My two brothers and why I can’t have contact with them today.
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THIS ARTICLE CONTAINS GRAPHIC LANGUAGE AND IMAGERY PLEASE TAKE CARE
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Dear Brothers:
The story passed through the family tells of arguments between the two of you—who would get to change your new baby sister’s diapers?
I wonder, then, if this is where it all started.
My memory fades back to my first memory of life. My brother enters my room whispering, “Shh! Don’t tell Mom. You’ll be in trouble.” And then it takes off at breakneck speed.
At age 9 we lived in the rural country. I had to be protected, the mother said. I could not participate in community activities unless there was someone to escort me to the event. There were ‘bad’ people in this world, she said, and wasn’t I lucky to have two older brothers who jumped at the chance to take me to my baseball and tennis games.
But I had to pay the price. As we went to swimming lessons, I remember lying in that farmers field, cattle all around us. As you took your due, my nine year old brain wondered if the cows could talk and would they tell on us.
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This is a time of celebration for a mother, if only she had…
It is:
- A time for a daughter to show appreciation to her mother for bringing her into the world.
- A time for mother and daughter to rejoice in their love for each other.
- A time to say thank-you for all the love she unselfishly gave to you.
This letter, written after my father’s death, was based on the hope of what I wanted from my father. Instead he gave me the dreams of a little girl who grew into a woman far to0 soon as a result of his ‘love.’
Dear Dad:
I want to thank you for being the best dad.
As I entered life you could not suppress your happiness over the tiny bundle in your hands- your first and only daughter in a house that already contained two boys.
As I matured into a toddler, you held my tiny fingers by your strong calloused hands and took those precarious first steps with me. When I fell and cried you held me and wiped the tears away.
As I matured to kindergarten, we both had tears in our eyes that first day- me for the insecurity of something new- something beyond your presence, strength and love. And for you, recognizing even then your little girl was growing up.
As I matured to full time school age, you taught me how to make friends, and the gift of learning. You taught me how to ride a bicycle capturing the thrill and the freedom of the moment.
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This article examines the different therapies I have experienced over the years.
This article was Published in Feb 2005 by The Phoenix and in Sept/Oct 2006 by Alone Together and in Feb 2007 by Survivorship
A girl- 6 years old
Curly brown hair
Frilly blue dress
In a picture frame
Bent over her task
Frustration and fear on her face
A girl- 6 years old
A porcelain china doll
Will she shatter if dropped?
In childhood, severely abused emotionally, physically and sexually, I refused to die. My perpetrators, including my own mother and father, did not mildly abuse; they subjected me to the horrors of Incest and Satanic ritual abuse on a continual basis.
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We all love the spring. It is the start of a new life; the renewal of an old. Forests and gardens shed their brown overcoats for new green buds and shoots. On its heels comes summer in a blaze of glory, warming us from the inside out. Fall begins the cycle of sleep, the slumber of winter for all creatures young and old.
And with it, a disorder poetically named SAD, which affects up to 4 percent of the population. Seasonal Affective Disorder is a category of clinical depression that occurs at a specific time of year and follows through a seasonal pattern usually every winter between September and April, concentrating on December, January and February. (www.mooddisorderscanada.ca)
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