me. I was ashamed of the fact that I couldn't defend myself, that I had no power. I imagined that other kids must have been smarter and stronger than me because they didn't let their father and uncle take advantage of them. I thought I was a failure and I was ashamed of that.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
If I want to Whistle, I Whistle
This film is comparable to Dog Day Afternoon, having the same kind of tension build up from a hostage situation.
The drama takes place in a present day Romanian prison, where an 18 yrs old inmate, days away from being released, walks to extreme human limits for love of his brother and a girl student of sociology, who interviewed him in prison.
The film got the Silver Bear at Berlin 2010. The main actor, George Pistireanu, owns the part with a charisma rarely seen in thespians his age.
It is an impressive piece of work. Not for the regular movie goer. It is an art house kind of film.
It humbled any aesthetic criteria I may have had, reason being: these guys have no money to make films. Romania is not like US for an artist. I don't think I would be as strong and believe in myself enough to pull a movie from concept to Berlin Film Festival, if I had to live in Romania. It makes me realize how a real artist thinks, how a real artist doesn't need a lot of money or fancy stories to make art. The film was shot on one location, Cinema Verite style. The themes make one ponder on the kind of courage it takes to take a stand for what you believe in. The director, Florin Serban has all my respect. I bow to him, for he is an artist.
The imdb profile can be found here.
The drama takes place in a present day Romanian prison, where an 18 yrs old inmate, days away from being released, walks to extreme human limits for love of his brother and a girl student of sociology, who interviewed him in prison.
The film got the Silver Bear at Berlin 2010. The main actor, George Pistireanu, owns the part with a charisma rarely seen in thespians his age.
It is an impressive piece of work. Not for the regular movie goer. It is an art house kind of film.
It humbled any aesthetic criteria I may have had, reason being: these guys have no money to make films. Romania is not like US for an artist. I don't think I would be as strong and believe in myself enough to pull a movie from concept to Berlin Film Festival, if I had to live in Romania. It makes me realize how a real artist thinks, how a real artist doesn't need a lot of money or fancy stories to make art. The film was shot on one location, Cinema Verite style. The themes make one ponder on the kind of courage it takes to take a stand for what you believe in. The director, Florin Serban has all my respect. I bow to him, for he is an artist.
The imdb profile can be found here.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
New York
New York feels like any old European city. It has a resemblance to London. It also resembles Paris, or Prague, Milano or Geneva, Madrid or Vienna, Stuttgart or Copenhagen.
Any part of the city could introduce one to any worthwhile historical experience one could desire. I don't think any other city in the world compares to that.
Walking on those streets I could smell familiar scents. I stopped on benches in random parks. I talked to people about life. One particular woman, highly educated, talked to me for about 2 hours and we learned we had a lot in common. She was from California and moved to new York for work. She was in therapy, like any self respected New Yorker. She was the survivor of a series of unsuccessful relationships, that left her wondering how much can she indulge in masochistic, self destructive behavior. She had clever insights about entertainment, politics, society and culture. We agreed on the sad fact that we are doomed to figuring out and pay the expenses of the most significant relationship we have in our lives: the one with our parents. This particular fact made me wonder if some people just give up on figuring it out, before they go crazy. Some other people, instead of figuring it out, prefer to complicate matters by building a new family of their own, where they can play out known patterns to exhaustion of selves and other unfortunate souls. This inevitably brings me to wondering: will I ever feel ready to have a family of my own? Or will I continue thinking about how daddy did me wrong until the day I die?
Sometimes I think about having kids. I'm tempted to think about being a better parent than mine were. Some other times, I'm humbled when I see kids throwing tantrums and mothers too exhausted to even care. I fear that I may be the same and give up right then and there the mere fantasy of ever having a family. What if, along the way of being a parent, I would discover I am just like my parents, when I centered my life on being different than they are? That would be another painful humiliation added to those I already lived at their hands.
I like my alone time. I like silence. Kids don't agree with these selfish concepts. Will I be willing to give, give, give forever? Not likely.
I walked on the cobble stone streets in Soho and bought myself a black cashmere sweater. It was raining heavily and I walked inside a Crocs store. They were advertising some new Crocs and they gave me a free pair just for smiling on camera. That made my day. I love New York!
Any part of the city could introduce one to any worthwhile historical experience one could desire. I don't think any other city in the world compares to that.
Walking on those streets I could smell familiar scents. I stopped on benches in random parks. I talked to people about life. One particular woman, highly educated, talked to me for about 2 hours and we learned we had a lot in common. She was from California and moved to new York for work. She was in therapy, like any self respected New Yorker. She was the survivor of a series of unsuccessful relationships, that left her wondering how much can she indulge in masochistic, self destructive behavior. She had clever insights about entertainment, politics, society and culture. We agreed on the sad fact that we are doomed to figuring out and pay the expenses of the most significant relationship we have in our lives: the one with our parents. This particular fact made me wonder if some people just give up on figuring it out, before they go crazy. Some other people, instead of figuring it out, prefer to complicate matters by building a new family of their own, where they can play out known patterns to exhaustion of selves and other unfortunate souls. This inevitably brings me to wondering: will I ever feel ready to have a family of my own? Or will I continue thinking about how daddy did me wrong until the day I die?
Sometimes I think about having kids. I'm tempted to think about being a better parent than mine were. Some other times, I'm humbled when I see kids throwing tantrums and mothers too exhausted to even care. I fear that I may be the same and give up right then and there the mere fantasy of ever having a family. What if, along the way of being a parent, I would discover I am just like my parents, when I centered my life on being different than they are? That would be another painful humiliation added to those I already lived at their hands.
I like my alone time. I like silence. Kids don't agree with these selfish concepts. Will I be willing to give, give, give forever? Not likely.
I walked on the cobble stone streets in Soho and bought myself a black cashmere sweater. It was raining heavily and I walked inside a Crocs store. They were advertising some new Crocs and they gave me a free pair just for smiling on camera. That made my day. I love New York!
Friday, June 25, 2010
Irony of life
Some have cancer or a lifelong battle with bad relationships; some lose their wealth or the love of their lives; some decide to live a moral life and yet they die without dignity; I had a pedophile father.
In all of these statements there lies the irony of life. We all suffer. We all have something to love, something to lose, something to cry about. Question is: how many of us are lucky enough to know pure happiness? And I'm not talking about sporadic moments of joy we all encounter in daily life. I'm talking about absolute happiness, the feeling of the Gods, the feeling that if you once felt, it'll make worth the sufferance of an entire life time. Some call it divine love, some others call it Nirvana, most people attach an unattainable god like quality to it. Most die before even having a chance to think of it.
As elusive as it may be, this absolute happiness, which, I'm sure, it's not quiet happiness, but something that allows you to feel the entirety of all your emotions at the same time, without antagonisms, in a unifying feeling. Before it, one may feel anger or joy, separately. After it, one may feel anger and joy at the same time, without the normal antagonisms of the two feelings. It has to be kind of like a dyslexic person, who sees chaotic details of a certain reality, but lacks the capacity of synthesis. Yes, this "absolute happiness" must be like a synthesis of all emotions ever lived.
The irony of life may be, at this point, the capacity to logically understand the existence of such "absolute happiness", followed by the incapacity to feel it. Ha-ha!
In all of these statements there lies the irony of life. We all suffer. We all have something to love, something to lose, something to cry about. Question is: how many of us are lucky enough to know pure happiness? And I'm not talking about sporadic moments of joy we all encounter in daily life. I'm talking about absolute happiness, the feeling of the Gods, the feeling that if you once felt, it'll make worth the sufferance of an entire life time. Some call it divine love, some others call it Nirvana, most people attach an unattainable god like quality to it. Most die before even having a chance to think of it.
As elusive as it may be, this absolute happiness, which, I'm sure, it's not quiet happiness, but something that allows you to feel the entirety of all your emotions at the same time, without antagonisms, in a unifying feeling. Before it, one may feel anger or joy, separately. After it, one may feel anger and joy at the same time, without the normal antagonisms of the two feelings. It has to be kind of like a dyslexic person, who sees chaotic details of a certain reality, but lacks the capacity of synthesis. Yes, this "absolute happiness" must be like a synthesis of all emotions ever lived.
The irony of life may be, at this point, the capacity to logically understand the existence of such "absolute happiness", followed by the incapacity to feel it. Ha-ha!
Thursday, June 24, 2010
knots
I read the legend of the Gordian knot when I was about 7 years old. It was about this king who had conquered a lot of territory and in order for him to achieve supreme power, over the entire world, he had to solve the mystery of the Gordian knot. This particular knot was very intricate and no one could ever sort it out. The king got impatient and cut the knot down the middle with his sword. The morale of the story is that things can be achieved in more than one way.
Ever since then I took an interest in patient tasks. I can figure out any knot. I can do those mind bender puzzles and all sort of mind challenging games. Inevitably, I started comparing my emotional life to a knot. And to give it dramatic presence, I compared it to the Gordian knot. I am aware that working through the massive threads of emotion that have been piling up on top of my being abused is kind of like getting lost in a maze. I understand that I need patience to find the one thread that would eventually straighten out my emotional life. And that one thread would be truth, the core of my entire being. I like to envision it as a golden thread, with steel strength, thick enough, but not coarse.
