tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82776458543497195552024-02-19T11:23:43.727-05:00Touched2MySoulChildhood abuse effects every aspect of the child....leaving them to not feel whole as adults.... I am sharing my experience... in hope others will share theirs...touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-80801071723442829212015-09-01T10:50:00.001-04:002015-09-01T10:51:09.090-04:00Kickball<span style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Kickball</span><div style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I was in middle school when I finally realized I had no skills. Kickball was what showed me just how different I was. </span></div><div style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Kids on the bus talking about how they played outside after school. Walked to the corner store together. Played wall ball, jumped in the water from fire hydrant on hot days. Spent time playing together. </span></div><div style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Well there was none of that for me. Go home stay in the house. Clean the house and try to stay out of her way. The cleaning was to look busy so if she was in a bad mood maybe I would get brownie points for doing my chores instead of in trouble for simply being alive. </span></div><div style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Kickball was a fun sport I enjoyed playing in gym. Recesses would come and sometimes the kids would play. There were two teams and two team captains. Kids didn't like me enough to make me team Captain and because I couldn't kick the ball far and high no one picked me...if they picked me ... I was last or next to...and then they picked me because they needed to make the teams even in players. </span></div><div style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">All the other kids had some skills because they had grown up playing this in their neighbor hoods. My experience wasn't that and basically my skill was to punt the ball which often resulted in me being out. Not something anyone wanted from a teammate. </span></div><div style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It hurt to not be picked. When they didn't pick me? And it was often ... I'd go to the bathroom and stand in the stall and cry...alone. </span></div><div style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My mother was right I had nothing that anyone wanted! That feeling still follows me today. I don't fit in. </span></div>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-42493791634401591922014-05-25T23:40:00.001-04:002014-05-25T23:42:53.826-04:00The Visit<div>So I went ... I decided to go and visit my mother. The woman who gave birth to me... The one who abused me as a child. </div><div><br></div><div>My reasons for visiting were simple. Her son, my brother - the child she loved best or at least better than me, seems to have been charged by her, with her welfare. Guess what? He's not doing his job. Woman is living in dire conditions and he's of course, no where to be found. </div><div><br></div><div>I drove to her house on a Sunday afternoon. My god sister was there visiting with my mother. She let me in. Nerves? Anxiety? Ill feelings .. Yep I was feeling them all that day. Haven't stepped foot in that house in over 12 years. Haven't seen or spoken to her to the same amount of time. </div><div><br></div><div>She looked old. Tired. Worn by time. However... She .. That nastiness... That raw manipulation... That was always present with her during my childhood, quickly showed that it still survives. She started with the " I don't know who you are?" Routine. The reason I say routine is the woman I have known to be my mother manipulates... I've seen her do it with my own eyes. How could she not know me? I'm her child. Lived with her the first 20 years of my life. The fact that we haven't spoken or seen each other in years shouldn't have any barring on recognizing me. She let my daughter in weeks before and she hasn't seen her in the same amount of years and she was a child the last time... So basically I'm not buying the " I don't recognize you"... Statement.</div><div><br></div><div>The conversations were strained and she played her games in the conversation for the sake of my god sister whom is present. </div><div><br></div><div>The visit is brief.... I wanted her to know I was there to help her if she needed it... I didn't want anything .. Money? House? Car? Nothing! I was there because my father worked too hard for her to be living in the conditions she is currently in. I am my fathers daughter and he would not be pleased to know that all he worked for is going down with my mother. I was there to offer an olive branch ...</div><div><br></div><div>I meant every word! I would help her.... Nothing in return....</div><div><br></div><div>She made her position clear... Told me to leave her house... I was not wanted there.... </div><div><br></div><div>My God the pain! </div><div><br></div><div>I always knew she didn't want me as a child. Somewhere I guess I had hoped she would want me as an adult... I was/am wrong! </div><div><br></div><div>This was a few months ago... Since then there has been Mothers Day and time to work on healing. </div><div><br></div><div>I'll never go there again! She will mostly likely die in her residence. I left my phone number just in case she ever wanted to reach out...</div><div><br></div><div>You see ... I am "truth" if I am in her life then she has to deal with what she did to me as a child. She doesn't want to deal with that.</div><div><br></div><div>If I am around then I may expose her for who she is. Because again, i know who she is/was... When no one else was around! </div><div><br></div><div>I wish her the best! I hope she has people in her life who will love her... everyone deserves that. </div><div><br></div><div>She doesn't want me.... Those words hurt my soul even more as an adult with children myself. </div><div><br></div><div> I am broken... Like glass... Shattered into many pieces....</div><div><br></div><div>I'm putting myself back together one piece at a time... One fragile piece at a time ... </div><div><br></div><div>Oh .... I will be ok ... Time is on my side </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-39736594827727440682013-10-27T22:15:00.001-04:002013-10-27T22:31:18.061-04:00It's time to admit it... I've made mistakes as a parent....<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisVThttk59SeeQB_n7PCmPEYuKOLCKhJ9I6lgJZCrORoTpEMqeagKzfBMFOscVTXHByx0sWZ3wulNK7algkP2TpH4qMUgIj9xYmxPvYPHCJ83I23eFz2xTSw1U5_tj1Ah5ZPxEsslX18CC/s640/blogger-image--1402321946.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisVThttk59SeeQB_n7PCmPEYuKOLCKhJ9I6lgJZCrORoTpEMqeagKzfBMFOscVTXHByx0sWZ3wulNK7algkP2TpH4qMUgIj9xYmxPvYPHCJ83I23eFz2xTSw1U5_tj1Ah5ZPxEsslX18CC/s640/blogger-image--1402321946.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>It's time to admit it...</div><div>I've made mistakes as a parent</div><div>Not the same ones my parents made but mistakes never the less</div><div><br></div><div>I came from a two parent home where my survival was my responsibility. My dad worked and my mom was In charge and I was the mistake she needed to correct. I was beaten and battered both emotionally and physically and I swore I would never treat my kids like that.</div><div><br></div><div>Scroll forward ... My kids are now all almost grown.... </div><div>I didn't treat my kids like my mother treated me. I tried to correct my childhood by giving my children what I wanted as a child. </div><div>So what's wrong with that? </div><div><br></div><div>My children aren't me. They didn't grow up in a family of abuse. Where fear was your first feeling. They didn't grow up with a parent who argued in front of them... They didn't long to be safe first loved second..... I did.</div><div><br></div><div>My greatest mistake was not seeing my children for who they were and the situation of which they were living.</div><div><br></div><div>Giving them what I didn't have ... Has it's positives and negatives...</div><div>But I have learned they are not me ... Their world didn't include the pain and fears mine did as a child but their world did include disappointments due to me not seeing their experience for what it was... Their experience.</div><div><br></div><div>I wanted to correct the past... Instead I wish I had forgiven my past for being anything more than what it was so that I could have been free to see what was in front of me.</div><div><br></div><div>So I made mistakes as a parent and I ask my children to forgive me ....I am sorry. To say I did my best @ the time would be accurate but to say that I wish I had done much better is the truth. Love is where my actions started from, though sometimes they got mixed with my baggage and the fear of just not knowing what to do.</div><div>I am not perfect... Wish that I was... You deserve that! </div><div><br></div><div>In closing, again I am sorry. My wish for you is to take what your childhood was like with me... Make your children's life be about them not about the correcting of your own... Get to really know the children you have ... Do what they need ... Not what you think they need based off of your own baggage.</div><div><br></div><div>In the end I believe love will prevail and one day all my children will understand that I'm their mom but really just a person... A woman trying to figure it all out... </div><div>Love you my children always</div><div><br></div>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-4512703476494871122013-10-27T21:56:00.001-04:002013-10-27T22:06:31.886-04:00My heart is burned on my arm...<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDwn81BNiAarn4-sC2ROqjaZw5viADIRIvM6Ix6zfuXeDXoCgHquTH-MZyc0cbvQfIYXpRgyUldCCLLWLSdseXkklyV6_FDugL0SMiRduRRa7KOSrmizunj9p67CtgSyaZC6wU2gcUHA0e/s640/blogger-image--319959622.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDwn81BNiAarn4-sC2ROqjaZw5viADIRIvM6Ix6zfuXeDXoCgHquTH-MZyc0cbvQfIYXpRgyUldCCLLWLSdseXkklyV6_FDugL0SMiRduRRa7KOSrmizunj9p67CtgSyaZC6wU2gcUHA0e/s640/blogger-image--319959622.jpg"></i></a></div></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>My heart is burned on my arm...</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>It's on my left arm above my wrist. It's shape, is that of a heart with an arrow thru it. How appropriate. </i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>Some have thought it to be a tattoo that went wrong - it is not ...it is a scar.</i></div><div><i>It is a symbol. It is a reminder. It is my legacy on display. It is a big part of my story. It is my silence, my pain, my joy , my fear, my strength, my loneliness, my individuality... It's better than a tattoo as I didn't pick this to have put on my arm... It was a result of my reality as a child that is there and it is permanent.</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>Sunday morning breakfast. My Uncle who adored me...an visited infrequently...was at our house. My father, mother and brother were all eating breakfast in the kitchen.</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>We had a micrwave. One of the first microwaves available. It was so new to people that with the purchase of a microwave, there were free classes offered to teach you how to use it. We had all gone to the class.</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>We were most impressed with the microwave, because it could heat water in a cup, in 1 min, to boiling. Beat having to fill up the hot water pot on the stove and waiting 5 min for it boil.