I think it helps to look back upon the past with an attempt at objectivity, as it is not possible to be objective with one’s memories, but I never had the conversations with those that mattered to resolve what has followed me all my life since, in particular, many died before I had the chance.
To step outside of the redheaded doll my mother dressed everyday but never asked me how I felt or what I thought or feared or wanted …. to step away from those memories and not identify with that one but looked at the mother. Looked at the father. The “father”.
It looks much different from their side.
There was much emphasis on what I looked like. It seemed extreme important to my mother. The outside of me was all that she bothered with. Never a mention as to why I got punished by her husband. Not a mention. Never once referred. Less said the better. But also it was ok to let it happen there. I knew that. I didn’t know why.
The outside of me was another entity. The outside me strangers would come over to and say nice things about ….the way I looked.
I never looked at mirrors. I didn’t like myself but I didn’t care either. Sometimes I just wished she’d just put away the hairbrush and talk to me, but it was at least better than what he did.
As an adult looking back it’s clearer now why I first starting cutting and the emotional set up that cast the dye of my pattern of the self fulfilling prophesy of unlucky in love and I’m glad I can see it now and why it ever happened
It was that day when he said to her,
“you preen her like a prize poodle! You have another daughter—I forbid you ever doing this anymore!”
like a Quintin Terrintino movie where you go forward in time. Double back.
Then take it from another angle
from my side— it was the day she withdrew the only form of acknowledging my presence in her life
But remember what I’d forgotten? I could have been sent away from her. I had blocked that then.
I saw it as rejection. From love. Undeserving. And that was the summer the cutting began.
If as a psychologist I went in there with my precision tool and cut out those memories and just healed it up ….
pictures. On a table. What do they mean when they burn up and wash away like the memory rooms in that Star Trek movie. You visit a day in your life. Step into a room. Breathe the old dried flowers
I’d say maybe I misinterpreted why I got pushed away from love as a child and family was out of reach in my own home as a child—kept from rooms, from family time and later Christmas and thanksgivings and it’s easy to think it’s because you are unlovable and of course that is what I grew to believe but it was something darker I could never have understood. And the behavior I misinterpreted was just how that family decided to hide me in plain sight. I was just an ignorant bystander
for this purpose as scientific method this dictionary at least, if nothing else, heal thy celves
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