Posts Tagged ‘memories’


My Sister

February 16, 2010

My sister had a brave heart. She was beautiful and childlike. She was a fighter who would not give up. She was trapped…caught in an unseen web that was too sticky for her to break free from. They had her where they wanted her.

My sister ran away from one cult family right into the arms of another…but she didn’t know. Neither of us did. At that time, we were both amnesic to our true history.

I wonder…did she ever figure it out before she died? Did she finally remember her childhood abuse…the younger years? Did she remember “everything”…or just the minor “stuff” she used as an excuse to run away?

My sister kept trying…in recovery and out of it. I remember her telling me how she had to fight with the recovery people to get her a counselor. She kept saying she needed one, but they did not want to give it to her…not even in those fancy, high class, expensive recovery places.

Was it because it was being paid for by his parents? After all…counseling might mean that she would remember something…something important…something damning…about them. Maybe she would finally wake up to the truth about her boyfriend and his parents…the family she lived with. Or…maybe she wanted a counselor because she already had an inkling of the truth? I will never know in this life.

This is the time of year that I especially think of my sister…as her birthday approaches in a couple of days. And I wonder about her death…and sometimes, I wonder if she even really died…or if they have her holed up somewhere. It didn’t look like her. And my father would not leave me alone with her. If he had…what would I have done? I don’t know. We weren’t supposed to touch the body…but I think I would have. It did NOT look like her. I had seen her within the last year.

My father said it did, but he had not seen her in years…so far as I know. But then…it is not exactly like I came from a truthful family. Ha! “Family”. What is THAT supposed to be? Not the caricature I grew up with.

It’s funny how everything seemed to be so good…on the outside looking in. All the memories I concocted about growing up seemed so OK…yet I was so not OK.  Stories my mother told me were woven through my mind with photos from the family albums. Childhood. Sure…that was my childhood…only…it wasn’t.

I remember the day I suddenly realized that it was all a lie…a fantasy. It has been so long now that I cannot remember if it was before or after I realized that I could not remember growing up with my sister. It is as if she did not exist…yet I know for fact she was there…in the same house with me.

So many things are buried in the mists of amnesia with a tiny flash of a snippet here and there that blazes through so fast that I can barely figure out what just went by. Yet…those flashes ARE there. And I do have the photographs. My sister was there. Some of the photos I took…yet, I can barely see anything beyond the photos themselves. Whatever I see is more like a surreal picture in my mind.

She died on my birthday. At least…I am told she died. I saw what was supposed to be her body…but it sometimes haunts me to this day. I know she was becoming “inconvenient”. I would not put it past them to agree behind closed doors while pretending to hate each other to me. Two families…warring for her body. It was sick. It was insane. It was my sister.

I will never get the chance to get to know her. Her living…except for the few times in the later years when I finally did meet up with her…is buried deep within. What I do remember makes me wonder if I really want to remember the rest. I don’t know. Maybe I should just create a life with her just like I created a life of my own? No…I want to honor her by remembering the truth…if I can.


The True Nature of Home

March 2, 2009

I get these quotes in email. They are enjoyable to read and are usually thought provoking. Some of them really speak to me. They hit me right in the center of my own life. Sometimes, they stir up great sadness. The following is one of those.

This is the true nature of home – it is the place of peace; the shelter, not only from injury, but from all terror, doubt and division.

— John Ruskin

What a home that describes…and how far from my growing up home it is.

Place of peace? I have some scattered  memories prior to the 7th grade, but not a whole lot…not like from the 7th grade on…the grade where my father rejected me as his lover and made me become my younger sister’s trainer. I was 12. She was four. (Four seems to be significant in our family line as it was the year my youngest turned four that my parents managed to move into my home.)

I don’t really remember when I started to feel uncomfortable in my home. I have had flash backs of as far back as infancy. They started out third person, but seem to be shifting more into the first person. I already had a first person toddler flash of memory. It seemed to be of my mother being raped on her bed (or some bed) whilst I stood in my crib and saw. I have never figured out if it was done by my father…or by someone else.

Shelter? Hardly. I was incested in my home. I was subjected to cruel “discipline”. Since this is a discussion about the home, I won’t even go into the things that happened outside of that physical place.