</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>I had put a cup of water in the microwave. I wanted a cup of Postom... A coffee like beverage that we as children were allowed to drink. Pushed the button for 1 min of time, and waited. The microwave did its thing and rang the bell when it was done. The door to the microwave opened from right to left. I opened it and reached in with my left hand to get the cup, which was full of hot steaming water. I grabbed the cup, and at the same time the door to the microwave swung back towards my arm, causing me to spill the water on my arm. </i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>Hot boiling water hit my arm wetting my white Oxford shirt sleeve. It hurt but I didn't say a word. I flinched but didn't yell or scream or react. Somehow in a matter of seconds I had processed that showing a reaction wouldn't be good. (Apparently I this is something I must have learned) </i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>I took the cup, sat it on the kitchen table by my plate, and sat down to finish my breakfast. My arm is on fire! I can't believe the pain! I excuse myself to the bathroom so I can look at it. Once in the safety of the upstairs bathroom, I unbutton my sleeve and take a look at my arm -the skin has already started to swell. It hurts like hell. I run my arm under cool water ... It helps a little but as soon as I stop, the severe pain is back. I use wet toilet paper to wrap my arm where the burn mark is and I wet the paper so as to help with the pain... Button my sleeve, and go back down to breakfast. Over the remainder of breakfast, I will have excused myself a few more times from the table so that I could check my arm. I even put butter on it. That set my world on fire, the pain was so bad.</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>The burn was severe and goes through all the stages it had to go thru to heal... I'm not sure how long it took... A few weeks?? but I hid it from the family the entire time...</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>One day my mother noticed. Asked me what had happened to my arm? I do not remember giving an answer but somehow one got developed...better than any lie I could have come up with on my own. </i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>My parents put together that it was a tattoo that I had let someone put on me and there were chemicals in it that had scarred my arm Wow! Apparently the heart shape helped them develop this reasoning .... Problem solved. </i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>I got punished for letting someone "tattoo" me...by my mother. </i></div><div><i>But the true punishment I didn't understand until later in life...</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>When I was grown I had another instance of pain that was an accident ... I had used a hot curling iron to curl my hair. It started to fall off the dresser... I grabbed it by the hot curling barrel to prevent it from falling.... It hurt like hell! I got dressed and went to work. At the time I was working as a sign language interpreter in a school. My hand blistered... I worked all day that day... Went to the emergency room after work was over... That's when I was enlightened.....</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>That current injury to my hand was a first degree burn ... The scar on my arm was shown that it was most likely a second degree burn. </i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>Now, here is where I started to understand the level to which I had been taught and punished as a child....</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>Pain! Somewhere, somehow I had learned that I wasn't allowed to show pain. My pain was embarrassing. I was embarrassed to show it.. To tell someone. I didn't want to be seen as not strong enough or that I was stupid because I couldn't handle the pain. So I would hide it and often mentally beat myself up if I cried because something hurt.</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>I had a second degree burn on my arm that was caused by an accident and I never told the people who should have been there to take care of me... All because somewhere somehow I knew that telling of my pain was worse than enduring the pain of the injury. I endured the original pain, then the pain of the supposed lie "tattoo" and the pain of the punishment of the lie...</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>My tears had no value! </i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>What my mother had done to me caused me to know my tears had no value! OMG how those words hurt now reading them and knowing the depths of what that means and ment for me as a child growing up... Now as an adult!</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>Fast forward to today. Old habits die hard. I don't like people to know of my weaknesses. I don't like people to know of my pain. If I'm feeling bad...I still try to hide it... Trust, in these moments, is still tough. But at least I'm aware, and I try to use words to let people - who I care about, understand when I'm hurt or not feeling well. I am a work in progress. </i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>I learned my survival method by the results that I got as a child...</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>What survival methods did you learn? </i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><br></div>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-67443007707757424082013-10-06T14:21:00.001-04:002013-10-06T17:23:45.001-04:00The Language of My Son<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpBecA-wmZahu9u3xESYAnzNf1kxVR4qdgE-ZUHEbUHoZmqvxlMs5rkhyyTy33lMB3yC5Uwu7-j1zgjeWESyFaTip25i_wRLzdG4Kqi25uBvDReeChcy2I8m5_pwu0jjb8YsJJm4COl8xt/s640/blogger-image-641118183.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpBecA-wmZahu9u3xESYAnzNf1kxVR4qdgE-ZUHEbUHoZmqvxlMs5rkhyyTy33lMB3yC5Uwu7-j1zgjeWESyFaTip25i_wRLzdG4Kqi25uBvDReeChcy2I8m5_pwu0jjb8YsJJm4COl8xt/s640/blogger-image-641118183.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>The language of my son--Being a single mother of 3 - two girls and a boy there were many challenges to say the least. All the children are two years apart - my son the youngest. A huge challenge for me was how to really communicate with my son as he seemed to communicate differently than my girls. </div><div><br></div><div>The girls? Well this seemed easy. They were like me .. They were little girls. I understood their childhood interests. Playing with baby dolls, dress up, Barbies etc... I understood their emotions and how they communicated them... From happiness to sadness I found I could easily predict and understand their emotions and how they got to them.... But a boy? What does he play with? cars? GI Joe? Etc? How is he going to express his emotions and how does he get to them? How do I direct his communications and emotions into what a man is supposed to be? I felt lost....and I hoped through time I would figure it out...or at least that's what I told myself to get through the days..</div><div><br></div><div>The differences were noticeable and tough to handle as my communications to my son didn't always seem to be well received by him. He wanted to be cuddled, but on his terms. He was often very quiet and didn't say much. He also wouldn't repeat himself so when he spoke I had to be listening or I missed out. He played, but alone, and didn't really want to have to explain his thought process to us girls so that we could play too. He was my son and he was his own person. He was a calming force in a house of raging emotions and drama that the girls seemed to have just as a part of their nature. But there was something missing a real communication... A true understanding. </div><div><br></div><div>Nighttime was a chance for me to check in with him and chat before bed. I often wanted to communicate in his language but couldn't seem to break through his wall of being the only boy. I had to get creative. He loved his "little men" toys these were Digimon, and some other popular characters that he played with ... He also loved stuffed animals... His bed was full of them. We would have nights in the summer where we would " camp out " in the living room. He would participate but only after moving all his stuffed animals into the living room first. His love for his stuffed animals helped cultivate my communication skills.</div><div><br></div><div>One night I thought and thought how I could express to this little being that I loved him, that I loved that he was my son ... My only boy ...and that made him special beyond compare. Yes the girls were like me, but he was cherished because he was my only boy! Well, it came to me....</div><div><br></div><div>Tucking him In one night I asked him did he know how much I loved him?. He just looked at me in silence as he often did ... The silence sometimes seemed to be his communication...</div><div>I said "if you were a toy @ toys r us.... I would buy all of you that was on the shelf" (toys r us is our local toy store) he looked @ me and smiled the biggest smile... He sat up and gave me a hug... And there started our special communication... Whenever I would say that phrase to him he would smile... I finally broke through his wall of communication... The fact that he was a boy and did things different and thought differently? I had finally found a way to connect. From that day forward I realized I had to learn to speak his language... His language on his level..it was a challenge and made me have to be more creative ... But I figured it out and I am still figuring it out... :)</div><div><br></div><div>He was around 4 yrs old when this happened.</div><div>He is now soon to be 18... That line doesn't work now.... I'm still working to speak his language. I call it the " language of my son" </div><div><br></div><div>Thank you for reading my blog.</div><div>Please share your thoughts and experiences. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-16736427709145504142013-08-11T22:38:00.001-04:002013-10-26T19:45:24.161-04:00Advice to listeners<div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijY15yhB9Bvc15UMnKm1u5kRm6jZvpgNa5K4bL_MEgtrVIEU2PvAZD4tkpB14-ecQ7UYFn-yeaPUWqHDQhU_T0oUVdC-wNABfzjG16R7Ko1GxVsT26Zp45fLHFBzq5Idm1NW4EG0DYDOIs/s640/blogger-image-198283648.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijY15yhB9Bvc15UMnKm1u5kRm6jZvpgNa5K4bL_MEgtrVIEU2PvAZD4tkpB14-ecQ7UYFn-yeaPUWqHDQhU_T0oUVdC-wNABfzjG16R7Ko1GxVsT26Zp45fLHFBzq5Idm1NW4EG0DYDOIs/s640/blogger-image-198283648.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">If a survivor of child abuse wants to or needs to tell you their story... </div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">LISTEN! </div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">That's it... Just listen. The person needs to be heard. Not healed. </div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">I have read many survivor stories and blogs and unfortunately there is a repeated pattern of people either not knowing what to say or responding with blame or guilt aimed at the survivor. </div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">I have gotten the "people change" or "you should forgive" or my favorite... "God loves you... Turn your life over to him" responses.</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">Yes people change and can change but have you ever seen a leopard change it spots? It's spots are ingrained in its fur... Permanent. Just like the personality traits of many abusers. Forgive? I have forgiven. Forget? I can't. My nightmares are full of the fears and experiences I had as a child. When I'm awake... I am constantly working on changing the messages my abuser gave me as a child either thru action or deed. I am growing in a positive manner as an adult. Mainly because I have forgiven the past for not being what I needed it to be and forgiven the past for never becoming what I hoped it would become. As for God, faith, belief, whatever you wish to call it. I have God. I have faith and I have a belief. For anyone to assume that a survivor doesn't, is judging them. Trust me, judging a survivor is the least sympathetic thing anyone can do. Faith, belief and God is the only reason Im still here. For some survivors this is true as well. Again don't assume. </div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">So what does one say when being honored with the trust of a survivor who is sharing their experience...</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">First, listen. Just listen. There is pain, agony, shame, fear, hurt, and a host more emotions behind the words. Behind the experience. Listening with your heart is necessary.