But sometimes, only sometimes, I wish I had a sword.
Ever since then I took an interest in patient tasks. I can figure out any knot. I can do those mind bender puzzles and all sort of mind challenging games. Inevitably, I started comparing my emotional life to a knot. And to give it dramatic presence, I compared it to the Gordian knot. I am aware that working through the massive threads of emotion that have been piling up on top of my being abused is kind of like getting lost in a maze. I understand that I need patience to find the one thread that would eventually straighten out my emotional life. And that one thread would be truth, the core of my entire being. I like to envision it as a golden thread, with steel strength, thick enough, but not coarse.
But sometimes, only sometimes, I wish I had a sword.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Back to the grind
My first night home after the sunny vacation in Florida and my mother calls hysterically informing me she didn't hear from me for an entire week and that she was worried something might have happened to me. Funnily enough, before leaving, I spoke to her and let her know I would be on vacation. Does she have no memory, or does she have selective hearing? Either way, it's a sign she doesn't care much about me.
She complained about not having money and about the hardships she must endure. I was very tired and couldn't listen and I cut the conversation short. I dreamt I was locked in a house with her and Father and I was hiding. The house was beautiful, full of antique furniture. At the end of the dream, my Father actually found me and I beat him up with a shovel. Lots of anger towards both my mother and father in this dream.
Today I took care of small chores. I found time to continue reading a guilty pleasure book. It is the "unauthorized" biography of Angelina Jolie, by Andrew Morton. The guy is a good writer. I could see him writing novels of a certain depth. However, he wrote this book about Angelina, and although I am against all this celebrity glorification culture, I couldn't resist buying it. I have insecurities about the way I look, and I blame Angelina for being too beautiful and setting the standards too high. One good look at her naked body in Wanted and I feel awful about my big behind. Also, the mere fact that this biography is "unauthorized", implies it might contain some secret the tabloids left out. "Unauthorized" is from the same category of words such as "rebel", "dangerous", "uncommon", "wild". It fits the public image Angelina herself created, with the help of the media. Angelina is portrayed like a deeply disturbed ex model, an anorexic junkie, with abandonment issues. Andrew Morton took the time to talk to various psychotherapists, to help map out Angelina's erratic behavior. He describes her personality from crib to fame and points out she is a very ambitious girl, with an appetite for destruction. He doesn't say anything new about Angelina, but tries to establish a pattern in her publicly observed behavior, so that us, common folk, the readers, can relate to her. The truth is that Angelina is exceptional. She doesn't fit patterns. Exceptional human beings don't fit patterns. Those who survived traumas and raised above their own condition will always be regarded as "disturbed", but that doesn't take away from the fact that these people inspire generations of people with their life choices. I'm sure that if I personally knew Angelina, I wouldn't like her and I wouldn't be friends with her. We have very different life perspectives. Yet, the fact that I wouldn't like her, doesn't stop me from respecting her.
I should stop reading this book. I'm being caught in the tabloid haze.
She complained about not having money and about the hardships she must endure. I was very tired and couldn't listen and I cut the conversation short. I dreamt I was locked in a house with her and Father and I was hiding. The house was beautiful, full of antique furniture. At the end of the dream, my Father actually found me and I beat him up with a shovel. Lots of anger towards both my mother and father in this dream.
Today I took care of small chores. I found time to continue reading a guilty pleasure book. It is the "unauthorized" biography of Angelina Jolie, by Andrew Morton. The guy is a good writer. I could see him writing novels of a certain depth. However, he wrote this book about Angelina, and although I am against all this celebrity glorification culture, I couldn't resist buying it. I have insecurities about the way I look, and I blame Angelina for being too beautiful and setting the standards too high. One good look at her naked body in Wanted and I feel awful about my big behind. Also, the mere fact that this biography is "unauthorized", implies it might contain some secret the tabloids left out. "Unauthorized" is from the same category of words such as "rebel", "dangerous", "uncommon", "wild". It fits the public image Angelina herself created, with the help of the media. Angelina is portrayed like a deeply disturbed ex model, an anorexic junkie, with abandonment issues. Andrew Morton took the time to talk to various psychotherapists, to help map out Angelina's erratic behavior. He describes her personality from crib to fame and points out she is a very ambitious girl, with an appetite for destruction. He doesn't say anything new about Angelina, but tries to establish a pattern in her publicly observed behavior, so that us, common folk, the readers, can relate to her. The truth is that Angelina is exceptional. She doesn't fit patterns. Exceptional human beings don't fit patterns. Those who survived traumas and raised above their own condition will always be regarded as "disturbed", but that doesn't take away from the fact that these people inspire generations of people with their life choices. I'm sure that if I personally knew Angelina, I wouldn't like her and I wouldn't be friends with her. We have very different life perspectives. Yet, the fact that I wouldn't like her, doesn't stop me from respecting her.
I should stop reading this book. I'm being caught in the tabloid haze.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Miami
I love Miami. The oven heat that integrates me and squeezes sweat out of my pores. The green of the piss warm ocean, dotted by algae brought from far away. The sun burned tourists speaking every imaginable language on the face of the Earth. The pretty girls and their colorful bikinis. The jocks and their muscles. The Cuban food served in Art Deco restaurants. The general small beach town feel. I recognize the green of the tropical plants. I belong here, just like I belonged in those endless summer vacations, in Grandma's village. The same smell of day dreaming mixed with boredom, mixed with silence, mixed with plans for a lifetime, mixed with nature.
The first time I came to Miami, I was just out of college. It was a graduation gift from my parents who came along. That was the time when I told my mother about the abuse. She pretended she didn't know about it, although I clearly remember her making references to it throughout my childhood.
The second time I visited Miami, I broke up with a lover. He was a man with one big ego and many small insecurities. I take pride in having refused to sleep with him at our break up.
The third time around in Miami, I was turning 30. I was in the middle of the most depressing, gut churning life crisis. I was coming to terms with the past abuse. I was trying to make sense of my new life and new found truths. I was lost and I slept a lot. My best friend at the time was with me and nursed me like a mother throughout my depression. There wasn't a lot of talking, but all I needed was silence and a presence. I couldn't move. I was like a recovering cancer patient. Every part of my body hurt and my mind was a mine field. I couldn't trust my own thoughts.
I am now in Miami. The heat is still oven like. The nature still smells like vacation and I still give in to making life long plans and I apply myself at being lazy on the beach. Only this time around I am functional. I got together with a dear friend who now lives in Florida. I made some new friends. I even recognized happiness in my thoughts. There still is sadness in me. There still are anger and desperation, but among all these negative feelings, I could see the glimmer of hope. It's as if spears of light pierce through the cracked shell of my old self. I came a long way, but I still wonder if my healing will ever be complete and most of all how will I know, when I'm healed? Will it be like a revelation or a complete turn around? Will it be a state of mind?
The first time I came to Miami, I was just out of college. It was a graduation gift from my parents who came along. That was the time when I told my mother about the abuse. She pretended she didn't know about it, although I clearly remember her making references to it throughout my childhood.
The second time I visited Miami, I broke up with a lover. He was a man with one big ego and many small insecurities. I take pride in having refused to sleep with him at our break up.
The third time around in Miami, I was turning 30. I was in the middle of the most depressing, gut churning life crisis. I was coming to terms with the past abuse. I was trying to make sense of my new life and new found truths. I was lost and I slept a lot. My best friend at the time was with me and nursed me like a mother throughout my depression. There wasn't a lot of talking, but all I needed was silence and a presence. I couldn't move. I was like a recovering cancer patient. Every part of my body hurt and my mind was a mine field. I couldn't trust my own thoughts.
I am now in Miami. The heat is still oven like. The nature still smells like vacation and I still give in to making life long plans and I apply myself at being lazy on the beach. Only this time around I am functional. I got together with a dear friend who now lives in Florida. I made some new friends. I even recognized happiness in my thoughts. There still is sadness in me. There still are anger and desperation, but among all these negative feelings, I could see the glimmer of hope. It's as if spears of light pierce through the cracked shell of my old self. I came a long way, but I still wonder if my healing will ever be complete and most of all how will I know, when I'm healed? Will it be like a revelation or a complete turn around? Will it be a state of mind?
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Jedi
The one thing I still cannot accept fully is that I was powerless when the abuse happened. "Powerless" is a word I don't like. It implies humiliation, humbling. I don't like to be humiliated.
I remember times in my life when I overcompensated by controlling a situation to the extent of destruction. Why can't I accept I was a toy, the abuse not being about me, but about my Father? He was playing out his monsters. It wasn't about me. Maybe, if he would have made an effort to know me, he could have liked me. But this kind of thinking got me in trouble numerous times. I tried to make him like me: I've been submissive to him, I rebelled. Nothing worked. He simply couldn't see me. All he could see was his own pain and in the process, he was teaching me that same isolation he was stuck in. He was transfering the monster to me. He taught me to hide, to lye, to build up walls against the world. I am not him. I am not like him. I am not like everybody else either. I am trapped in between two worlds that I cannot master the secrets of. I don't want to be on the dark side. I also don't want to be like everybody else.
