Friday, February 11, 2011

Reject or Rejected

Rejection is a conscious decision. The rejecter knows that when they reject you it is the most devastating action they can do to you. More hurtful than abuse - verbal, mental, or physical.  A history of rejection.  The one being rejected seems it is the end of the world because it is all they have known – it is the greatest pain – the biggest hurt. Does the rejecter do it because it is a cry for help, for a fight, or maybe for affirmation that they mean anything to you?  The pain is at times unbearable.  Family is supposed to be what supports you when you fall, cheers you when you succeed, and surrounds you in all the other times.  When does the insanity stop? I would rather have not known a family than to be rejected by one.  I lived my life for so long in solitude – happy, peaceful. Creating my own moments – without family, then creating my own family along the way.
 Just like a mushroom that pops up overnight, I received an email from a family member almost 7 years ago.  The one person I have loved and will always love unconditionally.  Now I have family members reaching out to me all the time.  It can be overwhelming.  You never know why they want to know you – self-doubt and questions surround your thoughts about their motivations. No one loved me as a child so why now? Anger sets in, why didn’t anyone help me?  I was an innocent child, I deserved a chance. So many victims in his path – the silence is the common thread among them all, this created more victims.
But I remember a time when I reached out. I reached out to my biological mom’s family. At first they said no, no, no.  But then I remember a few years later I tried again to find out some information – they received me with open arms, but I felt it was a lot of upkeep, I often did not return calls or letters – they wanted a relationship with me, one that at the time I was incapable of giving, selfish maybe.  When I was ready, I reached back only to have my hand and my face slapped – they turned their backs on me – then told me that my grandmother had passed and that she went to her grave feeling rejected by me and that I broke her heart.  Stating, “no, we gave you your one and only chance”. Followed by, “don’t ever call her again”. Just one chance? I am sorry now that I didn’t reached back sooner or in a time frame that fit their lives. I did not know any better. How can you place that on the shoulders of someone who carried a tormented world already? Simple, they did not know, my silence prevented them from knowing.
Being rejected is part of life, we all go through it at one time – the loss of a boyfriend or a girlfriend, or someone close. But no one should have to feel rejected by a parent, much less both parents. Now by a family member that reached out to me, the one family member I leaned on as a child – someone I looked up to, and who tried his best to look after me.
Learning to accept and love family has been a hard road for me. I lost my mom because my dad beat her, cheated on her, and sexually abused her.  I lost my dad because he beat on me, cheated me out of my childhood, and sexual abused me. Now because I have chosen to do something about the abuse for all the victims who are afraid, I lose this family member too. How does that make sense? Does that make me a reject or rejected? I think there is a difference, one describes an act of another the other describes the inner emotion one feels – a feeling summed up by one word - defective.
I just don’t understand.  I made a personal decision, no matter if he was in it or not I would still be seeking justice.  My heart aches, and NO time does not make it better, in fact it makes it worse.
I would not change anything about what I am doing, but while I encourage other victims to find their voice, by whatever means it takes, be aware that it could cost you family, friends, and a small bit of peace that comes along with those two groups. It will feel like no other feeling. It will break you into pieces and being prepared for that is one of the things I did not do, but hope to share this story to help others.
You will run through every emotion being rejected, there is no certain order they will come. At the end of the day though, you find comfort in knowing you made it this far and that you DO control your happiness and while this may dull your shine, you can’t allow it to take your power. Life must go on and there is nothing you can do to change it. This is their choice – sometimes you have to lay it to rest and move past it. Put your faith and energy into those that do support you – the family and support system that you have created.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Made Whole

There is always the beginning. A time without defects, without flaws, synergy. Then something happens, life happens – fair or not.  A mirror shattered by the blunt edge of a hammer held by an empty soul touched by sadness and warped from anger. The broken pieces grab hold of my spirit, unable to take back what is captive.  Known to be an intimate friend of darkness, my psyche surrenders to a chaotic, near death experience comparable to being held in a wooden box nailed shut, suffocating, inescapable. The tragedy of a broken life seeking out a new place to reside, but is unable to avoid the perils along the wayside.
The broken pieces project outward like a migraine-provoking 3D movie, slicing through the moral degradation, bleeding it out, like a drug addict overdosing - feeding an addiction, unaware of how good life can be if given 5 minutes to feel sobriety.  Gaining the pounds of sanity, shedding the pounds of insanity, and starving the relentless edge to get even.  The light is dimming, the room is collapsing, and the memories are fading - no wait I am the one changing, growing, distancing.
Peace would be like a song,  written for me, playing softly, filling my ears, soothing my inner skin. Comforting. It is a nice reprieve from the thought that beneath my skin, my bones are covered by a cheap, dirty carpet that has met years of use.  The carpet rubs the inside of my body raw.  Offering no harmony, afraid that at any moment it will put a tear in my skin, enabling  my insides to splatter on the floor. Swoosh. I collapse, tumbling into the hell that I can’t seem to shake to death.  The nightmare exists not only in my mind, but also in my inability to resist giving it what “It” needs to remain alive.
Glue. Glue is the answer to putting the mirror back together – the image will always remain distorted but it can be whole again. But what about the pieces that are too small to see, lost, wedged into the fibers of the carpet. I exhale, loudly. Accepting there are many kinds of mirrors, some never see an image, some are made distorted, some are shattered and remain that way, some get defected along the way, while others get broken but yet go on to become a reflection of hope and change. Like a body that can do without some organs, a mirror - my mirror -  can do without some of its pieces. It is my life.
I hear my song playing, I must pause it, no time to rest now; there will be plenty of that once I am truly, really, dead.