My biological mother is still sick. Still losing blood. They found out it is a bleeding ulcer that is causing her to be tired and feel weak. Naturally, she is milking all this to get my poor grandmother to do everything she wants. She had my grandmother go get my little sister’s medication because mother “couldn’t bear to be in the sun and leave the house” yet she took my sister to the movies later.
Recently I’ve been busy, my brother-in-law moved out of the house my husband and I share with his family. We received his old bedroom and now use ours as a computer/living room. I spent all day yesterday taking apart my wardrobe, moving it, putting it back together, then filing it up again. I finally have my own desk again and in one part of it I have books. In moving these books into my desk I found about 6 relating to sexual abuse. Books for survivors. I’ve read a bit of each of them, but I’ve only finished two of them.
In skimming the books I realized something. No matter how many books are written, or how many people read them. They help, but, at least in my case, I still feel like an outsider. Like no one can ever fully understand. Though, truth be told, I don’t always want someone to understand because I don’t want anyone else to understand what that pain feels like.
I had another flashback the other day. It’s not horrible, on the scale of things, but I still haven’t been able to utter it out loud. It doesn’t involve anyone besides my mother and that’s what I find the most disturbing. It’s just my mother, it’s not a stranger or a male relative. It’s someone who birthed me, I share 50% of my genes with this person. No matter how old I get, I can’t wrap my mind around that.