Luke, the force is strong with you! Darth Vader is your father. (for those who don't know George Lucas, this is a Star Wars, the Empire Strikes Back, reference). Ironically, just like Darth Vader asked Luke to join him on the Dark side, so my Father asked me to join him in his sin. I remember one time when I shoplifted (I was a teen) and I got caught. The mall security called my Father. He paid the stolen items. He never complained about that incident. He only hugged me. He recognized me as his daughter. For the first time ever, he connected with me and helped me. I followed up that minor rebellion act by becoming a stripper. He never complained about my bad habits. I was more and more doing what he taught me. He was recongnizing his legacy in me. I was destroying my life and the more I was destroying it, the more my Father accepted me. Until, one day, I realized I didn't need this kind of acceptance and love in my life. I survived without it as a child. Now, as a grown up, I could take the chance of becoming a good person. I could train to become a Jedi. But this possibility opened up a whole new endless universe of unknown rules, fear of the unknown. I was illequipped to face it. I did not have enough energy, cause I spent most of it hurting myself and hating the world, I did not have enough courage, cause I was at the end of my survival battle. I could not go back to the bad habits and reverse the epiphany. I could only go forward. Blindly. With no Yoda to guide my steps. With no training other than the truth in my heart, which was so small and disconnected from the rest of me, that I could barely hear its weak voice. No I had to show what I was made of. What was I made of, anyway? What's my basic structure? Am I hero material? Am I a Joe nobody? How should I act? There is no expression of myself until I know who myself is. Will I ever become a Jedi?
I remember times in my life when I overcompensated by controlling a situation to the extent of destruction. Why can't I accept I was a toy, the abuse not being about me, but about my Father? He was playing out his monsters. It wasn't about me. Maybe, if he would have made an effort to know me, he could have liked me. But this kind of thinking got me in trouble numerous times. I tried to make him like me: I've been submissive to him, I rebelled. Nothing worked. He simply couldn't see me. All he could see was his own pain and in the process, he was teaching me that same isolation he was stuck in. He was transfering the monster to me. He taught me to hide, to lye, to build up walls against the world. I am not him. I am not like him. I am not like everybody else either. I am trapped in between two worlds that I cannot master the secrets of. I don't want to be on the dark side. I also don't want to be like everybody else.
Luke, the force is strong with you! Darth Vader is your father. (for those who don't know George Lucas, this is a Star Wars, the Empire Strikes Back, reference). Ironically, just like Darth Vader asked Luke to join him on the Dark side, so my Father asked me to join him in his sin. I remember one time when I shoplifted (I was a teen) and I got caught. The mall security called my Father. He paid the stolen items. He never complained about that incident. He only hugged me. He recognized me as his daughter. For the first time ever, he connected with me and helped me. I followed up that minor rebellion act by becoming a stripper. He never complained about my bad habits. I was more and more doing what he taught me. He was recongnizing his legacy in me. I was destroying my life and the more I was destroying it, the more my Father accepted me. Until, one day, I realized I didn't need this kind of acceptance and love in my life. I survived without it as a child. Now, as a grown up, I could take the chance of becoming a good person. I could train to become a Jedi. But this possibility opened up a whole new endless universe of unknown rules, fear of the unknown. I was illequipped to face it. I did not have enough energy, cause I spent most of it hurting myself and hating the world, I did not have enough courage, cause I was at the end of my survival battle. I could not go back to the bad habits and reverse the epiphany. I could only go forward. Blindly. With no Yoda to guide my steps. With no training other than the truth in my heart, which was so small and disconnected from the rest of me, that I could barely hear its weak voice. No I had to show what I was made of. What was I made of, anyway? What's my basic structure? Am I hero material? Am I a Joe nobody? How should I act? There is no expression of myself until I know who myself is. Will I ever become a Jedi?
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Catching up with myself
I have been avoiding finding new memories about my abuse for a long time. I know I must heal before I move on with my life. I call it "catching up with myself". I need to go through all of it, until there's no bad left over feeling from that abuse.
I realized that if I wake up with an alarm clock, abruptly, I feel angry and direct my anger towards my father or uncle, in the shape of revenge fantasies. Sometimes I even take it on my mother, the silent partner. Waking up abruptly makes me angry. So I avoided waking up abruptly for a while. My sleep patterns are all over the place, as a result. Thank God I can afford that!
When memories come up to my conscious mind, they bring up all sorts of feelings, even good ones. I'm learning to accept them, to categorize them. I'm learning about myself. It turns out, I'm a fascinatingly complicated person. I can't even describe myself in one seating. There's so much about me, so many details, so much strength about certain aspects of my life, so much frailty about certain other aspects. I wonder what I would have been like if the abuse never happened to me. I wonder if there is a parallel universe, in which I am perfect. I wonder where my inner strength and dignity would have taken me, if I didn't have to use it all on defending myself, tragically being left without defense at the will of the elements, by the age of 29. Would I have been a mother? Would I have been a doctor, like I always dreamed, although the sight of blood makes me weak in the knees? I wonder what I could be if I heal. How can I better distribute my left over energies? How can I better take care of myself and forward my life at the same time? How can I integrate the abused child in my future self?
I realized that if I wake up with an alarm clock, abruptly, I feel angry and direct my anger towards my father or uncle, in the shape of revenge fantasies. Sometimes I even take it on my mother, the silent partner. Waking up abruptly makes me angry. So I avoided waking up abruptly for a while. My sleep patterns are all over the place, as a result. Thank God I can afford that!
When memories come up to my conscious mind, they bring up all sorts of feelings, even good ones. I'm learning to accept them, to categorize them. I'm learning about myself. It turns out, I'm a fascinatingly complicated person. I can't even describe myself in one seating. There's so much about me, so many details, so much strength about certain aspects of my life, so much frailty about certain other aspects. I wonder what I would have been like if the abuse never happened to me. I wonder if there is a parallel universe, in which I am perfect. I wonder where my inner strength and dignity would have taken me, if I didn't have to use it all on defending myself, tragically being left without defense at the will of the elements, by the age of 29. Would I have been a mother? Would I have been a doctor, like I always dreamed, although the sight of blood makes me weak in the knees? I wonder what I could be if I heal. How can I better distribute my left over energies? How can I better take care of myself and forward my life at the same time? How can I integrate the abused child in my future self?
Saturday, June 19, 2010
My turn to grieve
Father took me with him on a trip. He sat me in the front seat of his green car. He molested me with his hand. I was ashamed and worried that people might see inside the car. He didn't care. I was just an object for his pleasure.
I was at my grandma's in the country. I thought my parents abandoned me, forgot about me and I was trying to get used to the idea of what it would be like to live without parents. It wasn't so bad, only my uncle showed up and abused me in the cellar. He locked me in there for hours. I was afraid I was going to die. That's when I decided I was not going to be buried when I died, cause it was very said, dark and lonely and it smelled like damp dirt and mildew. It was a relief when my parents showed up and started fighting over me. I felt special. They were asking me: "Who do you love most?" And I thought about it and I found wise to say: "I love you both equally", cause I didn't like the confrontation. I actually thought they cared about this. It was only banter. My father wanted to show mother that I loved him more. He wanted to justify the abuse. He thought that I loved him more, because he was molesting me. I must have been about 5 years old that summer. They took me from Grandma's and we went to the beach. I was so happy and grateful. Only that my father told me I was supposed to pay for that happiness. The payment was supposed to be sex, of course. Mother was shopping. He took me to the man's bathroom with him. He made me perform oral sex on him and then he said he was feeling good, liberated. It didn't matter how I felt. I was only there to make him feel good. The truth is I was feeling sad, ashamed, with no hope. I was losing my dignity, which was the most important thing to me. I learned to never be happy again. I learned to never show when I was happy. I learned to never show any feeling ever again. I started singing a lot. I would sing anything I could hear on the radio, in order not to reveal that I might feel anxious, or sad, or fearful, or even happy. I was scared my father could guess my state of mind and make me pay for it. Only now I know it didn't depend on me. He was a psycopath.
Now, writing this blog, I feel that it's finally my turn to show my feelings. It's my turn to be sad. I'm safe enough. I can cry. No one has ever had patience for me and my feelings. At least now, I can show them to myself and grieve.
I was at my grandma's in the country. I thought my parents abandoned me, forgot about me and I was trying to get used to the idea of what it would be like to live without parents. It wasn't so bad, only my uncle showed up and abused me in the cellar. He locked me in there for hours. I was afraid I was going to die. That's when I decided I was not going to be buried when I died, cause it was very said, dark and lonely and it smelled like damp dirt and mildew. It was a relief when my parents showed up and started fighting over me. I felt special. They were asking me: "Who do you love most?" And I thought about it and I found wise to say: "I love you both equally", cause I didn't like the confrontation. I actually thought they cared about this. It was only banter. My father wanted to show mother that I loved him more. He wanted to justify the abuse. He thought that I loved him more, because he was molesting me. I must have been about 5 years old that summer. They took me from Grandma's and we went to the beach. I was so happy and grateful. Only that my father told me I was supposed to pay for that happiness. The payment was supposed to be sex, of course. Mother was shopping. He took me to the man's bathroom with him. He made me perform oral sex on him and then he said he was feeling good, liberated. It didn't matter how I felt. I was only there to make him feel good. The truth is I was feeling sad, ashamed, with no hope. I was losing my dignity, which was the most important thing to me. I learned to never be happy again. I learned to never show when I was happy. I learned to never show any feeling ever again. I started singing a lot. I would sing anything I could hear on the radio, in order not to reveal that I might feel anxious, or sad, or fearful, or even happy. I was scared my father could guess my state of mind and make me pay for it. Only now I know it didn't depend on me. He was a psycopath.