</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">No judgment! Meaning- dont clarify the experience for the person. ( Are you sure you didn't misunderstand what happened?). Uh you weren't there. The experience is not yours to judge or interpret.</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "> Don't excuse the abuser ( she was probably having a bad day... she didn't mean it). Again, you weren't there in that moment in that experience. Don't tell someone how to experience their experience! It's their's ... NOT yours!</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">Don't tell the person how to react now. ( That was a long time ago... Just put it behind you... Live for today.) Trust me you have no idea how the person feels. If they could they would put it behind them. You have no idea how much they wish it never happened in the first place. </div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">There are so many more positive responses that you can say or do....</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">A hug- although some may not want to be touched. Positive touch can be very reassuring for those that are open to receiving this.</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">Verbal Reassurance - that you care about the person and appreciate them opening up to you. Confirming that you are there for them. How do you do this? Tell them using words of meaning and purpose. Be direct. Letting the person know that they are still loved and appreciated and accepted by you. There needs to be clear communication. The stress of sharing their experience with you can cause a survivor to get lost in the emotion of the past. This is why clarity in communication from you to them in this moment is necessary.</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">There are many other ways too....</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">These are just a few of the responses that can allow a survivor to be able to open up and trust you with their pain....</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">I know I appreciate being validated by being heard and not judged. Actually doesn't everyone. It's that the basic essence of acceptance and love?</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">If you are a survivor? Can you relate? What responses have you had when you told someone your experience? What responses have you had? </div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">I thank you for reading this... It's part of my experience! </div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-38099098063295365022013-07-20T22:23:00.001-04:002013-07-20T22:23:26.687-04:00"WE"<div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Over the years i have had people stop me in conversation and ask me who is "we"? I would have to stop and think and then I realized that sometimes when referring to myself in a situation i would use the word "we". It was an honest mistake nothing to big to worry about I thought... Just me talking fast and trying to keep up with the conversation. It wasn't until recently that i realized that the use of the word "we" came from a lack of that " we" in my childhood.</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Through all the beatings, unusual punishments, degrading and methodically planned control tactics that my mother used on me I developed a serious need to feel not alone. Being scared all the time as a child of what was going to happen next. Being worried about what might set her off. Being on pins and needles from such an early age and never feeling like someone cared enough to save me made me have a longing need to feel that I was not alone. No one ever came to save me from her methodical torture... Horrific beatings that went on for long periods of time... Her hours of degrading lectures prior to the beatings and after. </div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">One example of what she was capable of was she used to make me write a page a night of how I was a bad girl. I had to list in paragraph form of everything that I had ever done that was bad. I had to list in great detail of all the things that she said I had done. It had to be perfect grammer and written neatly. I was not allowed to duplicate what I wrote in the past... It always had to be new stuff. If I accidentally wrote something that I had wrote in the past she would beat me the next day. I had to write that I was a liar and had manipulated my dad into loving me. These were her words. This went on for months. I don't know where those papers are now... I wish I could find them. </div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">She used to beat me for what seemed like hours... Striped down naked. She had a belt that she had shredded and she would beat me in the living room with the front window shades open so that the neighbor hood kids could watch. I wasn't allowed to scream or make a noise or cry....I was the one standing there ... Then laying on the hasset bent over it. Shamed because I was naked... Shamed because she would make comments about my body that made me feel bad. Shamed because I hadn't done anything to deserve this. Shamed because the kids could watch me and hear her. She raised her arms all the way back and would swing with all her might. She would say don't put my hands in the way, don't move, don't cry and don't scream.... She would hit and hit and hit and hit.... I had welts and bleeding and excruciating pain. For moving, crying or screaming or putting your hands in the way the penalty was 5 more hits. This could go on for hours. She would allow break for peeing and she took breaks because she was "tired" but then she was back at teaching me a lesson. What could I have ever done to deserve that?</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">But it was me alone standing there shamed... Taking all the pain and degrading words alone. Later it would still be me consoling myself through the pain, embarrassment and hurt in the aftermath of her wrath.</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">No one came... No one saved me... No one stopped her. No one shared in my pain... No one ...</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">my childhood taught me that I was alone and that no one had my back...no one...</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">To compensate for the need to feel that someone somewhere walked with me through my life I accidentally added the "we" to my conversations. It was a hope ... A dream.... A wish.... It still is.... </div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">The difference is I'm now very aware that I long to have someone walk with me in my life... Share my life with ... Pains as well as joys....one day maybe the use of the word "we" will actually represent two instead of one.... </div>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-30985279020006889992012-12-24T19:14:00.002-05:002012-12-24T19:23:33.461-05:00How do you handle conflict? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.09375); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;"><div>
How do you handle conflict....?</div>
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Today i ask this because I have come to realize I dont know how. At least not how to handle and solve it. As a child growing up in a disfunctional family conflict, disagreement, and angry feelings were just a part of the norm. Mom was mad then we all stayed low until she wasn't. We were mad... Oh well too bad. Dad was mad.... Well it will blow over ... How? By not talking about it. Resolution was something we handled individually... I don't mean we talked it out with each other. You just held it inside until you could work through it yourself. Meaning you suppress your dislike or your disappointment for something. You didn't dare discuss it.</div>
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I often find myself in situations where I don't like something butmy first thought is how will the other person feel once I express that I am displeased? You see I was conditioned to please and to not upset others. The fear was that I wouldn't be loved if I said what I wanted, didn't want, didn't like etc. i have a deep desire - no its a need like food and water.... to be accepted, appreciated and loved. Those desires can sometimes cloud my judgement as to what should be done vs what I will do in order to keep the peace.... In order to continue to feel loved or liked. </div>
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So again I ask how does one settle conflict. As a child we would hold the anger inside...Suppress it. Internal anger soon turns to hate. Small issues become big issues because the anger is never dealt with it just keeps building. Push it down make room for more... That was what we did.</div>
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0898438); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;">There was no listening to each other to try to resolve the misunderstanding or conflict. But then again you have to tslk in order for someome to listen... There was no talkng either. This resulted in us not connecting and misunderstanding each other. There was never ever any communication about problems. Not being able to agree- even to disagree was just a form of life.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.09375); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;"><div>
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So now fast forward. I am a parent and I don't know how to settle conflict or disagreements with my children so that there is a door open for continuing communication and love. I have failed in this department. </div>
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How do I know? My children at their ages 21, 19, and 16 are all harboring issues with each other and with me. This has created space where there should be love and understanding and companionship and family. </div>
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I failed them... I failed them because in all honesty I don't know how to figure out conflict. When conflict arises I can somehow see all sides - I can see how all parties might be feeling.... But when the question comes to whom is right? Or wrong? Not sure how to answer that. Not sure whom to blame.. Not sure who's to say sorry, not sure if someone should say sorry... And often times I am not sure if sorry is even the right answer. It often comes from a place of not wanting to have anyone be angry with me...</div>
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But this leads to a deeper question ... Why is that such a scary thing that someone would be mad with me.... Well growing up, as a child mad meant.. I was unloved, I was nothing, I wasn't a person... I was a big walking piece of disappointment. The feeling of being a disappointment- not good enough is a feeling I still feel today... I hate the feeling and lately it's what I feel everyday all day.</div>
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But how do I step past this and get my kids to learn to resolve their conflicts in a way that continues communication with each other and me. How do I get them to beable to see that conflict doesn't have to mean relationship is over... It just means that we are all different and that we can see things differently but the most important thing is respecting one another and though you may not always agree you can still accept the other person for who they are. </div>
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For today I've written down my thoughts.... It's a start... For later I will pray that God has his way and In his time creates for me and my kids better communication ...</div>
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This is my prayer for them before I leave this earth. </div>
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</span>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-23268264351486172522012-05-08T23:04:00.001-04:002012-05-08T23:04:20.478-04:00Keeping it all insideI was thinking ... No actually remembering ... No actually realizing ... That I have been hiding my pain since i was very small...
