Grazing Grief

If you don’t run by grief and graze it, it may just take you out of the race. Pain is one thing. Grief, a very different beast.

I was my father’s toy, his confidant, his companion. Or so I thought. My mother hated everything about our relationship, but that was fine by me as a child. Dad and I were tight. When he cleaned up his act and found religion, our world was slated to become a better place.

Lie after lie. I trusted him. Deception was a coat of armor in our home.

Murder and rape was the obvious conviction that brought me pain. That was easy — in its way. It was the falsehood my father erected after the original carnage that I found too heavy to bear.

What do I mean by that?

I mean, that as a destroyed little girl, my pain would keep me up at night. But, when dad found religion, I had an uptick in hope. I believed in this new cloak he found himself wearing. We were cleaning up our act. Things were going to be different.

What a fucking joke.

The layers and layers of years of abuse, now made a foundation for another theme:

Religion.

When I left my father’s house at 18, I stopped in my bedroom, looked up to the sky and told the god of my father that I was done with him. He could fuck off and get out of my life.

I was so confused by the time I left their wretched world; was I in pain or was I now reborn into beauty? I didn’t feel any transformation but I was taught an indoctrination that feed me silence and told me I was fine.

Grief.

Grief for all of the many years I’d suffered. Years that cannot be returned to me. Grief for the burden of figuring this masquerade out. Grief for the tragedy I brought to my own children. In a way, the grief doesn’t end. It changes course, it morphs, it abates and then rears it’s head again, but it always remains.

12 thoughts on “Grazing Grief

      1. It helped me, talk about my past was difficult at first but I wasn’t as raw as you are. I still have so much hidden. I’ve never even told my therapist or anyone some of things my father did to me. I just don’t want to say htem out loud. I’m sure you understand.

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      2. Most of what we read is someone sharing a story arriving at a healed destination. Basically, it’s all good now. I’m really trying in my posts to share the unadulterated path. Painfully jagged is the journey. I absolutely do understand.

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      3. I have dementia so at this moment I can’t remember, please tell me you have a therapist. Mine has been crutical to me being able to move forward with all aspsects of my parents abuse. She may not know a few detaisl but I’ve shared everything else with her. It’s been imporatn in my healing. There are ust a couple of things that are still to hard to talk about. I cetanly can’t write about them here. I’ve poured my soul out on the Survivors site and most of my mental illness on both sites but there are still a few places where I’m too fraglle and not ready to go there. I’m always here if you need someone to talk to. msandorm@verizon.net, offline. 🙂

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      4. I have the best therapist you can find – on speed dial. I don’t see him much anymore. But for years and years I saw him twice a week. You’ve mentioned a few times that you have a few things you can’t talked about. Try writing them down. Then burn the pages if you must. Tell your cat but get it out of you. Don’t hold on to it. I did that with my mother’s abuse of me. It was so ugly I didn’t go there for years. That only harmed me more. I’m so sorry for your struggles.

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