Now, writing this blog, I feel that it's finally my turn to show my feelings. It's my turn to be sad. I'm safe enough. I can cry. No one has ever had patience for me and my feelings. At least now, I can show them to myself and grieve.
Friday, June 18, 2010
A prophet
This is a film about a nineteen year old gangster, thrown in jail with the big dogs and cropping his way to ultimate power over the crime world. It was nominated for Best Foreign Film Oscar, 2009, being a French production.
It is a fascinatingly truthful thriller. It is a virile film, yet doesn't lack sensibility. The director inserted unexpectedly poetic sequences. One of them, about some deer running in the woods, gives the title of the film.
The main actor got lots of recognition, including some prestigious critic awards. Rightfully so: the kid can act.
The film could be like Scarface, without the apologetic scenes. NB: Apologetic scenes being those scenes in which Pacino's character apologizes for being an ultimate villain in the position of a hero. I guess, A prophet keeps it real. It tells the story how it could really happen, without the big fireworks, needed in American studio movies, for box office fluffers. It talks about the fear and the balls it takes in order to survive and gain power. It has very complex characters. Doesn't contain characters in two dimensions, NB: one strength, one flaw. It could be a film about life, it just happens to tell a story about the crime world.
The imdb profile is here.
It is a fascinatingly truthful thriller. It is a virile film, yet doesn't lack sensibility. The director inserted unexpectedly poetic sequences. One of them, about some deer running in the woods, gives the title of the film.
The main actor got lots of recognition, including some prestigious critic awards. Rightfully so: the kid can act.
The film could be like Scarface, without the apologetic scenes. NB: Apologetic scenes being those scenes in which Pacino's character apologizes for being an ultimate villain in the position of a hero. I guess, A prophet keeps it real. It tells the story how it could really happen, without the big fireworks, needed in American studio movies, for box office fluffers. It talks about the fear and the balls it takes in order to survive and gain power. It has very complex characters. Doesn't contain characters in two dimensions, NB: one strength, one flaw. It could be a film about life, it just happens to tell a story about the crime world.
The imdb profile is here.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Robert
Well, Robert was a Puerto Rican born in Brooklyn, heavy set and sweaty, with a kind demeanor and a dark past. Many years ago, I trained his wife for a job. I met him through her and he immediately gave me a tight hug.
We became friends and talked extensively about life and our past experiences. I learned I could rely on him in moments of need, aka when I got stranded at an airport, with nobody to pick me up in the middle of the night.
During one of our conversations, I learned he used to be a gang member, shot twice and yet somehow still alive. He had a witch mother who gave birth to many kids and never looked after them. He's been molested by an uncle at a very young age and his mother woke him up in the middle of the night, grabbed some things and jumped on a bus to LA. His mother, his sister and himself lived on Skid Row for a while, where he learned the rules of the streets. He became a drug user. He did a lot of speed, he prostituted himself for some pocket money, he rhymed and wrote poetry in his spare time. He eventually got married to a woman he bought a house for. He also gave her two kids before he jumped back into drugs and the darkness of his inner monsters.
He met my friend in a Romeo and Juliet kind of love story and started cleaning up his ways, only that he lost himself in the process. He tried to fit in. He tried to cope with reality, but reality is a bitch. He was confused at best. He acknowledged how little he really knew about normality and he indulged in feeling like an outsider. He lived in fear of "gray shadows out to get him".
Every time I saw him, he would hug me just the same, we would talk just the same, yet there was nothing I could say to comfort him. His fear grew exponentially until he couldn't bare it anymore and he would drug himself up to not deal with it.
The last time we talked about darkness, I went to their house. We stayed up late. I complained about my life. I was struggling with accepting some sadness/anger feelings targeting my pedophile father. Robert said something unusual that night. He said: "I'm clairvoyant and I see you are in danger. Something bad will happen to you, you'll be in the hospital. Don't do it! Don't do it."
"Don't do what?" I was thinking. I know my complaints sounded dreary, but I never mentioned doing something to hurt myself, I was just getting it out. I was not even depressed. I was just kind of sad.
A year went by. We saw each other twice more. He was absent and spent.
Last Sunday, I received a phone call from his sister. Robert is dead. Robert killed himself.
It turns out that when he was saying "Don't do it", he was just asking for my help. I just couldn't read him. I couldn't hear him, blinded by my own pain. Could I have helped him in any way? Probably not. Most I can do is listen. And it hurts to witness all this suffering and acknowledge my littleness, my incapacity to help others.
We became friends and talked extensively about life and our past experiences. I learned I could rely on him in moments of need, aka when I got stranded at an airport, with nobody to pick me up in the middle of the night.
During one of our conversations, I learned he used to be a gang member, shot twice and yet somehow still alive. He had a witch mother who gave birth to many kids and never looked after them. He's been molested by an uncle at a very young age and his mother woke him up in the middle of the night, grabbed some things and jumped on a bus to LA. His mother, his sister and himself lived on Skid Row for a while, where he learned the rules of the streets. He became a drug user. He did a lot of speed, he prostituted himself for some pocket money, he rhymed and wrote poetry in his spare time. He eventually got married to a woman he bought a house for. He also gave her two kids before he jumped back into drugs and the darkness of his inner monsters.
He met my friend in a Romeo and Juliet kind of love story and started cleaning up his ways, only that he lost himself in the process. He tried to fit in. He tried to cope with reality, but reality is a bitch. He was confused at best. He acknowledged how little he really knew about normality and he indulged in feeling like an outsider. He lived in fear of "gray shadows out to get him".
Every time I saw him, he would hug me just the same, we would talk just the same, yet there was nothing I could say to comfort him. His fear grew exponentially until he couldn't bare it anymore and he would drug himself up to not deal with it.
The last time we talked about darkness, I went to their house. We stayed up late. I complained about my life. I was struggling with accepting some sadness/anger feelings targeting my pedophile father. Robert said something unusual that night. He said: "I'm clairvoyant and I see you are in danger. Something bad will happen to you, you'll be in the hospital. Don't do it! Don't do it."
"Don't do what?" I was thinking. I know my complaints sounded dreary, but I never mentioned doing something to hurt myself, I was just getting it out. I was not even depressed. I was just kind of sad.
A year went by. We saw each other twice more. He was absent and spent.
Last Sunday, I received a phone call from his sister. Robert is dead. Robert killed himself.
It turns out that when he was saying "Don't do it", he was just asking for my help. I just couldn't read him. I couldn't hear him, blinded by my own pain. Could I have helped him in any way? Probably not. Most I can do is listen. And it hurts to witness all this suffering and acknowledge my littleness, my incapacity to help others.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Blame it on Fidel
This French film came out in 2006. It is a very personal story. No one could know the soul of a child in that amount of detail, without having lived that particular childhood. There is no research that can make up for truth. And this film is truthful.
It is a story of a highly intelligent little girl, who's parents decide to become left wing political activists in Paris, during the '70s. Among very bourgeois ideas, there are a few very idealistic points of view. All in all, this little girl struggles to understand the changes her parents produce in her life and she also struggles with understanding grown up world. She makes up the parts she can't grasp and she asks very profound questions. In the process she's growing up. She learns about the making of the world from refugee nannies and in the same train of thought she is very secure in her knowledge about where babies come from. Nannies tell her stories from Greek and Chinese mythology, caressing her childish face. Next minute, she ponders things like: "How do you know the difference between solidarity and sheep that fall of the cliff?"
She struggles to fit in at school, she's an overachiever limited in her thirst for knowledge, by her parents' activities.
The imdb profile is here.
It is a story of a highly intelligent little girl, who's parents decide to become left wing political activists in Paris, during the '70s. Among very bourgeois ideas, there are a few very idealistic points of view. All in all, this little girl struggles to understand the changes her parents produce in her life and she also struggles with understanding grown up world. She makes up the parts she can't grasp and she asks very profound questions. In the process she's growing up. She learns about the making of the world from refugee nannies and in the same train of thought she is very secure in her knowledge about where babies come from. Nannies tell her stories from Greek and Chinese mythology, caressing her childish face. Next minute, she ponders things like: "How do you know the difference between solidarity and sheep that fall of the cliff?"
She struggles to fit in at school, she's an overachiever limited in her thirst for knowledge, by her parents' activities.
The imdb profile is here.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Crying in Dreams
I have very realistic dreams in regards to my family. I also cry in my sleep. I cry from the heart, with passion, my sadness fueling the tears. Breathing tightens and my crying is like the universal flood.
I dreamt my father, who was still fat and harassing me and I was immensely sad. I have a problem expressing sadness. I can only cry in quiet, alone moments, when I feel safe and away from everybody.-the mere fact that I need to feel safe in order to cry shows my inability to ask people for help-. For once I'd like to be encouraged to cry by someone I trust. Of course I could only trust an evolved human being, deeply connected to her own nature by instinct: a mother figure. The universal mother. The mother I never had.