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<br>This is my story....
<br>I think I was in kindergarten or maybe preschool... I seemed normal on the outside... ( I think) I played on the juggle Jim during recess. Rode the hoppy horse and enjoyed riding on this spinning circle ride. I wore two pony tails most of the time and have vague memories of various plaid dresses, pants outfits and cute shoes that I wore to school. I think I smiled a lot or at least knew that people were drawn to me and thought i was adorable. I think I was a smart kid and generally liked by the other kids. I recently found one of my teachers from that time in my life on Facebook. She told me how much she thought well of me as a child. I was so nice, polite and smart. To her I was a perfect child... So much so that she named her daughter after me.... Wow .. What an honor! I was truly humbled by her words and actions... She showed me her daughters Facebook page and yes we share the same name... Oh but how I wish that teacher could have know of the secrets I had... And the pain that I carried at that young age.
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<br>One day I was swinging on the swings. It was something I loved to do during recess. The swing seats were made of flexible material. I loved to stand on the swings and as we would call it "pump" your legs so that you would go higher and higher. Boy how I loved swinging.... I loved to sit and swing too but standing would make me go higher and I could see more of the top of the school building and the tops of the trees.
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<br>This one day I was standing and swinging and my feet slipped out of the swing.... I couldn't get my feet back in the swing so I was holding on with my hands... I tried and tried but couldn't get my feet back in the swing so I let go and landed hard on the ground on my bottom. I think I may have cried... I think they sent me to the nurse and I was sent home with a note to give my parents about my accident at school. My stomach hurt something awful. I think I probably bruised my stomach muscles when I slammed Into the ground.
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<br>I didn't give the note to my parents. I didn't tell them I had fallen and been hurt. I opened the letter read it and threw it away. I didn't want them to know I had been hurt....
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<br>At the tender age of preschool... I already had learned to hide my pain...I knew that no one was gonna care, or comfort me for my pain, I also didn't want to be humiliated for being hurt..... I didnt and knew that i couldnt tell my mother cause it was not safe to be vulnerable to her as she caused me pain at home.... And i already had learned that pain ment humiliation so i couldnt tell my dad cause what would he think... He still thought i was a good child.... If had told him what would he have thought... Would he start to think of me as my mommy did?? That i was bad? Unworthy of love? Unworthy of care and protection?? I don't know that at that age I could have explained my reasoning for not telling my parents that I had been hurt... But I do know I chose not to tell them for fear of something... I was afraid to tell them that I was hurt.... To validate my pain.... I was in preschool. I have been doing that same behavior all my life .... Afraid to share my pain... Ashamed to share my pain.... Embarrassed to share my pain... I was taught that reaction to pain.... My God what I must have been through at that age to have hiding pain as being the answer to pain.... OMG what had that child been through already? What in the world could I have experienced that would have been such a lesson that would make me hide getting hurt by accident?
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<br>I used to think that I had made a conscious decision to hide my emotions from others.... I now realize it wasn't conscious.... It was necessary... It was something that I learned in an effort to protect me....
<br>I was a child... I was in preschool and I had already learned to hide who I was from the rest of the world... I had already learned that I was alone... No one was gonna save me or comfort me....
<br>Oh how I cry for that little girl today.... Oh how I cry for her not being able to know safety and comfort.... And how she is still trying to figure out what that's supposed to feel like as an adult....
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<br>I've spent my whole life keeping it all inside cause I never had it in the first place ... I've never had the comfort and safety of knowing someone was gonna protect you and take care of you.... That someone was gonna hold you in your time of pain or fear....
<br>OMG the realization of this is truly overwhelming....I need to process this more...touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-66836737428392832442012-03-05T07:15:00.001-05:002012-03-05T07:15:09.275-05:00A Red Balloon....My mother was just like a balloon that was filled with hot air.... And would pop when it had too much air or someone poked it with a pen...though she wasn't filled with hot air..... She was filled with hate, confusion, pain, negativity.... She would get really full... Just like a balloon. Big and round.... Almost pretty but scary at the same time.... And then......<p>"POP"<p>She'd explode and release all that was in her.... All that was filling her up.... It would come out in a whooshing sound..... As she screamed at me, hit me manipulated me, hurt me...<p>Sometimes the balloon is popped and there are scrapes left.... Slivers of the previous balloon is all that remains.... Sometimes those words could describe my mother as she sat after one of her berating and degrading methodically torturous "discipline" sessions. One could see that all that was left was slivers of a broken person. <p>If a balloon just has someone let the air out.... Then what's left is a balloon that can be filled up once again... That's how my mom was most of the time after her explosions.... Just waiting to fill herself up with more of her negativity so she could release it all onto my young being....<p>You can fill balloons with different things and make them big and pretty.... Water, helium, air.....<p>My mother was to me a big red balloon... What a difference my life would have been had she been filled with love....touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-84981279845147475152012-03-04T23:10:00.001-05:002012-03-04T23:10:10.505-05:00I want to be known....> <br>> I want to be known... Not famous... But known... Understood, accepted, welcomed, appreciated for who I am and all that I am.<br>> <br>> I want it to be known that my favorite color is peach and the reason why it's my favorite color. My father had a friend who lived in Maryland. As a child I remember driving to their house for a visit. They were an older couple and seemed to have money. They had just had their living room painted and redecorated and the color of the walls was peach with the accent color of cream. I remember thinking as I looked at the walls in awe.... That my new favorite color was going to be peach..... That visit and change in color appreciation was over 30 years ago. My first favorite color was yellow.<br>> <br>> I want it to be known that I had several toys that I remember having as a child... "Baby-Thata-Way"- she ran on batteries and crawled across the floor. "Baby Alive"- she could be feed special food and water in a bottle. She ran on batteries and also peed and pooped in her diaper. " I had an "Inch worm"- a green worm shaped ride with wheels that I rode outside during the summer. These items are important as I havent always been able to remember that they existed as a part of my childhood.<br>> <br>> I want it to be known that my favorite meal is a steak, ceasar salad, rolls with butter and a baked potato with sour cream- no butter. My favorite beverage is coffee with cream and sugar.... One cup in the morning- for me ... Coffee is to me what gas is to an automobile.. :)<br>> <br>> I want it to be known that I want to be explored and asked about my life and where I've been and what I've lived through.... I want someone to ask about my day and really listen to the answer.... Not just hearing me with their ears... But listening with their heart.... I want to be known<br>> <br>> Btouched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-4567884487344653622011-09-06T19:48:00.000-04:002011-09-06T19:48:52.217-04:00Diary entry from 11/19/98<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Written 11/19/98 at 11pm</span></em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today is the beginning of the rest of my life… Today marks the ending of my marriage and the beginning of a new life with me, myself <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and I and also my three children. Today is just the legal beginning. Soon, once I have the key to my new place the real start of freedom will begin.</span></em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There is so much I want to do, see, be, experience that I find it all both frightening and exciting. So much just recently has changed for me I seem to possess a truth that I never really knew I had in me. Like Mariah Carey song says “ If you believe in yourself enough and know what you want you’re gonna make it happen … make it happen… and if you get down on your knees at night and pray to the Lord. He’s gonna make it happen, make it happen” </span></em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well there is a lot to be said about blind faith. Thank you Jesus for faith period… cause I know I couldn’t have done any of this without faith.</span></em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fate? Do I believe in fate? I’m not sure. I think I believe that if one wants something bad enough you can get anything you want. My dilemma seems to be what I want and what God may want for me. I pray that they are the same. I know that God loves me just as I am. I also know that he wants me to be happy. I tend to question if what I want God feels is best or If I get what I want will I still be unsatisfied. You know the greatest thing I can say is that over the past few weeks I truly feel amazingly blessed. It seems everything I have touched has turned out how I hoped or knew it would.</span></em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I feel a sense of power within myself that I think I always knew was there but didn’t trust it. Now, I’m learning to trust it more and more every day. I’m also starting to pay more attention to who I am but more importantly who I want to become. You know its ok to take two steps backward so you can take two steps forward. </span></em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">About my kids… my prayer is simple.. “Put your hands on my children Lord – take care of my children. Thank you for giving them to me!”</span></em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My prayer for today is simple “Thank you Jesus! Thank you for peace, joy and love! Thank you Jesus for all that you have done … of all these I think you for faith!”</span></em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love you</span></em></span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wrote the above entry years ago... I found it the other day and thought to share it.... I wanted to show that we all need to revisit and reflect. I am reflecting these days as I have found myself in a place I couldnt have known that I would be be today: I am unemployed, having the greatest of difficulty finding a job, afraid for my future and that of my children, my family structure is not what I once thought it would be at this space and time. I have fallen in my life and and I am trying to get back up. I posted the above journal entry because I had forgotten that I could feel what was written down that day. I felt so light and spiritual and accepted and that life was gonna be ok.... I am in search of that feeling now... If I felt it once... I have to believe it will come back one day again.... </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Reflection has let me know that I was once there.... in a space and time where I was confident that I was powerful within myself.... I am praying I will get there again... Please Jesus... make it soon.