I remember little to nothing of discipline when I was younger, although I do recall being spanked by my father a couple of times.  I do not know why, but I remember being afraid of being spanked. From what I remember of them, they were controlled, with his hand, and “short”. I only remember being spanked by him once or twice. That does not mean that it did not happen more than that, just that I don’t remember it, along with all the other things that are still buried deep inside. Could I have simply been afraid of his size and the fact that it would hurt? He would bend me over his knee and, if I recall correctly, spanked either my bare bottom or my underwear covered bottom. I really don’t remember very well. It is like I have this flash of being spanked. Ironically, it is a third person memory. Most of my scattered early memories are…with only a couple of exceptions. That tells me something right there. For so many memories to be third person, especially when it is simply a spanking, something had to be horribly wrong.

My mother, on the other hand, was different. I do not remember any of her earlier discipline. What I do remember starts  in the 8th or 9th grade. Then I was “disciplined” with metal hangers and the narrowest belts my father had. I was “disciplined” until my mother’s anger was spent. If I cried out or asked her to stop, her fury would be kindled as she would wield whatever was in her hand even harder and longer whilst telling me to be quiet. I do not recall the when or the how of that stopping. I just know that it did. I also do not know what I did that warranted such fury from her.

By at least the time of high school, I would pray every night for God (Yahweh I call Him now) to please take me home to heaven…to please let me die before morning. On Saturday’s, I would stay in bed as late as I could get away with it, unless I had somewhere to go. When I did have someplace to go, I stayed away as long as I reasonably could. I would pretend to be someone else…or somewhere else…even when I was of high school age.

In my home, there was injury of soul and spirit…of emotions and mind. Although there may not have been visible physical injury…no broken bones…no black eyes…the damage in heart and soul was definitely there. Who knows what I still have buried deep within? Yahweh knows. Someone in the system knows.

“Free from terror, doubt and division.” Not in our family! I was terrified…a lot. Between the horror movies my parents insisted on taking me to that caused me no end of fear…fear that lasted into adulthood…to the simple horror of living in the family. Thing is…I was not conscious of what was happening. The few things I do remember about growing up…I was not conscious of my parents being so scary. I think I transferred the fear onto other things…like aliens and monsters in the night. I think, too, that others did a great job of holding the fear and scariness inside where it could not touch “me”.

Doubt? I don’t remember ever really being able to be sure what would upset my mother and what would not. In the 6th grade (or maybe the 5th), she told me that, if the men in the white coats came to take her away, it would be my fault. I guess I was too naughty or uncooperative? I don’t remember the reason she gave specifically, but I do remember the message…loud and clear…more than once. I don’t particularly remember trying to buck her. I remember trying to be an obedient child. Obviously, I was not perfect…no child is. I just know that I was made responsible for her sanity…for her happiness.

Division? I have every reason to believe that my mother knew about my father and I. Was that a cause for hatred? Or disdain? Or??? I don’t know.  Again…I am not sure about much regarding my growing up. I just know that, somewhere along the line, the child that was my mother’s pride and joy became less than that. Somehow, I seemed to have fallen out of favor. Although, in actuality, the idea that I was even really in favor came from my mother. It was a bit of a shock to suddenly realize as an adult that all my early childhood memories were really just photographs from the family album augmented by stories my mother told me. Actual moving memories? Next to none.

What a home we had. I am not sure I would call it a home, actually. It was a trailer, an apartment, a house, a building, a dwelling. I can call it those things…but a home? Nah…I don’t see it as a home.


Dear Sis

April 25, 2008

Dear Sis,

It was 7 years ago today that, while I was regaining our true family history, while some of the walls of amnesia were being torn down within me, that you lost your earthly life. I wish we could have had the opportunity to build a better relationship…one not filled with fear and suspicion and parental and group interference.

When I first started trying to reach out to you, you were like a stranger to me. I felt no connection to you whatsoever…and that really bothered me. You are my sister. I should feel SOME kind of connection with you. Yet, I did not. And as I looked back into my very spotty growing up memories, I was stunned to suddenly realize that I could not remember living in the same house with you while growing up. Look as I might, all I could get was a couple of memories…just really quick flashes…the one barely discernible and the other only a minute of two at best.

Yet, you were my sister. Even though life was a struggle for me and even though I was very shy, I just could not let this continue. I really felt an obligation, even if only because I was your sister, to reach out to you. So, it started. I did not understand, then, why you were so suspicious of me. Now I am pretty sure I know why.

Over the years we got to meet at different times and I kept trying to bring all of us as a family together. I did not “know” then what I know now. I did not remember the truth of our family history. I know now that we were both being accessed; but then, I was clueless. I am sorry for pushing you so hard on that.