I learned that difficulty in identifying one's emotions is called alexithymia. It has a name! Knowing that enough people have this problem, in order for science to come up with a name for it doesn't bring me any solace. There are 7 billion of us on this Earth. Numbers are bound to be great.
Will I ever feel protected? Will I ever feel important and safe outside of my own input? Will I ever feel safe enough to cry in front of someone and express my ocean of sadness left into my soul by my family's actions? Will this ocean of sadness, ever go dry? What should my healing process be motivated by? What's the ultimate goal, the ultimate image I must aspire to in order to feel healed? Is there a goal, or is this an ever growing ordeal, as long as life itself?
I dreamt my father, who was still fat and harassing me and I was immensely sad. I have a problem expressing sadness. I can only cry in quiet, alone moments, when I feel safe and away from everybody.-the mere fact that I need to feel safe in order to cry shows my inability to ask people for help-. For once I'd like to be encouraged to cry by someone I trust. Of course I could only trust an evolved human being, deeply connected to her own nature by instinct: a mother figure. The universal mother. The mother I never had.
I learned that difficulty in identifying one's emotions is called alexithymia. It has a name! Knowing that enough people have this problem, in order for science to come up with a name for it doesn't bring me any solace. There are 7 billion of us on this Earth. Numbers are bound to be great.
Will I ever feel protected? Will I ever feel important and safe outside of my own input? Will I ever feel safe enough to cry in front of someone and express my ocean of sadness left into my soul by my family's actions? Will this ocean of sadness, ever go dry? What should my healing process be motivated by? What's the ultimate goal, the ultimate image I must aspire to in order to feel healed? Is there a goal, or is this an ever growing ordeal, as long as life itself?
Monday, June 14, 2010
Bollywood Dance
One evening, after eating too much sugar during the day, I've decided it would be wise to go to the gym, before going to sleep. I made a "to do" list in my head, with everything I needed to accomplish on that particular work out session, in order to burn the sugar rush and get some sleep: some upper body weight lifting, followed by half hour intense cardio, etc, etc.
I drove to the gym, found parking immediately (this never happens!). I walked in and showed my gym Id to the front desk, then rushed up the stairs to the weights room. As I walked by the dance room, I peeked through the glass door. My eyes lingered on an incredible spectacle: a group of people jumping around in monkey poses to some exotic rhythm that I couldn't fully hear. Fascinated, I stopped and stared. It must have been 5 minutes of good staring, during which I noticed that every member of that particular group had a smile on their bright, blood engorged, sweaty faces. I couldn't resist and opened the glass doors. It was like walking on the sun. The room was vibrating. The music was Bollywood dance music. I joined in and danced the rest of the class.
I can't remember the last time I've been so happy. I did series of jumps, in which one uses the entire body, just like when you're a kid, and you run everywhere, cause your energy is limitless and a summer day lasts forever. I ran in place, just like I did as a kid as a warm up for ballet classes. My arms flew around me, dragging my back, sides, chest and abs after them. The music sounded cartoonish, fast drums and squeaky voices, singing incomprehensible words.
At the end of the class, we did some yoga moves and the teacher said something like "imagine what would make you happy, imagine what you'd feel like if you had right now, grab it with your hands and hang on to it" (while twisting your body in impossible poses). I know it sounds corny, but I envisioned happiness. I had a little glimpse of that first something, when your heart races and you can't stop smiling and you're giggly and stop wishing for things because you feel like you've got it all. I saw happiness.
Needless to say, after the class, I've abandoned all of my workout plans, went home and showered.
I drove to the gym, found parking immediately (this never happens!). I walked in and showed my gym Id to the front desk, then rushed up the stairs to the weights room. As I walked by the dance room, I peeked through the glass door. My eyes lingered on an incredible spectacle: a group of people jumping around in monkey poses to some exotic rhythm that I couldn't fully hear. Fascinated, I stopped and stared. It must have been 5 minutes of good staring, during which I noticed that every member of that particular group had a smile on their bright, blood engorged, sweaty faces. I couldn't resist and opened the glass doors. It was like walking on the sun. The room was vibrating. The music was Bollywood dance music. I joined in and danced the rest of the class.
I can't remember the last time I've been so happy. I did series of jumps, in which one uses the entire body, just like when you're a kid, and you run everywhere, cause your energy is limitless and a summer day lasts forever. I ran in place, just like I did as a kid as a warm up for ballet classes. My arms flew around me, dragging my back, sides, chest and abs after them. The music sounded cartoonish, fast drums and squeaky voices, singing incomprehensible words.
At the end of the class, we did some yoga moves and the teacher said something like "imagine what would make you happy, imagine what you'd feel like if you had right now, grab it with your hands and hang on to it" (while twisting your body in impossible poses). I know it sounds corny, but I envisioned happiness. I had a little glimpse of that first something, when your heart races and you can't stop smiling and you're giggly and stop wishing for things because you feel like you've got it all. I saw happiness.
Needless to say, after the class, I've abandoned all of my workout plans, went home and showered.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Authority and Respect
I treat authority one of two ways: complete submission, or hateful envy. There is no middle ground. It's either: "I succumb to you, oh powerful one; do what you wish with me!" or "You've got to be evil to be this successful, I hate you and I really want to be you!". Neither of these situations brings any solace to my already very conflicted soul.
My treating authority in these extreme perspectives comes from the abuse, of course.
My father started abusing me when I was 3 years old. He got me out of kindergarden early one day. He took me home and with a fake sweet voice that I had never heard before, asked me about my day and more specifically: what games did I play in class. I was so excited that, finally, this all mighty man was giving me some attention, that I involved every mental muscle I possessed at the time, to explain a game we played, called: Guess the taste. The game involved a blindfold, and guessing a few distinct foods: an apple, salt, sugar and bread. My father blindfolded me and made me taste something completely new and different, that I couldn't guess what it was, but it smelled bad. I started crying. I was scared. I sensed that the game my father was playing was a lot more dangerous than I had expected. My father told me I was dumb, cause I couldn't guess what he had put in my mouth. And I felt dumb: I felt dumb for not foreseeing that he was going to humiliate me. I felt dumb and upset at myself, for not standing up to him. That was the very first time I knew I couldn't trust my Father. That was the very first time my soul was overwhelmed by sadness.
My father was the supreme authority in our household. He made sure we knew this while he was drunk and violent. He taught me fear. He taught me doubt. I felt completely helpless. As an adult, I am duplicating that experience in the way I treat authority at work and elsewhere.
There were times when I got angry at my father. I rebelled. I hated him and wished him dead. That translates in the other way I perceive authority: hate and anger.
I wish I had the experience where I could learn to respect authority, without feeling threatened, without sexualizing the whole thing. I wish I was more secure, and grounded, have one center that I know is truthful and it's me at the same time. I wish I could have this center as a point of reference when I judge authority and evaluate it, without diminishing myself, or without snapping with anger.
My treating authority in these extreme perspectives comes from the abuse, of course.
My father started abusing me when I was 3 years old. He got me out of kindergarden early one day. He took me home and with a fake sweet voice that I had never heard before, asked me about my day and more specifically: what games did I play in class. I was so excited that, finally, this all mighty man was giving me some attention, that I involved every mental muscle I possessed at the time, to explain a game we played, called: Guess the taste. The game involved a blindfold, and guessing a few distinct foods: an apple, salt, sugar and bread. My father blindfolded me and made me taste something completely new and different, that I couldn't guess what it was, but it smelled bad. I started crying. I was scared. I sensed that the game my father was playing was a lot more dangerous than I had expected. My father told me I was dumb, cause I couldn't guess what he had put in my mouth. And I felt dumb: I felt dumb for not foreseeing that he was going to humiliate me. I felt dumb and upset at myself, for not standing up to him. That was the very first time I knew I couldn't trust my Father. That was the very first time my soul was overwhelmed by sadness.
My father was the supreme authority in our household. He made sure we knew this while he was drunk and violent. He taught me fear. He taught me doubt. I felt completely helpless. As an adult, I am duplicating that experience in the way I treat authority at work and elsewhere.
There were times when I got angry at my father. I rebelled. I hated him and wished him dead. That translates in the other way I perceive authority: hate and anger.
I wish I had the experience where I could learn to respect authority, without feeling threatened, without sexualizing the whole thing. I wish I was more secure, and grounded, have one center that I know is truthful and it's me at the same time. I wish I could have this center as a point of reference when I judge authority and evaluate it, without diminishing myself, or without snapping with anger.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
The Road
Just finished watching this film, with Viggo Mortensen. It came out in 2009, great reviews and critically acclaimed.
It's a film about human nature. In fact, the characters have no name, they are just "Boy", "Man". etc. It is a story of survival of one Man and his young child during post apocalyptic times, when some humans turned to cannibalism. It is a perfectly crafted story, with perfect highs and lows, but most of all it really pin points some basic human needs and fears : love, fear of abandonment, hunger, all to the end of survival.
I found myself thinking about it, and replaying a few scenes in my mind. It strikes a chord with me. It makes sense.