</span>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-33935129965869818732011-08-29T18:18:00.000-04:002011-08-29T18:18:39.789-04:00IN-TO-ME-TO-SEE<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">True intimacy begins with the use of “I “statements:</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>I feel…</em></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>I need…</em></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>I am…</em></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>I want…</em></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>I like…</em></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>I don’t like…</em></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>I can’t stand…</em></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>I love…</em></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But that’s just one part of true intimacy…</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other part is what follows the “I “statement… </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">........raw honesty </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The last part is how it’s received by the one who its shared with…</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.........listening without judgment in a safe comforting and loving space</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">True intimacy is normally difficult… </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">........it is even <em>harder for survivors </em></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Intimacy is just that …sharing to let someone IN-TO-ME-TO-SEE</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What has helped you to let someone in to see you?</span></span></div>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-16738357816981374182011-08-29T16:32:00.000-04:002011-08-29T16:32:43.454-04:00YELLING!!! ..... I dislike it!<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"> <div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">YELLING! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t like yelling: one person yelling or screaming at another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t like to hear it, be around it and I definitely make it a point not to do it. It’s the escalating of someone’s voice. It is the anger that is transmitted from their mouth to my ears. It is the force in which they speak. It is the demands and cruel words and tones that follow. I can’t stand it! There is a sense of horror that I immediately feel when I am exposed to it. I feel unsettled when I’m around it even if it has nothing to do with me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a moment while in that environment I am unnerved and frightened.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yelling produces several reactions for me… I find myself almost waiting till it’s my turn to be yelled at. I start to feel responsible even when I have nothing to do with it. I immediately wish and start to look for ways that I can fix the situation. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Where did that come from? Childhood patterns are hard to change. As a child, yelling was an alarm. It ment: stand up, pay attention, try to fix whatever is wrong, stay low, listen, think, what can you do to make it better, what can you do to not get into trouble. Hearing yelling would make my mind immediately go into over drive, hyper thinking, reacting, problem solving even when it wasn’t my problem. As an adult I still have these reactions.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have learned though that someone yelling is really on the person doing the yelling. It is about them, and I have absolutely nothing to do with it. They are choosing to yell. They are choosing that as their mode of communication. There are other ways to communicate, but they have chosen that, and I don’t have to react. It’s not my job to save, fix, make better or react. It’s not my job nor my responsibility. Yelling is just another way for people to communicate. I for one don’t agree that it’s the best way, but it is one way. There obviously are others.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">People are wonderfully expressive creatures who have the ability to choose. I for one make it my goal to choose to not yell. Now I’m not saying I have not yelled. Oh yes I have yelled and or raised my voice. However, I can honestly say that each time that has happened It didn’t help me obtain the results that I wanted. In fact, in the long run, it made things worse. Yelling is a form of being out of control. The person doing the yelling is out of control, which then flips a switch in me that produces feelings of being out of control and me trying to fix the situation. One situation fuels the next. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a young child, once the yelling started, the point, (if there was one) was lost. I shut down and immediately became like a robot. Mentally going thru my data base of what to do and doing all the things I thought I needed to do to produce one end result: Keeping me out of harm’s way. There were those times that I would disassociate. They were probably worse because I was so removed from the moment I could not engage enough to react quickly enough to manage the situation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>End results would be disastrous. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was a small young child trying to manage an adult who was yelling. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something is wrong with that picture. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As an adult I now know and understand that communication is a choice. How you communicate is also a choice. Because of my upbringing, I have become increasingly aware of the need to be respectful of others when I speak. Communication- joins me and you together for a moment in time. I have learned that if you wish to be heard, speak so that someone WANTS to listen. Don’t speak because they HAVE to listen. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I speak, I understand that that moment in time, once spoken, can’t be erased. I try to be aware of content, expression and tone. Once spoken, I can’t take it back. (That last sentence you read is now in our past and it’s too late to take it back). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I try to speak in a respectful voice. Not just for the other person but more so for me. I am a firm believer that what you send out from yourself… will come back to you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Wish someone had explained all this to my mother)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wish my children to not fear me when I speak…. I want them to not just hear me when I speak … I want my children to listen … I want my children to be able to listen… not just with their ears but ….. with their soul. I want my children to also know how to communicate and for that to happen I understand I have to be an example. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My childhood was painful but I am turning that around and using that pain to make a difference in how I parent my own children.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So for me and my house… we will not be yelling. </span></span></div></span>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-51789226810784876742011-08-27T17:22:00.001-04:002012-02-12T20:33:56.894-05:00Please tell my mommy and daddy...<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I am spreading the message that child abuse is not right</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I am standing with others who are standing to fight</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">No more hitting, beating, yelling or screams</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Children need love, protection, nurturing and dreams</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I pray that my story touches more than one</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I will keep on sharing it because I’m not done</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Expressing myself and saying the truth</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">No more hiding in shame about my youth</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I was hit and hurt and degraded and shamed</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Those who do this to children deserve all the blame </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Time is my friend because going forward I’ll do </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Anything and everything to make it clear to you</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Don’t hit your children and be careful of what you say</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">The damage once done you can’t take away</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">The pain, shame and changes to their soul</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">When you hit, yell and beat a child… What is your goal?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Think for a moment what are you trying to do?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Make a child be quiet because they are bothering you? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Children deserve your patience, love and your praise</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I was a child once I know of what I say</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Don’t take away a child’s soul it’s the only one they have</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Don’t beat who they are out of them just to make yourself glad</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I ask you to hear me and hear my pain</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I am crying out to you to stop and stop again</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Saying you are doing “the best you can” as you rape a child’s soul</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">You are no longer ignorant now because you have been told</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Of the hurt and pain you can cause as a result of actions that you do</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Stop! Please hear me now make changes in your life and you</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Time is what you have so think of that today</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Don’t hit or scream or beat think of another way</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Your child deserves the best they are a gift you see</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Treat them as if they are glass as they break so easily </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Wish someone had explained this to my mother when I was just a child</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Perhaps she would have listened and taken a lifetime vow</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">To not hurt me.... my soul..... and I </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Not kill the little girl that lived alone inside</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Please hear my story </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I tell it regardless of my pride</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I am standing with others who now stand tall by my side</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">We are a band of many who are telling our story true</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Praying you will hear us and make a difference in you</span></div>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-70860412280819374422011-08-21T15:39:00.000-04:002011-08-21T15:39:57.920-04:00#Prayer4today<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">New challenge.... whats your #prayer4today? Doesnt need to be formal. Doesnt need to be long. Doesnt need to be loud. Doesnt need to make sense to anyone else...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It can be one word, two words, three or more</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It can be said on bended knee or while standing straight on the floor</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It can be said loud as you can or spoken softly from your soul</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is your special prayer and it just needs to come from your core....</span><br />