Oh, Sis, I know you were trying to break free when you ran away. Did you realize what you were running TO? I doubt it. Did you ever regain YOUR memories? Did you ever figure out that your boyfriend and his family were the same as our family? Did you ever remember the rituals and the incest? I hope you never did, hon. I hope you never did.

I remember you telling me that you started to drink at 12, before your boyfriend ever came into the picture. That is significant because Mom would always blame your boyfriend and his family for your running away…as if you needed any outside excuse. I wanted to run away so badly so many times…but just could not. I wish you could have run to a truly safe place. But then, they would never have allowed that, would they?

You must have known something on some level because I remember when you asked me to take you to a counseling appointment one day you did not want me to tell them. You were adamant about it…almost to the point of making me swear I would not tell them. I did not understand it then. Now…I get it.

There were things about that family, especially about your boyfriend, that I tried to get you to see, but you just would not see. It makes sense. For you to see could have put you in danger. I don’t know how you survived as long as you did.

You fought bulimia and alcoholism for years. Drinking since 12. Bulimia since sometime before you were 17. You were living on borrowed time, my precious sis. I remember how it broke my heart to hear about your living on the streets at times due to the alchohol…of the ways that you got hurt out there. I was touched and honored that you shared with me how you had miscarried a baby in the restroom of the pizza parlor where we were meeting. *tears*

I write this to you with so much love in my heart. It was a love that I had to work for. I had to find it because they had worked so hard to keep it from happening, both when we were young and again as adults. Grrrrrr! I am angry, sis…for you…for me…for us…and all they stole from us. It was not fair! It was not right!

I keep writing here to you. Then I take a break. Then I come back and write more. And so it goes…back and forth…as I reflect on what I wish I could say to you. I am so sorry, sis. I wish I had understood more back then. But I also have to realize the understanding probably would have put us both in danger. *sigh*

You had two groups vying for control over you. Me…I was just an alliance between two groups…who also vied for control in their own way. We were both pawns…used and abused. Did you ever figure that out, sis? Did the memories ever start to leak over? Or maybe it was because of memories that you started to drink in the first place? Or that made it so hard for you to get and stay sober? I don’t know. You never told me. I never got a chance to talk to you about what I remembered because you lost your earthly life while I was remembering.

I remember how hard you fought for sobriety. You just kept going back after every time you went out. You would not give up! I really admired that about you, sis. Did you know that? Did I ever tell you? I really hope that I did.

I was given two different stories about what led to you being taken to the hospital with what supposedly turned out to be a toxic mix of alcohol and meds. Was my mother told the same story…and then she lied to me? Or was she lied to by your boyfriend’s mother. I don’t know. Neither story makes much sense to me.

You know, sis, the way his mother told it, you suicided. Oh, she did not use the word, but she pretty much spelled it out. Thing is…if you did, it is also clear from her words that you were set up for it. Her own words condemn that family!

Regardless of which story is true…and it may be neither…what they describe makes me believe that you were set up to die, whether you did it alone or with help. You were expendable, sis…to them. But you weren’t to me! *tears* They could not just let you go and get some real help.

I remember how you fought with the recovery people to get you some real counseling. You had to convince them that you needed it. That makes no sense to me. I know they were paying for an expensive rehab. Counseling should have been part of it. You should not have had to fight for any of it. But then, it was all about control, wasn’t it, sis? You know what I mean. They had to find ways to control us. They certainly could not have us talking now, could they? Maybe that is why our mother and father were going after my son? So they would have something to hold over me to keep me quiet? I know they wanted me out of the way. But it did not work! Was the group trying to eliminate both of us at the same time? Did they get to you because they could not get to me? Were they afraid that I might help you in some way? That we might confirm things to each other? So many questions.

But you, sis, what were you thinking in those last days and hours? What were you feeling? I know you were in a lot of heart pain. I know you kept thinking you were all bad and they were all good. Were you beginning to see the truth? Did you become dangerous? Or were you maybe getting close to becoming free? To breaking loose? Of course, they could never allow that! I wish you had felt the freedom to call me.

I had put up boundaries with you because it broke my heart to talk to you. I regret that now. Did you feel abandoned by me in the end? Oh, God, I hope not! I hope that you know how much I love you. As I recall, his mother did say something about you knowing I loved you. She did hold that out to me…that you looked up to me and that you saved everything I sent to you. Although, when I asked for it back, I got very little.