The imdb profile is here
It's a film about human nature. In fact, the characters have no name, they are just "Boy", "Man". etc. It is a story of survival of one Man and his young child during post apocalyptic times, when some humans turned to cannibalism. It is a perfectly crafted story, with perfect highs and lows, but most of all it really pin points some basic human needs and fears : love, fear of abandonment, hunger, all to the end of survival.
I found myself thinking about it, and replaying a few scenes in my mind. It strikes a chord with me. It makes sense.
The imdb profile is here
Friday, June 11, 2010
Dear Mother,
I wish you would have loved me. Not a lot, just a little bit. Make me feel wanted in your life and all.
I remember how you played with me as a baby. My whole world lit up at your smile. Then, I stopped being interesting for you. Was it because I looked too much like my father? Was it because I reminded you of him? Was that why you were beating me for no reason, with a belt, leaving welts into my skin? You took one look at me, you saw him, the abuser, the man who raped you repeatedly every night, out of every week, out of every month for 30 years of marriage, drunk and smelly (FYI: you could have left him!). Or was it because you were too busy to keep him interested, you figured you could abandon me.
Now you come to me and you ask for things. Mostly, you want me to be closer to you. Ironic request! For so many years you rejected me, after calling me names and a lier, when you were the one lying to yourself and the world. You always complained you didn't have access to my life. It's because you weren't interested. I was always honest with you, only you couldn't notice the honesty. You couldn't accept the honesty. You always thought I was hiding something, until I started believing that myself. Eventually, I realized all that I was hiding was the abuse. Father abused me at night. You abused me during the day. You never accepted me for who I was. You never gave me a chance. Why this sudden interest in me being closer to you? It's kind of shocking, after all these years when you couldn't care less.
The relationship I had with you translates into every relationship I ever had with female friends. Since you only taught me mistrust, that's the best I can do. I now need to move forward. Let me go! I need to have sane, routine, steady friendships. I can't keep begging for your love. I can't keep clinging on every female friend I got: "will you be my mommy?" I need to be functional, and for that, I accept the fact that you never loved me, you never will. I'm an orphan. I was not blessed with a mother and I'll do my best to have functional friendships with people, without trying to fulfill old needs. Those needs were not fulfilled at their time, now it's too late and I got new needs to think of. Sometimes you're lucky and get what you want. Sometimes you got to cut your losses to move on.
This is what I'm doing, mother: I'm cutting my losses. I'm cutting you out of my life. For good!
I remember how you played with me as a baby. My whole world lit up at your smile. Then, I stopped being interesting for you. Was it because I looked too much like my father? Was it because I reminded you of him? Was that why you were beating me for no reason, with a belt, leaving welts into my skin? You took one look at me, you saw him, the abuser, the man who raped you repeatedly every night, out of every week, out of every month for 30 years of marriage, drunk and smelly (FYI: you could have left him!). Or was it because you were too busy to keep him interested, you figured you could abandon me.
Now you come to me and you ask for things. Mostly, you want me to be closer to you. Ironic request! For so many years you rejected me, after calling me names and a lier, when you were the one lying to yourself and the world. You always complained you didn't have access to my life. It's because you weren't interested. I was always honest with you, only you couldn't notice the honesty. You couldn't accept the honesty. You always thought I was hiding something, until I started believing that myself. Eventually, I realized all that I was hiding was the abuse. Father abused me at night. You abused me during the day. You never accepted me for who I was. You never gave me a chance. Why this sudden interest in me being closer to you? It's kind of shocking, after all these years when you couldn't care less.
The relationship I had with you translates into every relationship I ever had with female friends. Since you only taught me mistrust, that's the best I can do. I now need to move forward. Let me go! I need to have sane, routine, steady friendships. I can't keep begging for your love. I can't keep clinging on every female friend I got: "will you be my mommy?" I need to be functional, and for that, I accept the fact that you never loved me, you never will. I'm an orphan. I was not blessed with a mother and I'll do my best to have functional friendships with people, without trying to fulfill old needs. Those needs were not fulfilled at their time, now it's too late and I got new needs to think of. Sometimes you're lucky and get what you want. Sometimes you got to cut your losses to move on.
This is what I'm doing, mother: I'm cutting my losses. I'm cutting you out of my life. For good!
Thursday, June 10, 2010
therapists
Many people go through school and become therapists without having a real understanding of what they're doing. I've looked at the GRE test: doesn't teach you any empathy!
There should be some emotional tests for those who want to become emotional healers. Besides the medical expertise, there should be some sort of evaluation that goes beyond the intellectual capacity and could only be handled by emotionally evolved people.
Working with emotionally scarred people may be heavy on the soul. If you have any feelings at all, it'll mark you. I think it's the same as working with lepers, back in the day, when medicine was just another version of witch craft: if you don't know what you're doing, you'll become a leper yourself.
I tried therapy myself and didn't get much out of it. I felt that 45 minutes per session were not enough for me to express myself in depth. Also, I could not reach my emotional self to be able to tell the therapist exactly what I felt and since I was paying for all this out of my own pocket, it became a rather expensive approach to healing.
Also, I am part of some self help groups, where a bunch of victims of abuse try to make light on what happened to them. These women are ready to regurgitate slogans learned from self help books, at a moment's notice. I am sure that what they read in those books resonated with them, but they just can't put their finger on it and can't name the emotion the reading stirred up. They rush to preaching and what they say sounds more like a mesh of generalities and platitudes, than really personal stuff. Same goes for those women still in therapy: I'm sure it helps them in some way, but they can't really tell how. It is difficult for them to express what they have learned about themselves and their wound during a therapy session. This lack of clarity should be blamed on the therapist. If things were clear for the therapist, things should be clear to the patient. But things can't be clear for the therapist, since the therapist is thinking about dinner while the client spills his guts while sitting on a couch with ugly patterns.
My point is: each client is unique. Each abuse experience has a devastatingly isolating effect. From this perspective of isolation, an abuse victim can heal in her/his own time. No therapy session can measure up this timing. Healing is as personal as inspiration: it comes in waves, it can only be felt by one individual at a time and it is not repeatable. Memories come out of the subconscious when the conscious mind is ready and not a moment earlier. The subconscious doesn't respect a schedule, let alone the therapist's schedule. Healing can only happen in the privacy of one's loneliness. A therapist, at the most, can only soothe some of the effects.
To be Ariadne, one must first know the labyrinth.
There should be some emotional tests for those who want to become emotional healers. Besides the medical expertise, there should be some sort of evaluation that goes beyond the intellectual capacity and could only be handled by emotionally evolved people.
Working with emotionally scarred people may be heavy on the soul. If you have any feelings at all, it'll mark you. I think it's the same as working with lepers, back in the day, when medicine was just another version of witch craft: if you don't know what you're doing, you'll become a leper yourself.
I tried therapy myself and didn't get much out of it. I felt that 45 minutes per session were not enough for me to express myself in depth. Also, I could not reach my emotional self to be able to tell the therapist exactly what I felt and since I was paying for all this out of my own pocket, it became a rather expensive approach to healing.
Also, I am part of some self help groups, where a bunch of victims of abuse try to make light on what happened to them. These women are ready to regurgitate slogans learned from self help books, at a moment's notice. I am sure that what they read in those books resonated with them, but they just can't put their finger on it and can't name the emotion the reading stirred up. They rush to preaching and what they say sounds more like a mesh of generalities and platitudes, than really personal stuff. Same goes for those women still in therapy: I'm sure it helps them in some way, but they can't really tell how. It is difficult for them to express what they have learned about themselves and their wound during a therapy session. This lack of clarity should be blamed on the therapist. If things were clear for the therapist, things should be clear to the patient. But things can't be clear for the therapist, since the therapist is thinking about dinner while the client spills his guts while sitting on a couch with ugly patterns.
My point is: each client is unique. Each abuse experience has a devastatingly isolating effect. From this perspective of isolation, an abuse victim can heal in her/his own time. No therapy session can measure up this timing. Healing is as personal as inspiration: it comes in waves, it can only be felt by one individual at a time and it is not repeatable. Memories come out of the subconscious when the conscious mind is ready and not a moment earlier. The subconscious doesn't respect a schedule, let alone the therapist's schedule. Healing can only happen in the privacy of one's loneliness. A therapist, at the most, can only soothe some of the effects.
To be Ariadne, one must first know the labyrinth.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Father's figure
Many of the self help group people advise to believe in a Higher Power. Have faith. The Higher Power loves you. And it may be true.
It's just this blind act of having faith that I don't trust. I had faith before, in the greatness of the Higher Power. Look where it got me: my father abused me and told me I was a sinner.
Incidentally, my father believes in a Higher Power. He goes to church every Sunday, he fasts and he keeps every Christian holiday as if it were his last.
Now, forgive me if I don't care to worship the same Higher Power that he worships. I look like my father and I hate those biological traits that I share with him. All my life I wanted to be so different from him, to convince myself that him and I have nothing in common. I evolved as a species, I got smarter, I refuse to have anything in common with that man. Yet, every time I look in the mirror, I remember him. I am his daughter. I am trapped. In hell. With my father. And a long time ago, I desperately wanted him to love me and stop hurting me. Why is this Higher Power so cruel? Where do I find the strength to have that blind faith? I have fear, not faith. I have fear of my father. I have fear that other "worthy" men, may hurt me. I have fear that this Higher Power is as elusive as the love I never received from my father. I can't have faith. Too busy defending myself. Am I becoming like my father in that respect?
