"It All Makes Sense Now"

That's what my asister said when I told her about the flashbacks and why I'm in therapy this time.  She knew about when I was in therapy during my early 20's, and that it was because our adad was "inappropriate"..but now that she knows that there was more, she said that it explains a lot about why I am the way I am, and why things have been the way they are for me. 

Phew.

We had lunch on Saturday..something we don't get to do very often without the kids.  I was hesitant to talk to her about what's been going on, but I just had to.  She's the only one who experienced the mental, emotional and physical abuse that I did...and we are getting to the point that we can talk about it openly. 

My amother has put my father on a pedestal now that he's dead.  It's infuriating...and sad.  She had been abused as a child at the hands of her uncle..and then she married an abuser because it's all she knew.  And because of that, I was abused.  I'm sick and tired of hearing how great of a guy he was...NO HE FUCKING WASN'T.  She's got this selective memory about what life was like and I hate that I can't anything to her about it because I'm still afraid of her.  In my mind, I'm still a little girl and need to keep my mouth shut for fear of angering her.

The bureau that my daughter scratched up the other day belonged to my sister, and before that, belonged to my mother.  When I told my mother what Madelyn had done and that she was afraid that everyone was going to hate her when they found out, my mother said, "She's just a little girl...don't get mad at her...it's only a bureau after all".

WHAT THE FUCK???

Now, I certainly didn't react calmly when I saw the bureau, but I sure as hell didn't react like my mother would have if that had been me or my sister when we were nine years old (old enough to know better, by the way).  We would have had the crap beaten out of us and then be made to sit for hours listening to the ranting and swearing...all the while packing our bags in our heads for the guilt trip we were about to imbark on.

I remember one day I had a friend over afterschool.  We were playing in my room and my friend grabbed the afghan that was folded neatly on the bottom of my bed.  For one second, I froze in terror.  I NEVER took the afghan off my bed because I couldn't ever fold it like my mother did.  I decided that there was nothing I could do except fold it somewhat close to how she had it.

My friend left for home and my mother came in my room to drop off my laundry.  And it happened.

"Why did you take the afghan off your bed?"  She said, teeth gritted.

"I didn't, Shannon did...I tried to put it back the right way but..."  I said, cowering in the corner.

"That afghan was made for you by your aunt...don't your friends know how to respect your things??"  Her voice was getting louder...
"Mom, she didn't know...I put it back right away but..."

"Tell Shannon that she's not to come here ever again...not until she can learn how to respect this house...".

The lecture continued for most of the night.  The daggers that flew from my mother's eyes cut through my heart and took a little more of my soul.

I said something about the afghan story to my sister and she said that she remembered that day. 

It was a stupid afghan!  In fact, the very same afghan is currently sitting on my living room floor waiting for my son to come home and claim it before bedtime. 

I just have to shake my head sometimes at the ridiculousness of my childhood...or lack thereof.

It DOES explain a lot though...don't you think?