[Originally written in 2015]
I wonder if angels read blog posts...
There is something in the
silence between siblings
who encountered abused
as children that
screams
so very very loud.
Now I admit, I come from a
family of over exaggerators
- some of us even with a flair
for the dramatic - but if you
have come from a similar
situation, you know there is
no exaggeration here.
Even back then, all those years ago, we never really spoke. We never really shared our pain...never, really. I think that is the biggest thing that is taken from the abused, their ability to relate with one another with memories and history that they actually WANT to remember.
-
There was a lot of fear.
-
I think there
is
a lot of fear, though I'm not sure of what. Old and weak, the lies as wilted and unused like the leftover cilantro that wilts and spoils in the veggie drawer. The threats are now all wrapped up in games of manipulation of a reformed abuser; an old one who only sees that old one in everyone else.
As for siblings...it seems when we grew up and moved away, we didn't find it comforting on the surface to speak to one another. Perhaps it's like the story of the baby elephant who is tied to a post. Later on, even as he's grown in strength, he never tries to leave because he thinks nothing changed. I wonder if writing this could be some sort of awakening to myself. I want to love them - to comfort them - to be comforted by them...it's probably all possible.
It's hard to shed burdens - maybe that's what laughter is for.