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touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-75629800520821517562011-08-21T15:23:00.000-04:002011-08-21T15:23:54.964-04:00Nightmare twin<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">THIS POST MAY HAVE TRIGGERS-PLEASE BE SAFE. MAKE SURE YOU ARE SAFE BEFORE YOU READ THIS. YOUR SAFETY IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Haunted...that's the word that best describes something I know...something I remember...something I still feel...the fear was so real it had a taste, it had physical components, it had movement, it was like a person, someone I would later learn that I would know forever.<br />
<br />
It has no name...but it has sounds...it has no face but it has feelings, it has movement, it has life...it can't breathe, it shakes with fear...it waits...it is fear personified...it is impending doom. It is a nightly visitor now...it is not my friend, though it is as close to me as a best friend should be. It is not kind or sweet or caring. It is not fluffy or cute or soft or warm. Its signature is simple–it qualifies as one's total lifetime experience of fear in a one-shot dose.<br />
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A Shot...shoot...something I still remember, "click"...something I still hear...fear climbing up my back...grasping my heart...stopping for a minute to grab my throat, seizing my breathing. My hands are tied. My voice is in the off position. My eyes are trained on what I see in front of me...my mind thinks quickly about what will happen...too much, can't figure it out...quickly I figure my sibling will be safe...I will be no more but at least he won't have this memory...She takes me down memory lane... not mine but hers...she is such a sharing individual...she shares all of her hate, pain and anger on me, towards me. She gives it freely...no one could say she was stingy. She fills my small cup of self with all her dismal, dark, negative thoughts, observations and truths. I am lost in them....then in an instant...by the pull of the trigger...."Click"...she has changed my world forever...she birthed someone who would be with me forever, she birthed someone that would grow with me, Someone who sleeps sometimes but can be so awake, vivid and real at others. She gave life to fear in sleep—Nightmares...haunting.<br />
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The child she birthed...it only has one parent...my mother birthed it and it lives with me as if it is my twin. I close my eyes to sleep, to dream...to find peace and she is there waiting to share what she alone knows...the amazement for me is the realness, the details, the taste of fear, the feelings in my legs and arms...the "Click"...it is all recorded and plays like a feature film starring me. She is an amazing individual who holds vivid pictorials with sound, lights, action and real terrorizing emotion. What I have learned is that the memories of Nightmare child have always been there...but she was given full life potential that night. She may have only developed into a possibility or an occasional visitor prior to that night...the night that life was breathed into her soul....and she continues to fight to survive, though I fight often to silence her...<br />
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Haunting...that's her name...she is my Nightmares...she is my pain...she is my fear...she is me not safe, she is me exposed, she is me screaming inside, she is me bleeding, she is me bruised, she is me scared, she is me being beaten, she is me being shamed, she is me hurt, she is me battered, she is me alone. She is me...that's my point...the nightmares are me...they are me personified. They are me...and me is her...I struggle to get rid of her...but that's the point...she is me...and I am her...I hope to find a way we can co-exist in a world where my sleep and dreams are no longer dues that I pay to be awake in a world that I struggle so hard to be me (without disassociating) in.<br />
<br />
May God Bless all those who experience Nightmares due to being abused as children...the children in us deserve safety...the adult in us deserves a good night's sleep...</span></span></div>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-41227542564995897842011-08-21T15:08:00.001-04:002011-08-21T15:11:07.140-04:00"The Devil Wears Prada".... Yep they always do<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am spending my Sunday catching up on my blogging: reading and posting <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span>. I have everything I need at my fingertips, coffee, comfy chair, cell phone and laptop and a movie running in the background for company … “The Devil Wears Prada”.. this movie quickly moved to the forefront.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s an outstanding movie featuring one of my favorite actresses Meryl Streep</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Summary of movie:<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"> “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In New York, the simple and naive just-graduated in journalism Andrea Sachs is hired to work as the second assistant of the powerful and sophisticated Miranda Priestly, the ruthless and merciless executive of the Runway fashion magazine. Andrea dreams to become a journalist and faces the opportunity as a temporary professional challenge. The first assistant Emily advises Andrea about the behavior and preferences of their cruel boss, and the stylist Nigel helps Andrea to dress more adequately for the environment. Andrea changes her attitude and behavior, affecting her private life and the relationship with her boyfriend Nate, her family and friends all to match the needs of Miranda. In the end, Andrea learns that life is made of choices.”</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">As outlined on IMBD.com</i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For me “Prada”- in just a label for temptation- it looks good, it’s expensive, it draws attention, it is lavish, it glitters, its gold. It’s something you think you want.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Who’s wearing it? The Devil…someone dangling what you think you desire in front of you.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, what must you do to get to have what the Devil is offering or has?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yep that’s the question. Are you ready for the answer?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It could mean giving up your soul….</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That’s what happened. As a child it was required of me to go against who I was to get what I needed. I don’t think anyone ever sat me down and said “You will alter your attitude and behavior just to get x, y or z” No it was much more subtle. It was found in statements, actions, requests, manipulations and punishments. My being, desired so many different things, that I did what I felt I had to get what I thought I needed. This behavior continued into adult hood…</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is evident in so many parts of my life. From the decision to marry, to the way I’ve handled my professional life. Fast forward: I am an adult: Single mom. Must do and perform all the functions of mothering, raising a family, and functioning in society. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the movie there are several examples of the main character Andrea being requested to do things that goes against what she feels is right. The bar was low at first and each time she completes another task for her boss the bar is raised. She completes the next task and the bar is raised again. All the while Andrea is changing to become someone that she is not. All to become and have things that she feels are necessary or that she thinks she desires. She loses her boyfriend and her friends along this process.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve been there done that. Traded some very important things for what I believed was a need to stay employed: Long hours, going against the grain of my being, trading my values for the needs of the business. All the while changing and moving farther away from my soul. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have made a conscious decision and effort to no longer get lulled to sleep by temptation of things that aren’t true for me. I am currently evaluating what I want and what speaks to my soul and how can I obtain that and what price, if any, I’m willing to pay. I’ve lost some very important things over the past year.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lesson learned: Don’t change for anyone. We all have to do things on a daily basis that we don’t like. But when the changes are feeling like sacrifices. Relook at what you are doing. See if there is a better way or different way to accomplish while not losing your soul to the Devil. Temptation is the devils most viable tool. It can be emotional trade off, physical, or monetary that is the payment. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a child my mother was representative of “The Devil”. As a child, one doesn’t know what they desire, everything is what you want and you will do everything to get it… but remember... you are a student of life at that point. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As an adult “success as seen by someone else” was representative of my temptation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The difference in me now vs. me as a child, is I can choose. Change direction, if that’s necessary. Stop moving in the wrong direction. I am doing that these days. I put an end to being directed by the wrong things and have started getting back to basics. Much like the character in the movie, I suddenly woke up and did inventory of my life. I realized that I had changed to equate someone else’s expectations for my life and not my own. No more. “I am in control of my life. The Devil or anyone else can be wearing whatever they want. If it doesn’t fit me and MY picture of my life… then guess what? It doesn’t come into my life.” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sounds wonderfully in control, right? Truth is, it’s a work in progress. Changing direction in one’s life can be traumatic. I am experiencing the trauma of this now. You have to learn to trust your inner voice, your feelings, your thoughts… You have to learn what a true feeling is for yourself and confirm that it is yours and not someone else’s. You have to learn what your truth feels like…and not allow outside influences to change your truth.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m learning what my truth feels like… I am a work in progress. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thanks to the movie “The Devil Wears Prada”… I saw that my experience in not uncommon. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Verdana','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Can you relate to this?</span></span></div>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-58258296941157650502011-08-14T18:03:00.002-04:002011-08-24T12:06:42.303-04:00My Favorite Color<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A child taken apart loses things</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like the ability to reach out</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Or the ability to be</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Confidence in who you are, is what is needed to</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Be able to accomplish, and do all you do</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had a favorite color...one day and one time</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But for some reason, I can’t find it in my mind</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think it was yellow bright like the sun</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was a color in the rainbow, I just can’t remember which one</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It could have been red or blue or orange or green </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But whatever it was ....it was a part of me</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I lost that child, in a swamp of bad stuff...