I have a game that is a version of Truth or Dare, called The Cowgirl Trail. I can't get anyone in my family to play it with me. There is a BIG UGLY HIPPOPOTAMUS in the middle of our family that no one wants to pull the rug off. I feel like the Little Prince and his picture of a snake eating an elephant....
You know how I sit and ponder things. Well, I'm in Havre, working while Skullcracker and the doggies are still in Portland, so I have been doing some pondering. These are some odd questions that popped into my head....
I know that both Pete, our hired man, and Wildman, my older half brother, sexually abused me at different times. I told Dad and it stopped. I also know that about 65% of obese women admit to sexual abuse, the percent is probably even higher. There is also a genetic piece, and we have many obese people in our family. Emotional and verbal abuse are always present when sexual and physical abuse are present. As we become less like animals we give up the latter two first. Obesity is the resultant anger stuffed inside.
I once did an "ancestral hypnotic regression" and "saw" my "grandmother" at age 4 being sexually assaulted by her drunken "father". Where did that image come from? Certainly no family story. Abuse is generational--it is passed down from one generation to the next, sometimes in odd ways. Sometimes it is not directly, but by leaving a child vulnerable to the abuse by someone else when the parent should by rights intervene, but instead they rationalize and allow the child to "be punished" because they "deserve it." It is when the parent can't face the truth themselves. I know that sexual and physical abuse runs in our family. I have re-created both in my earlier life in order to feel like "home".
Was Nola, my obese sister, sexually abused? From what age? Was it Wildman or was it Pete or both? And was it Wildman's stepdad who sexually abused him or Pete or someone else? From my own experiences and my knowledge of psychology and the family dynamics, these things would make sense. Wildman could never have told Dad about the abuse for fear he would have literally gone postal--my dad could get very angry and very protective. He had a form of manic depressive disorder and was hypomanic much of the time. It runs in the family--and I have it, too. Pete and Dad are long dead; I hope that the stepdad is as well, though I wonder, if it was him, what other legacy might be lingering on Wildman's mother's side.
I have written some death metal lyrics, initially they were prompted by a woman prof who took advantage of her position of power to create trouble for me. Then I generalized them and called it "Bitch Woman From Hell." Let me tell you that doctors can be very descriptive of people's hearts, brains, and guts.... I just realized that although I labeled it woman, I didn't demonize her female body parts--I love mine too much, and I have had much nourishment from women as well. And the same for men. Bitchiness is not gender specific in my mind, so I didn't relate it to the sexually specific organs. Oh, that's an interesting observation--next blog though.
Actually, when I was little, Mom was a "bitch woman" for me. Her temper was so unpredictable that I was scared to death of her. Dad was also a "bitch woman" for me--he treated me special, but there were two prices. One was that I could never grow up. The second was that my two closest siblings hated my guts because I was his favorite and got special favors. They still do deep down inside. The third way was when he used his belt to paddle, he insisted that you not cry. If you did, he hit you more. It was a special kind of emotional abuse. I know that my grandfather beat my grandmother, at least when he was drunk, and that the two oldest boys saw some of that. That's what made Dad run away when they divorced when he was age 12--he rode freight trains to South Carolina. Wait a minute--what do you think might have happened to a young boy along the Hobo Trail in the 1930's? I hate to think...another puzzle piece fits into place. How awful for him when he then was left by his father and his mother with an aunt, and treated as the poor cousin, in South Carolina!
Nola has been a "bitch woman" for me--she can be so fucking hurtful, because she knows me so well that she will get me to open up and be vulnerable first and then strike--then blame me for being too sensitive. It's a game she has played with me for decades. I used to just fall in. Then I started calling her on it. Now I have just shut down to her. I can't let the opening appear for fear she will pounce on it. Mom used to hold her back occasionally, but since Mom has gone she has no mercy. Mom also held me into a relationship with Nola when younger and would have fled it as a child.
Tigress tries to be a "bitch woman"--she tries to boss me and has tried, since coming into the family, to get me to wait on her. Again, when younger, I didn't have a choice. As soon as I was old enough, I pulled out all the power I had and vanquished her. I still can--drives her nuts. But I don't want to be in a power struggle with her, so I am working on ways of re-inventing our relationship. She drags me into a power struggle so easily, then passively-aggressively hits me. The only response that doesn't continue the game then is no response. It is better to just not be in the power struggle. Hence I don't ask anything of her. I don't expect anything of her more specifically. I am friendly and invite her to join me in things rather than ask her to put herself out for me.
Things are so often not as they seem. We ignore the huge things in the middle of the room, pretending that they don't exist, while they affect our behavior every day--or at least when we get stressed. Yet, it is like diabetes, the truly sick ones are the ones who don't get the medical help they need. They may seem healthy on the outside. Most times they even seem normal and downright lovable, and yet, their mental metabolism is totally out of whack. The more intelligent you are, the more likely you can pull yourself together, but also the more likely you are to see through the haze or, if you chose, the better you can hide the chaos.
A friend told me today to consider myself a dignified doctor and not an off-road cowgirl. I qualify for "off road" on the cowgirl trail of truth. I've earned the right by going beyond surviving to the point of thriving. So look out!
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