Coming Back

It has been nearly two and a half years since I made this blog, intending to faithfully chronicle my experience with helping to send my father to jail, my recovery from an abusive childhood, and exploring my feelings about it all.  Along the way I got dumped by a man I was in an open relationship with, and I also faced the reality of being “dumped” by my family, literally and figuratively, practically since birth.  I also had a breakdown – there’s no other words for it, because I stopped functioning, leaving my house, eating, interacting with life, and I also took time off work.  I’m pretty sure it was a breakdown, though I didn’t end up in a psych ward.

At some point early on in the journey, I found this blog too painful and confronting for me to update.  Exploring painful memories, whilst struggling to make sense of a long history of being abandoned by just about every person I loved in my life, and dealing with the fallout of it all, caused me to become afraid, and unwilling to engage with people.  It took all of my energy just to continue to go to work so I wouldn’t starve, to attend counselling because I desperately wanted to heal from the wounds others (and myself) had inflicted on me; to live.

So I stopped journaling.

I’m unsure why I kept this blog online.  Perhaps because I uploaded so much of my creative work, and maybe I didn’t want my words and recollections, painful though some of it is, to be lost to the ether.  I spent so much of my young life trying to get “lost”, to disappear, particularly when around my abusive father, or when newly arrived to a foster home, or another strange family that had me foisted upon them; that I didn’t want something else in my life to disappear.  So I left it here, hoping that my words might comfort somebody.

And I feel there’s so much more for me to write yet.  I sometimes feel terrible anger towards members of my family, and I know I am still dealing with this.  Every bad thing in my life can be traced back to my family.  It helps me to process by writing things down.

I’m pleased to say that I’m good, nowadays.  I held down my job though the fracturing, and I’ve mostly kept the same small circle of friends.  I lost a lot of my family – I don’t keep in contact, not even with my bipolar sister whom I’ve cared for in my home at various times – and I’m still working out what to do with this “family” – these people who are strangers.  Life isn’t perfect, but I’m still here, still chugging along.  I don’t have that much longer to go with counselling, I’m at the point where my counsellor is about to ask me: “Is it time to apply for more funding to continue our sessions?” and I’m feeling like I don’t need that crutch any longer.  We’ll see.

That’s it for now.

 

 

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Judged

My father got 7 years and 9 months.

My Bear, my youngest sister, my brother, Benny, and I were all in the courtroom for his sentencing.

His (our) family, his brothers and sisters, his nieces and nephews,  were in the courtroom to see him go down.

They heard everything – every messy detail, including the rapes, the molestations, the breaking of limbs, and the starving of children.  Sad to say but it was very validating.

The judge had to sentence him according to the  law in 1970-1980.  If he had been sentenced under today’s law, he would’ve gotten a lot longer.

He never made eye contact to us, not once.

His lawyer apologized on his behalf and said: “The defendant wants his children to be happy.”

What an asshole!  If he wanted us to be happy, why did he damage us so?

The Crown Prosecutor and the Legal Advisor given to us said that our Victim Impact Statements were among the most powerful they’d ever read.

The judge personally thanked us for our “courage”.  Not once did I ever feel courageous.  Messed-up in the head, alone, angry, guilty, vindictive – yes, but not courageous.

When my father stood up to be taken away by the guards, he waved at his supporters and smiled, as if he was going away on holiday. “I love you, family!” he shouted out.

Not one of his family responded to his avowal of love.  They were too stunned by all that they had heard.

Outside the courtroom, as I left tightly clutching Bear’s hand, they surrounded me.  I felt apprehensive, but not afraid.  If I was going to cop shit from them, I wasn’t fazed by it at all.  Let them do their worst, if they dared!

But to my surprise, everybody was crying.  Weeping and trying to touch me.  Hugging me, and telling me to “come home”, saying “sorry” over and over again.

It was a healing and victorious moment.

My counsellor once told me that beautiful things can still be made from broken objects, like a mosaic.  That’s me.  That’s my life.