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am regaining her spirit today, but it’s been rough</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can’t remember which color was a favorite of mine</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was special, and seeing it made me feel divine</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That color, was my favorite back then</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Since I am starting my life and beginning again...</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve decided to choose a new color...its true!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It can’t be red or green or blue</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You see....it must be a mixture of colors I’ve seen </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because it needs to reflect the mixture of me</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have chosen this color as a new beginning in time</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is my color of choice...it reflects my life</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is <em>Peach</em>…Yes!... that's my favorite color today</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is my life, and a representative in a way </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of a beginning for a me, a truth that I feel</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em><span style="color: black;">Peach</span></em> is my favorite color, and that’s a big deal!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
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</div>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-16776407195713782222011-08-14T17:13:00.000-04:002011-08-14T17:13:44.994-04:00Something written by my daughter....<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am a single mother (divorced)... a divorce is a difficult thing to go thru for all involved. Especially the children...My children are now young adults...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My daughter wrote this the other day in response to a conversation her and I had regarding the divorce ...</span><br />
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<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"You carry alot of weight from the past, </span></span><br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">like how all the stuff had happen back then with my dad, </span></span><br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and how I grew up hating him </span></span><br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">but I still loved what I had a loving mother by my side </span></span><br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I felt like that was all I need to build my pride, </span></span><br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">but until you look into my eyes you will never see the lie, </span></span><br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">that I will probably spend my whole life looking for a father figure to be by my side..."</span></span><br />
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<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Written by A for B</span></span><br />
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<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A divorce can leave life long effects... </span></span><br />
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touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-89663438020852472482011-08-14T16:03:00.001-04:002011-08-14T16:45:19.877-04:00There are only so many lies you can tell before the truth has to come out....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBUJaYw0m2xXtR70Ft6SRcJW5DaEZc9PIBc2lAEwc2x7lUbuJtuBvkSXLvZApe3EIlT3wUX8r5skdDS4EqtWfKBoD3U3muC-ERh4bm_uTAT1_5azbeuI99kstqyN81nia4pFJXGYlZDQb/s1600/IMG00156.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240px" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBUJaYw0m2xXtR70Ft6SRcJW5DaEZc9PIBc2lAEwc2x7lUbuJtuBvkSXLvZApe3EIlT3wUX8r5skdDS4EqtWfKBoD3U3muC-ERh4bm_uTAT1_5azbeuI99kstqyN81nia4pFJXGYlZDQb/s320/IMG00156.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">TRIGGERS there may be triggers in this post. Please make sure you are safe and in a good place before you proceed. </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are only so many lies you can tell before the truth has to come out…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Definition of a lie- A type of deception in the form of an untruthful statement, especially with the intention to deceive others.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Definition of truth- Sincerity in action, character and utterance</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a child being abused you learn to lie. Not on purpose, not to purposefully deceive, but to protect the one person who needed protection… You.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You learn to say you are fine even when you are not. You learn to smile even when you don’t want to. You learn to keep secrets even when you should tell. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lying becomes a form of protection… like a warm blanket of comfort. Cover the wounds. Keep things going…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was in my early teens… Daddy was away on business for a few days. I hated when he left because that would mean she could be horrifically abusive all day and night until he returned. I was always scared and on high alert when Daddy was away from the house. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This particular time was truly one of the worst. She had been intensely cruel and in her rage and sadistic systematic way of unjustified discipline she had threw a fork at my sibling. It missed his eye by millimeters. If he had blinked or moved just a bit, the fork, which left a pierced mark on his upper cheek would have hit him in the eye. The soul damaging ramifications of her years of abusive actions became more apparent when Daddy returned. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In a conversation over dinner the question is posed “What happened to your eye?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daddy is asking my younger sibling. The entire family is present at the table. There is a moment of silence as the answer, the truth, chokes in my throat stifling my ability to breathe. I literally stop breathing and quickly start to disassociate from moment. Then I hear the answer… whispered from the mouth of my brother… “I fell”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The meal continues. Dinner is complete. It was at that moment that I realized my family had problems. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were liars and this type of cover up had been going on my entire life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m not sure what makes that moment stand out for me. Perhaps the events of the night before (I will write about them later) were so overwhelming for me that I was a new person sitting there that day. Perhaps it was the hope that my sibling would be stronger than me and tell the truth and save us both from having to continue living in Mothers wrath. Perhaps it was that my last hope to be saved had just been played out and I knew it. Perhaps it was the realization that my sibling, like me, had learned to lie about his pain and fears and for some reason I felt responsible for that lesson. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I learned to lie to purposefully deceive right inside my own home. I learned to lie to others. The worst was that I learned to lie to myself: Smiling… even when I didn’t want to. Saying I was fine when I wasn’t. Hiding bruises and pain from others. Holding in my tears, even though I hurt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thru healing I learned that holding in pain was damaging but equally as damaging was the lies. We were a family that consisted of false smiles, false stories, false airs, we were a public fake. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My family wore makeup in the world. Many people saw my family and thought that we were the perfect family. We always smiled. The kids were the most well behaved. We were always seen together going out. We were always seen outside together cleaning up. We, the kids were polite and mannerly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were actors in our own play. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Those are examples of some of the lies…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then there is the truth…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My family was broken. Each of us was a piece of a bigger larger broken piece. I was a child. I deserved to be a child. I was being hurt often and deeply. I lived in daily fear that rattled the core of my soul. I wasn’t safe. I had to always be one step ahead of an adult deceptive mind… I was growing up in fear. There was fighting amongst the parents, there was yelling, there was throwing of things, there were beatings of children, there were mind games being played, there was fear, pain and hurt often. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My childhood was filled with abuse and redundancy of sadistic treatment that only encouraged lying to be the norm. My adulthood is now filled with moments of truth and being able to tell it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is a work in progress that I am learning to be able to say what my childhood is and was and…. its ok. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not in that war anymore. I am an adult. I don’t have to lie anymore. The reality of what I went thru is my truth and I can own it and tell it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The confusion of doing one thing and saying another or hiding one thing to protect another causes confusion and pain…. I don’t have to live in that confusion. That day at the dinner table, I started to see thru the fog. Trusting what my soul is telling me these days is an important step in my journey. As a child I learned to ignore and not trust my soul because everything around me dictated that my soul’s voice must be buried if I was going to be safe. It’s not easy… but I try every day to say a little more of my truth. To speak my truth! Not just about my childhood but also about the here and now. To speak truth about my feelings, my life, my experiences, and my place in my world feels so good. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s very easy to go back to what was taught to us a child and there are days that I struggle with being comfortable doing this but I am making progress. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You don’t have to say a lot… but those first few words of truth can be so freeing…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I ask … what is your truth? How do you feel today? (Breath the question in and let the answer flow out…)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My answer: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today I am a little tired. I feel happy nor sad… just content to be. I am being lazy and relaxing with myself and later, my kids. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What would your answer be?</span></div></div>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-12194477657316353722011-08-10T19:05:00.003-04:002011-08-10T19:26:23.685-04:00"I wont let you sacrifice yourself"<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpzHG5CVPvuoYjDxLZ9-V5f8OVs6KQUqbFZVcdWHPu-IiI_PhAYvJY4IzuzGxuxujOA2AYMOGrTCAwfUHSfkmMP27KpJDiJHp9KVSDzg-o_cqpwqBRDBgD8xjAUO9b484E8IaZsBYufWE/s1600/sun0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242px" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpzHG5CVPvuoYjDxLZ9-V5f8OVs6KQUqbFZVcdWHPu-IiI_PhAYvJY4IzuzGxuxujOA2AYMOGrTCAwfUHSfkmMP27KpJDiJHp9KVSDzg-o_cqpwqBRDBgD8xjAUO9b484E8IaZsBYufWE/s320/sun0.