Because all of us are worthy in the eyes of the higher power. Even my father. Is there a chance that my soul will meet his again? I hope not. His soul sucks.
It's just this blind act of having faith that I don't trust. I had faith before, in the greatness of the Higher Power. Look where it got me: my father abused me and told me I was a sinner.
Incidentally, my father believes in a Higher Power. He goes to church every Sunday, he fasts and he keeps every Christian holiday as if it were his last.
Now, forgive me if I don't care to worship the same Higher Power that he worships. I look like my father and I hate those biological traits that I share with him. All my life I wanted to be so different from him, to convince myself that him and I have nothing in common. I evolved as a species, I got smarter, I refuse to have anything in common with that man. Yet, every time I look in the mirror, I remember him. I am his daughter. I am trapped. In hell. With my father. And a long time ago, I desperately wanted him to love me and stop hurting me. Why is this Higher Power so cruel? Where do I find the strength to have that blind faith? I have fear, not faith. I have fear of my father. I have fear that other "worthy" men, may hurt me. I have fear that this Higher Power is as elusive as the love I never received from my father. I can't have faith. Too busy defending myself. Am I becoming like my father in that respect?
Because all of us are worthy in the eyes of the higher power. Even my father. Is there a chance that my soul will meet his again? I hope not. His soul sucks.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
worth
She said: "It boils down to: you have a right to exist!"...
Then, she continued to enumerate ways in which I should love myself every day. She told me I should take care of myself, be attentive to my needs and concluded with: "You are worthy!"
Powerful words: I'm worthy!
The only problem with these words is that: I don't know what they mean. Worthy of what? On what scale of things? Am I worthier than a criminal or a normal person? Does my past entitles me to some life goods that I am not aware of? Or are we all equally worthy, just in different ways?
I give a lot of attention to myself, ever since I started working on my emotionally crippled soul. I fear that all the love I can give myself, will never replace the love I don't receive from others. What do I expect from others, anyway? What does it feel like to be loved/accepted? Does it feel like ice cream on a hot day, or does it feel as overwhelming as hate, only in the positive way? Ultimately, aren't we all looking for love, abused or normal people? Aren't we, the abused ones, competing for love with the normal people?
A lot of anger and hate came out of me lately and sometimes I fear I could never offer anything in return for love. I also fear that people could realize how mean I can be, with my snappy come backs ( that, I personally think, are hilarious). I don't know how to fit in my victim past with my day to day functional self. There are many gaps in my personality. One moment I can be invincible, and the next I could crumble into pieces, because most of life is new to me. I'm living everything for the first time. With emotions. Much like a baby, it feels like I was born yesterday. My fragile self mixes in with the survivor self, who knows how to pull through hard times and is too wise for its own good.
Then, she continued to enumerate ways in which I should love myself every day. She told me I should take care of myself, be attentive to my needs and concluded with: "You are worthy!"
Powerful words: I'm worthy!
The only problem with these words is that: I don't know what they mean. Worthy of what? On what scale of things? Am I worthier than a criminal or a normal person? Does my past entitles me to some life goods that I am not aware of? Or are we all equally worthy, just in different ways?
I give a lot of attention to myself, ever since I started working on my emotionally crippled soul. I fear that all the love I can give myself, will never replace the love I don't receive from others. What do I expect from others, anyway? What does it feel like to be loved/accepted? Does it feel like ice cream on a hot day, or does it feel as overwhelming as hate, only in the positive way? Ultimately, aren't we all looking for love, abused or normal people? Aren't we, the abused ones, competing for love with the normal people?
A lot of anger and hate came out of me lately and sometimes I fear I could never offer anything in return for love. I also fear that people could realize how mean I can be, with my snappy come backs ( that, I personally think, are hilarious). I don't know how to fit in my victim past with my day to day functional self. There are many gaps in my personality. One moment I can be invincible, and the next I could crumble into pieces, because most of life is new to me. I'm living everything for the first time. With emotions. Much like a baby, it feels like I was born yesterday. My fragile self mixes in with the survivor self, who knows how to pull through hard times and is too wise for its own good.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Seraphine
Just finished watching a little French indie, called Seraphine. No major director, no big actors, just a well acted pseudobiopic.
It is the story of a simple minded, uneducated woman painter, at the beginning of the 20th century. A highly educated and intuitive art dealer discovers her in her natural habitat and offers her a chance of a lifetime. She, however, is and erratic soul, with little grip on the daily realities. The detail of this character impressed me. The actress who played the part (Yolande Moreau), had an honest descent into this woman's soul. She portrays Seraphine, as if she knew her personally. There are nuances like her relationship with the divinity, her lack of sexuality, her overwhelming talent, that didn't leave any space for anything else to form inside her personality. These nuances are expressed through song, facial expressions and continuity of gestures that are rare to observe in the acting craft. Nowadays, when films are taken over by pretty faces and short lines, to see such richness of character, is a treat.
I was moved. I understood what she meant, when she talked about painting as a force that overtakes her life. Yolande Moreau is such a fine artist that she communicated to me (the untrained spectator), what the life and mind of Seraphine must have been like.
The imdb profile is here
It is the story of a simple minded, uneducated woman painter, at the beginning of the 20th century. A highly educated and intuitive art dealer discovers her in her natural habitat and offers her a chance of a lifetime. She, however, is and erratic soul, with little grip on the daily realities. The detail of this character impressed me. The actress who played the part (Yolande Moreau), had an honest descent into this woman's soul. She portrays Seraphine, as if she knew her personally. There are nuances like her relationship with the divinity, her lack of sexuality, her overwhelming talent, that didn't leave any space for anything else to form inside her personality. These nuances are expressed through song, facial expressions and continuity of gestures that are rare to observe in the acting craft. Nowadays, when films are taken over by pretty faces and short lines, to see such richness of character, is a treat.
I was moved. I understood what she meant, when she talked about painting as a force that overtakes her life. Yolande Moreau is such a fine artist that she communicated to me (the untrained spectator), what the life and mind of Seraphine must have been like.
The imdb profile is here
Sunday, June 6, 2010
the band aid man
You know how sometime you cut your finger and it hurts and you put a bugs bunny band aid on the wound and just because the band aid is there, you feel like your life is going to be OK? The same goes for relationships.
I had a band aid man. He was the Mother Theresa of emotional invalids. His patience took that one step further and made me wonder if he ever had any need, or if he ever lost his temper over anything. His family taught him endurance. They never expressed big emotions. It was not dignified. Repression was the healthiest emotional exercise in their household.
I walked into his life like a hurricane. I had emotions pulling me in every possible direction, with no map. He looked at me, completely fascinated. He stayed with me, trying to secretly mimic emotions he never even knew existed. He started expressing his repressed anger in traffic. He would giggle apologetically immediately afterwards. He was not comfortable with showing emotion, yet that was everything his soul craved for. The craving turned into addiction. The addiction turned into repetitive behavior.
One day, he told me we should get married. Since most of my emotional insights are fairly short sighted when it comes to commitment, I thought about it. I thought about what it would mean us being married. It couldn't possibly change much from what we had up until then. We lived together, in a purple apartment, I liked to call "my purple egg". I did laundry every week, hand washing or soaking the soiled stuff. I cleaned the house with baking soda, which makes for a miracle ecological detergent. I waxed the floors, without ever getting the hang of it, really. I ironed sheets and shirts. I cooked fabulously complicated meals, when I felt inspired and shopped for organic produce at local farmer's markets. Life was bliss in that day by day routine, that somehow establishes a rhythm. My heart tuned to this rhythm and chaos became lighter and easier to navigate. I've decided I was going to have as life goal: to be boring, to take no chances, no risks, just be, in that rhythm that my heart learned. No plans for the future, no master schemes. For once I'd trust life to be in control. But where would "us being married" fit in this picture? Were we already playing married and just needed to seal the deal? Were we two random souls, united for a while? Were we meant to be together? What does "meant to be together" mean? What does it feel like? Would it be fair of me to marry "the band aid man"?
I had a band aid man. He was the Mother Theresa of emotional invalids. His patience took that one step further and made me wonder if he ever had any need, or if he ever lost his temper over anything. His family taught him endurance. They never expressed big emotions. It was not dignified. Repression was the healthiest emotional exercise in their household.
I walked into his life like a hurricane. I had emotions pulling me in every possible direction, with no map. He looked at me, completely fascinated. He stayed with me, trying to secretly mimic emotions he never even knew existed. He started expressing his repressed anger in traffic. He would giggle apologetically immediately afterwards. He was not comfortable with showing emotion, yet that was everything his soul craved for. The craving turned into addiction. The addiction turned into repetitive behavior.