 

 

 

A Passionate Affair: Day 2, Discovery

We slide into summer’s skin to discover the secrets of the City of Roses.

A hot haze of concrete

a thick whip of road,

buildings clustered like broken teeth

devouring yet another tasty 

tourist.

city scape

The icy bite of beer

nipping the back of my throat

and a good man to share it with

-what more could a woman ask for?

A Passionate Affair: Day 3, Footprints

Image

It seems a cliche;

two lovers walk along the beach,

leaving a memory in each perfect

footprint.

They speak not of tomorrow,

but of today.

How to tell him?

She longs to capture each moment

like some rare bird,

tenderly,

between slick palms

to halt its wild flight.

Image

How to stop the natural order of things?

You cannot.

Keepsakes

Image

I pull out everything you said to me,

and hold it to the neutral light of hindsight.

Some fragments are warped and cracked,

and I say: “He was angry when he said this.”

and I throw them away.

But others still hold their original shape, 

strong and beautifully made, with care and love;

like you.

So I think: “These ones I will keep, 

I’ll wrap them in silk,

I’ll store them in my carved box of memories,

And perhaps I will make something 

special with them some day.

Polish them till they shine,

contemplate them,

and use them to glue

all the broken pieces of me back together.”

They are the most precious gifts you gave to me,

worth keeping.

Unmasked

evil-clown-1-expression

You thought you could hide behind that affable smile;

those dancing brown eyes,

that cunning guile.

You thought we would forget the past;

the mind games,

the rot behind the mask.

You thought you got away scot-free;

while your children were sentenced

to purgatory.

The put-downs, the violence;

years of blood paid with silence.

The privilege with which you were charged;

became a travesty – a farce!

But now justice is knocking on your door;

to ruin, to destroy, no more!

Our harvest has come at last –

a monstrous creature,

 unmasked.

© August, 2014 MR


My father was arrested today.

My Harvest is Coming

I’ve not posted for some time because I’ve been attempting to heal from the great shock of losing people I loved greatly: my lover, and my twin brother.  They haven’t died, they have rejected me.   I’ve posted about it ad nauseum on my blog so I won’t go into any more detail except to say that it has taken much strength to come back from these massive life blows.  I am no stranger to heartache and abandonment in my life, unfortunately.  I spiralled into a deep depression which is just beginning to lift.  I’ve never felt so weak and vulnerable before, no matter the challenges I’ve faced, but this depression has been the worst ever.  I’ve had no energy to blog, or play my guitar, or sing, or be around people.  I’ve just simply existed.

I have functioned enough, barely, to go to work, but that’s it.  I’ve begged off social engagements, and even my involvement in music has been scaled back.  I lost confidence in myself.  My Bear has watched me become sadder with each passing day.  At times, I’ve been scared, and I’ve not been sure that I would wake to see another morning.  This sounds melodramatic, perhaps, but it has been my reality.  I hide much of what I feel from the world, but my Bear knows all.  Thank god I have him!  He has saved my life!  He is my rock, and always has been!

I knew I had to deal with the depression and work through it, because soon my harvest is arriving.   I need to be strong for what’s coming.   The police have been investigating mine and my sister’s case for the past year.  They have confirmed most of what we shared during our interviews.  Our case has been passed to no less than three teams during the past year.  At times, I didn’t even know who was in charge, or even if anything was happening.  Finally, a few months ago, I met the officer in charge of my case.  She is a bright and motivated young woman in her thirties.  I’ve been very impressed with her because she’s been like a dog with a bone, chasing up every lead and interviewing people from my past that I have not seen nor heard from since I was a child, living in a series of childrens’ homes and the orphanage, and with various families.  She has been amazing, keeping us informed of the progress.  

In two weeks, the police will be arresting my father.  I can’t write more than that right now, I feel so emotional and exhausted.  This is the culmination of a lifetime of sorrow and pain.  This man caused so much destruction in my family, to me and mine.  I can hardly believe justice is nigh.

I will write more, later.  I hope everyone is well.