So many lies. I don’t know what to believe. I even talked to the coroner, but I was afraid to push things because I was only just then finding out the truth and I was afraid they might find out that I knew. But, sis, even the coroner’s report did not make sense to me…not given what I knew about your bulimia, your injuries, your drinking. Why would they ignore those things in the autopsy report?

Sis, I pray that you are happy now. I like to think of you as being in our Abba’s arms, being held and rocked and loved on like you always deserved to be. I like to think of you in a beautiful place with a new body and a peaceful spirit…your heart and mind finally at rest. I cling to the fact that you knew Jesus as a child. Somewhere, sis, I have the letters you wrote to me…letters where you talk about Him and about me trusting Him.

His mom said that you never grew up. You watched cartoons every Saturday morning until the end. I believe that little child was still inside of you…still believing in Jesus…until the end, even though the adult you had walked away from that.

I love you, sis. I miss you, sis. Save a place for me, OK? For where you are, I will someday be, too. If there is any way for me to send you hug, via Jesus, or one of His angels, I send it.

Fly, Tweety, fly!

Fly forever free!

Free from the cage they tried to keep you in!



Ramblings About Memories, Light and Darkness

April 16, 2008

It is hard to explain how I feel. It is almost as if my head has been under water and I have been strugging for air…emotionally. I feel as if my head has suddenly popped above the water and I can, again, breathe deeply. It is as if I am experiencing a respite of sorts.

Oh, how I long for this to stay and not go away. But somewhere around me, I can feel something lurking in the shadows, or looking over my shoulder. I can sense it trying to wrap itself around my heart again…almost as if it were a physical thing. What is it? “It” is the way I have been feeling and living for about the last 8 years.

That is when things really started to hit for me…about 8 years ago. My life was turned upside down and it has been an adventure ever since. Some of that adventure has felt rather dark as I have had to come to terms with a history that was suddenly making itself known. Hidden secrets coming to the surface. Gaps in history slowing being filled in as the pieces are revealed…one by a puzzle without a picture to follow, leaving few clues as to what the whole thing will look like.

It has been a struggle, but a worthwhile one. Sometimes I get a few moments of “sunshine” in the “darkness”. That is what I am feeling now. Yet, I can feel the darkness still there. It feels as if it is just waiting…biding its time…until it starts to sweep back in.

I want to try and put up a wall to keep it at bay…but I cannot. A large part of that darkness is simply my life story…more details yet to be revealed. I can no more wall out my own history than I can wall out the world.

I guess there is more than one way to look at it. I see my history as darkness flowing over me. Yet, as more of my history is revealed…well, that is actually the light piercing the dark shadowy realms of buried memories. It is taking what is currently in the dark and bringing them into the light.

This whole process of revelation feels dark…with the flashbacks and memories trying to come to the surface. Emotionally, it feels as if I am being sucked into a pit. Yet, the more light that shines in that pit…the more whole I can feel…the more I can know who I really am…the more I can see the woman Yahweh/God created me to be.

On the one hand, I have the experience of the memories revealing themselves in a non-emotional way. On the other hand…more recently, it is the emotional side of those memories that are coming out. What was mostly pictures in my head in between periods of disconnected deep emotional pain is now becoming pictures with emotional pain. The emotions…the body memories…the pictures…they are all slowly coming together to make a “whole”. A whole what? I don’t know…yet.

The ongoing effects of the abuse are also part of that shadowy place…that darkness. I know that healing can come. I also know that some of those effects are from the physical results of the abuse. Physical? Emotional? Spiritual? They are all intertwined. Each part of me effects, and is effected by, every other part. None are disconnected from each other.

So, here I sit, having enjoyed a wonderful most of my day…breathing deeply. Tomorrow will bring…? I don’t know. I hope it will bring more sunshine inside.

The sleep time is coming. Will I even be able to go to sleep without some kind of flashback…no matter how mild…taking place? **shrug**

I just keep praying that the light times will become more frequent again…and last longer…like they used to. I want to stay in the lighter realm. But can I heal there? Must I walk through the darkness to heal? It sure seems like it. But I pray it is not so.

Walking in the darkness can sometimes be so scary. I really do not think I could do if it were not for Yeshua/Jesus walking through it with me. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for You are with me. This is especially true for me when death programming has been triggered. Yet…He is always there…leading me, protecting me, guiding me. His Holy Spirit lives within me and helps me. Otherwise, I would not make it. I simply would not.

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