more, more, more

Hi Maggie,

Happy Friday.  Twenty-nine years ago, right now, I was in labor with a boy who was three weeks late.  His was an easy delivery - only five hours - and I was calm.  He has been a joy in my life...

As predicted, I have been rereading the piece I shared yesterday.  And as suspected it continues to bring up distress.  Tears started flowing today as I read it a second time.

The parts that are poking at me are - being alone, I am no longer in pain.  The writer says she is filled with clarity because she is no longer in pain.

I know I am more loving with kids and grandkids and abused dogs and cats who appear in my life.  I am more loving because there is no illusion of love confusing me about what the truths are in my life.  I have said, many times, that one of the strongest lessons gained from my marriage is that if someone say they love you, but they don't behave in a loving manner, then they don't really love you - all loving words and gestures aside - it's not authentic.

Spending time with someone who says those words and is basically unable to actually follow through and love another...no - to love me -- it is crazy making. And it made me feel unlovable - because of course, I chose someone like this to ...I don't know...prove Dad right...prove Dad wrong...prove...what...I don't know...to prove that I am not lovable and so the harshness from childhood was warranted...to prove that I am not worth more than this, just like Sister said, just like Mom alluded to...

Being alone - there is no confusion.  But there is a big something missing.

Which loops back to the paragraph about not desiring sex or touch.  This connects to my anxiety about getting a massage...I desire sex, but I don't desire pain.

Why are they linked in my brain.  Why do the writer's words, when she says that sometimes men's behavior is simply to maintain access to a woman's body, resonate.  I don't believe that.  Completely.

The piece just brought make forgotten shards of memory.  Being walked home by the big brother of a little girl I babysat when I was 12. He said I looked at least 16...of course that was flattering.  But he was looking at my breasts which were larger than average.  I remember feeling both ashamed and flattered. Could an older boy really like me? The crone me is horrified, but still remembers.

Once my oldest asked me why I never told her that men would be aggressive with her simply because of the way she looked.

I didn't know.

I still don't know.

I'll keep percolating...the wind is blowing hard and strong and loud tonight. Maybe something more will be dislodged.

Love and hugs from Clare