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I won’t let you sacrifice yourself"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That’s what was said… </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"What do you mean?" I ask</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is explained….</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a child you were taught to give ALL of you away …. You HAD to give … PUNISHED if you didn’t extract EVERYTHING and hand it over…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">when that was gone…. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You were EXPECTED to …</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">extract more....</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stop!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You don’t have to do that anymore “</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Breathe in deeply… take it in… </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stop!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I won’t let you sacrifice yourself”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Breathe in deeply…. Feel it…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am seen</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Someone sees me</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My soul was acknowledged in that moment…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It hurt…. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I cried….</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I sobbed….</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like taking my first breath of air as an infant</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In that moment…. I was born…….Again</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thank You BH</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I say</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">" Dont let anyone sacrifice you ... You are valued" </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stop... Breathe it in... Feel it</span></div>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-74587831758593803622011-08-10T18:27:00.002-04:002011-08-10T18:30:39.530-04:00My name is Touched2MySoul<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8EaZjt2ku64vH6sJX4aES8BkNXRKVZ7PKcMJ9-cIw-FxpBbv4z42y6Jps5lMUbwaQyWFRmJwRO-P4cIlNWjlKn3cj0KlqCTijfTxmha6EymL3ygABZUOhVacyTV6us4Z4RwCupQgjCogg/s1600/photo+for+site.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8EaZjt2ku64vH6sJX4aES8BkNXRKVZ7PKcMJ9-cIw-FxpBbv4z42y6Jps5lMUbwaQyWFRmJwRO-P4cIlNWjlKn3cj0KlqCTijfTxmha6EymL3ygABZUOhVacyTV6us4Z4RwCupQgjCogg/s1600/photo+for+site.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I get asked <em>“Where did that name come from?”</em> and "<em>How did you come up with it?"</em> Well, very simply….</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It describes my life….</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My soul was touched a first time - My childhood - Nothing hurt as much as what was done to my soul.. .to my being.. To the essence of who I was supposed to be….</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My soul was touched a second time - My adulthood - Nothing healed as much as my belief that “someone prayed for me“ and out of that<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my adult life has been blessed with the things I didn’t learn or experience as a child….Trust, love, joy, strength, safety, touch, ….Being heard, listening, tears, smiles, joys,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>laughs and most importantly my soul…. I am now getting to experience my soul and who I am….. who I am supposed to be.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve been touched to my soul … twice…Once on the hurt going in…and a second time on the joys coming out… </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I am Touched 2 My Soul… very nice to meet you!</span>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-40138338849995655602011-08-07T16:27:00.003-04:002011-08-10T16:38:18.488-04:00Can’t Reach Out<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN3xSgUlwDAyH1b1p-E7wYwqIT_D5le0HMJLMqFcrp6EazwxQZ5Z3yf176oB3MBjvIWOJqdRonMzqhanrpKoqvuUvZA04ErwpGv7lUjp0_wOItUwQmIu15MdWPWTn_BGom02lBu3zFW_Eq/s1600/IMG00144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236px" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN3xSgUlwDAyH1b1p-E7wYwqIT_D5le0HMJLMqFcrp6EazwxQZ5Z3yf176oB3MBjvIWOJqdRonMzqhanrpKoqvuUvZA04ErwpGv7lUjp0_wOItUwQmIu15MdWPWTn_BGom02lBu3zFW_Eq/s320/IMG00144.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can’t reach out today</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not that I don’t want to anyway</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For my past is the reason why</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I never learned to reach from inside</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve tried to reach out … oh yes I have</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve wanted to reach out and be heard oh so bad</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But demons… Yes, that’s what they are</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Are afraid you will see my scars</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Don’t want to be judged for feeling scared</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Want to be held and feel cared</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Afraid you will reject that which I’ve felt so long</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why? Cause you have never experienced my song</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The melody I carry inside continues to show... but sometimes hides</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am hurting and it’s not my pride</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wish for arms big and strong to hold me </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A chest to lay on and a space to be me</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For I have fallen…. for just a short time</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It happens every once in awhile</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Each time I figure it out on my own</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today is no different, I am alone</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can’t reach out…. wish it was safe </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I’m not sure if you can hear my pain</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Don’t want nothing from you </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just a moment in time</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Time that you would listen to my rhyme</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For in my tears and feelings of pain</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Is a child that surfaces over and over again</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She is an adult... most of the time </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But today.... she is a child of mine</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Please don’t hurt her as she is trying to learn </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If reaching out will mean she gets burned</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She wants … No, she needs to cry</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She is asking for you to be by her side</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hold her for just a moment in time</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For she will grow up to be an adult of mine.</span></div>touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277645854349719555.post-55320700578002624302011-08-01T15:58:00.000-04:002011-08-01T15:58:26.102-04:00I feel because I do.... I am because I amPlease note there may be triggers in this post... Please make sure you are safe before continuing. Your safety is the most important thing. <br />
<br />
<br />
"Stop crying before I give you something to cry about" <br />
or <br />
"every time you move or put your hand in the way.... You get 5 more"<br />
<br />
<br />
"Stop crying or I'll give u something to cry about"- unfortunately this is a popular phrase used by many parents. Emotional pain, Physical hurt, disappointment, and fear just to name a few feelings that can produce crying. These are just some of the feelings one feels when they are being taken apart by someone they trust. She was my mother... She gave birth to me.<br />
<br />
I was already crying as the statement shows. I was already experiencing something that was producing sorrow enough to produce tears but I was being told to stop feeling. I was told that my pain, hurt, sorrow, fear must be put away. Moved to somewhere else and if I didn't get rid of it and quick... I was going to be hurt more as outlined by her comment "every time you move or put your hand in the way.... You get 5 more".....Do you know how difficult it is to not feel pain? She would hit with all her might. Drawing blood. Leaving marks on the walls, furniture and floors when she missed her mark. Her mark being me........I eventually found the strength to not cry, make a sound or move from the pain....... it took years. I would disassociate - leave the scene. Disappear, die. It ultimately became my victory that I wouldn't cry in front of her. Since when does holding in your emotions become a victory? <br />
<br />
As I grew up I learned to push my pain down inside, stuff it away, don't feel it. I then didn't know when it was appropriate to feel pain and express it. I experienced a second degree burn from scalding water that I accidentally spilled on my arm as a teenager. It happened as I was removing a cup of boiling water from the microwave. I was in a room filled with adults, my uncle, mother, father and other guests. I never made a sound. I remember it was excruciating pain. I was afraid to tell anyone because I thought that they would see me as stupid for spilling the water and dumber for crying. I have a permanent scar on my arm from that incident as well as a scar on my soul. I never learned it was ok to feel pain and it was ok to express it. My pain was never validated. I never learned when it's appropriate or how it's appropriate to express when something hurts. In stead I learned to take it, accept it,raise my pain thresh hold. My pain was invalid. Her goal was to make me invalid. <br />
<br />
I am not invalid today. I am not invisible. If something hurts I have learned by testing the waters ... That it's ok tell someone. Its small things that I can express safely. Deeper feelings of hurt or disappointment are more difficult to share and often don't get shared ( I'm working on this with some success). I have limited experience in expressing my pains, my sorrows in a safe environment. It's going to take time and trust. I have learned to be able to say " this hurts my feelings". What a wonderful thing to be able to say " I'm hurt " and feel that and know that someone has heard you. <br />
<br />
A child deserves the right to express their emotions. Say what they feel. Be validated as a feeling expressive individual. If one gets to do that as a child ... They don't grow up looking for validation as an adult. They feel because they do. They are because they are. Today I know that I feel because I do and I am because i am. One can heal, one can become valid after being taught that they are invalid. One can learn to breath in a moment and breath it out and not feel like they will break or shatter into pieces of broken glass. Is it easy? No. But I am learning that the same strength it took to endure the pain of my childhood... Is the same strength it takes to release the pain now... To get back that which was stolen from me. <br />
<br />
I am because I am..... You are because you are<br />
God bless those who can relate .... Know that we are not alone.touched2mysoulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10657073754312626765noreply@blogger.com0