One day, he told me we should get married. Since most of my emotional insights are fairly short sighted when it comes to commitment, I thought about it. I thought about what it would mean us being married. It couldn't possibly change much from what we had up until then. We lived together, in a purple apartment, I liked to call "my purple egg". I did laundry every week, hand washing or soaking the soiled stuff. I cleaned the house with baking soda, which makes for a miracle ecological detergent. I waxed the floors, without ever getting the hang of it, really. I ironed sheets and shirts. I cooked fabulously complicated meals, when I felt inspired and shopped for organic produce at local farmer's markets. Life was bliss in that day by day routine, that somehow establishes a rhythm. My heart tuned to this rhythm and chaos became lighter and easier to navigate. I've decided I was going to have as life goal: to be boring, to take no chances, no risks, just be, in that rhythm that my heart learned. No plans for the future, no master schemes. For once I'd trust life to be in control. But where would "us being married" fit in this picture? Were we already playing married and just needed to seal the deal? Were we two random souls, united for a while? Were we meant to be together? What does "meant to be together" mean? What does it feel like? Would it be fair of me to marry "the band aid man"?
Saturday, June 5, 2010
thought vs feel
Where does sadness come from? When does it end? Any film, any sappy line, any retarded happy ending, any melodramatic innuendo has the same effect on me like the death of a dear person. My hard earned intellectual capacities don't allow me to panic. I feel and I judge myself at the same time. I feel and I'm ashamed of myself for feeling. It's as if I let myself down. It's as if the intellectual in me would tell the emotional self: "You're an idiot. Your behavior is shameful and you know better than that. How dare you feel, when you've got me, the intellectual who can shortcut feelings and think instead." It's as if the intellectual self is afraid to be irrelevant and eventually replaced, if the emotional self would take over.
I feel a desperate need to cry and not a tear comes out. I think about the sad stories of my past. I remember how I decided to take care of myself, when I felt rejected and forgotten by the entire world starting with my parents. I needed comfort and there was no one to provide and I hugged myself. I promised myself to hug and soothe myself any time I needed to, but myself became a lonely place. As years go by, I feel like ripping through myself and see what's out there, let others hug me. Problem is: I can't tell the good hug from the bad hug. Nobody taught me how to discern.
Thought vs Feel is my conflict. How to resolve it? How to make myself big enough to contain both without inhibiting each other? How can I have both function at the same time?
I feel a desperate need to cry and not a tear comes out. I think about the sad stories of my past. I remember how I decided to take care of myself, when I felt rejected and forgotten by the entire world starting with my parents. I needed comfort and there was no one to provide and I hugged myself. I promised myself to hug and soothe myself any time I needed to, but myself became a lonely place. As years go by, I feel like ripping through myself and see what's out there, let others hug me. Problem is: I can't tell the good hug from the bad hug. Nobody taught me how to discern.
Thought vs Feel is my conflict. How to resolve it? How to make myself big enough to contain both without inhibiting each other? How can I have both function at the same time?
Friday, June 4, 2010
Inner child
My inner child is a runt, looks more like a zombie than a human being and bites every chance she gets. She's a little scared animal. If I respond with kindness, she'll just start crying and she cries rivers of sadness, of loneliness and despair.
I considered abandoning my inner child and never looking back. In a cowardly moment, I considered forgetting the abuse voluntarily, yet again, only this time for good. Many times, while talking to people, I find myself being needy, pathetic and miserable, in an effort to make sense out of what happened to me. It's as if I want someone else to confirm the injustice I've lived and validate my sorrow. My inner child, the keeper of these feelings of hate, anger, sorrow, sadness, tries to communicate through me and ask for help. She's barking at the wrong tree. Maybe I should continue therapy, but therapy is not enough for me. It's too organized and I never get to connect with my deeper self during those 45 minutes. Groups are retarded, cause everything I'll say is overly validated. It's like the blind leading the blind and it creates more confusion, than actual healing. Plus, too many women have too many things to say and it's a total downer. If you didn't feel suicidal at the beginning of the group, you'll be feeling suicidal by the end of it.
So, all I got left is this blog, where I can be pathetic, miserable, needy in the safety of my own inner world.
I can't give up on my inner child, she's also the keeper of my creativity and genius ideas. All of those shiny years of pure bliss, when I couldn't feel any other emotion, because my memory locked away any trace of abuse, I could never create. I couldn't write, I couldn't paint, I couldn't act. I must continue this relationship and bring that runt of a child back to health, if I want to keep creating.
I considered abandoning my inner child and never looking back. In a cowardly moment, I considered forgetting the abuse voluntarily, yet again, only this time for good. Many times, while talking to people, I find myself being needy, pathetic and miserable, in an effort to make sense out of what happened to me. It's as if I want someone else to confirm the injustice I've lived and validate my sorrow. My inner child, the keeper of these feelings of hate, anger, sorrow, sadness, tries to communicate through me and ask for help. She's barking at the wrong tree. Maybe I should continue therapy, but therapy is not enough for me. It's too organized and I never get to connect with my deeper self during those 45 minutes. Groups are retarded, cause everything I'll say is overly validated. It's like the blind leading the blind and it creates more confusion, than actual healing. Plus, too many women have too many things to say and it's a total downer. If you didn't feel suicidal at the beginning of the group, you'll be feeling suicidal by the end of it.
So, all I got left is this blog, where I can be pathetic, miserable, needy in the safety of my own inner world.
I can't give up on my inner child, she's also the keeper of my creativity and genius ideas. All of those shiny years of pure bliss, when I couldn't feel any other emotion, because my memory locked away any trace of abuse, I could never create. I couldn't write, I couldn't paint, I couldn't act. I must continue this relationship and bring that runt of a child back to health, if I want to keep creating.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Tower of Babel
It's not that I hate my family. I just can't seem to communicate with them. It's as if certain words had different meanings for each of us.
I recently travelled to my home country, the one I left many years ago, at dawn, promising myself to never look back.
The return has been emotional, but not overwhelming. I saw people and places that I knew. It was weird to revisit places where I have been brutally abused and tortured for many years, praying to God for survival. It was like visiting Auschwitz, the concentration camp, with its grim records of death and horror. Green grass has grown over those places, nature has continued its course, people smile and the sun is shinning. Nothing would reveal the atrocity I had known, the despair and malfunctioning of several families. Nothing told the story of humiliation, shame, neglect and rejection I and a few other kids suffered at the hands of my father, uncle and a few other "good men". I realized the abuse is a place in time, not in space.
I refused to see my alcoholic, pedophile father, although my enabler mother tried to convince me he stopped drinking and lost a lot of weight cause he thinks about the past. My cousin, on the other hand told me she saw him at my aunt's house and he started drinking at 3am and fought a fence by noon. Who to believe?
I also met a few zealot Christians, who preached me the love of God threatening to stab me with the cross if I refused to receive salvation. My father is also a fervent Christian and never thought twice about raping me since the age of three. See my side of the argument?
Also, speaking with certain members of my extended family, who seem to have known about the going ons of the pedophilia and such, I realized that they all more or less knew. They all judged me at some point or another, yet neither of them did anything to save me. Neither of them tried to talk to me, be my friend. It would have been enough if I had gotten a shoulder to cry on, it would have been enough to know I could talk to someone. All of them pointed fingers at me: I was the damaged, no hope child. They pitied me, yet never hugged me. Never hug a leper, I guess. All Christians, ready to preach about Jesus and regurgitate Bible verses at the drop of a hat.
Many of them were curious to hear about my life. I received a lot of attention. Too little, too late. It's as if they were saying: you turned out alright; who would have thunk, a runt of a child, like yourself?
Again, it's not that I hate my family, it's just that communication is not there. They all care now, when I don't need them anymore. They all remembered me for once.
I recently travelled to my home country, the one I left many years ago, at dawn, promising myself to never look back.
The return has been emotional, but not overwhelming. I saw people and places that I knew. It was weird to revisit places where I have been brutally abused and tortured for many years, praying to God for survival. It was like visiting Auschwitz, the concentration camp, with its grim records of death and horror. Green grass has grown over those places, nature has continued its course, people smile and the sun is shinning. Nothing would reveal the atrocity I had known, the despair and malfunctioning of several families. Nothing told the story of humiliation, shame, neglect and rejection I and a few other kids suffered at the hands of my father, uncle and a few other "good men". I realized the abuse is a place in time, not in space.
I refused to see my alcoholic, pedophile father, although my enabler mother tried to convince me he stopped drinking and lost a lot of weight cause he thinks about the past. My cousin, on the other hand told me she saw him at my aunt's house and he started drinking at 3am and fought a fence by noon. Who to believe?
I also met a few zealot Christians, who preached me the love of God threatening to stab me with the cross if I refused to receive salvation. My father is also a fervent Christian and never thought twice about raping me since the age of three. See my side of the argument?
Also, speaking with certain members of my extended family, who seem to have known about the going ons of the pedophilia and such, I realized that they all more or less knew. They all judged me at some point or another, yet neither of them did anything to save me. Neither of them tried to talk to me, be my friend. It would have been enough if I had gotten a shoulder to cry on, it would have been enough to know I could talk to someone. All of them pointed fingers at me: I was the damaged, no hope child. They pitied me, yet never hugged me. Never hug a leper, I guess. All Christians, ready to preach about Jesus and regurgitate Bible verses at the drop of a hat.
Many of them were curious to hear about my life. I received a lot of attention. Too little, too late. It's as if they were saying: you turned out alright; who would have thunk, a runt of a child, like yourself?
Again, it's not that I hate my family, it's just that communication is not there. They all care now, when I don't need them anymore. They all remembered me for once.
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