Previous Entry Share Next Entry
do I really have to talk to my parents?
One thing I think would be a great chunk of info to bring to my neurologist is a medical record from my childhood outlining all the drugs I was made to take, and the duration of each.  I don't remember them all.  I would have to ask my dad.  I would have to bring up a touchy subject with my dad, the champion conflict avoider.  Sigh.  And it would involve my stepmother, because she was in charge of all that.

Thanks to a very good friend who was subjected to the horrors of reform school as a teen,  I stayed up way too late learning all about them.  I recalled that my stepmother was sent to a boarding school in Australia as a teen, and my curiosity was piqued.  So now I want to know the name of the place she went to.  All I could find about boarding schools in Australia in the 1960's was that they were full of orphans and illegitimate children, and they treated aboriginal children horribly.  Also a little bit about a model that was used that tended to make bullies out of most of the kids.  "Bully" is a term that is often applied to my stepmother.  I don't tend to call her that, but I don't disagree either.  

So... what does this mean for me?  I cut her off.  I have no reason to have a relationship with her... do I?  But my compassionate self is clawing at my chest from the inside.  My soul aches to reach out, as the one person who may listen to her story.  To carve out a haphazard heart in the ugliness that has spread and hardened into a thick shell over so many lives.  Am I strong enough to be the one who reaches out, with the risk of being shut down, manipulated, tricked into thinking there is love where there isn't?  I've been around and around that path and I don't want to travel it anymore.  But what if one last time, my own way, was the way to make this sick dread at the pit of my stomach go away?


Log in

No account? Create an account