I have had this urge to write but I have been avoiding it for some reason.

So, I am sitting my ass down in the chair and having a go at it.

My little old brain keeps getting distracted, wandering off to other things. And, I am distracted by the pain in my legs. And, by the feeling of sexual need in my genitals.

BUT, what needs to be written?

What wants to be said, to be written down.

I am afraid. I am afraid that I will continue to piss away endless amounts of money: trying to ‘buy’ friendship and love; trying to make a name for myself; looking for answers in books (bought at great expense); and then BLAM I will be sick in bed and AGAIN will not have accomplished a fucking thing.

What am I so fucking afraid of?

Why do I avoid working on my work?

Why do I piss endless time away on useless people like JT, LR, and GS?

Why do I avoid sitting my ass down and writing?

Why do I avoid creating and promoting a bloody workshop or something like that?

It’s not the hard work required to do those things: though it’s tempting to blame it on that.

What the fuck is it?

Why don’t I just write my memoirs, or my novel? Why don’t I just get the fuck on with MY WORK?

I am afraid.

Who is afraid?

Ah! One of the little guys inside.

The abused one. The hurt one. The sad one. The one who risked it all … and, was tortured for that.

I, TWO, am afraid.

I need to be loved. I need to be protected. I need to be nourished. I need to be nurtured. I need warmth. I need caring. I need reassurance. I need help. I need protection.

I need to know that you will not hurt me, wound me, bugger me.

I need love. I need comfort.

Tell me you love me … and mean it, SHOW it!

How?

Rub my arms slowly and softly.

Take deep breaths.

Go slow.

Ask me what I need … BEFORE you go running off, or running off at the mouth.

Remember me … and act like you do.

When you do these thiings, then I can stop being afraid.

I WILL DO these things for you … and, that IS my commitment.

Copyright 2010 Lyle T. Lachmuth, All Rights Reserved

My mother, actually step-mom who raised me from the age of 6, had a ’substantial’ heart attack March 10th. At first we, the family, thought she had skated through with little damage.

However, as time passed and information trickled in from her care givers — an immensely frustrating aspect of our overloaded Canadian healthcare — we discovered her heart was badly damaged. Can you say Myocardial Infarction?

For the first 6 days the parents were in SHOCK. Dad was walking around like a lost little boy. Mum had turned into a belligerant little girl. Yummy!

I, the eldest boy, was naturally expected to take charge! In our little German-Canadian family, that means massive responsibility with little actual power and authority.

Then on Monday of this week, Mum and Dad, both moved into Phase 2 of  the Transition cycle: DENIAL. In mum’s case, massive denial salted with anger and resentment.

Yesterday, my twin sister and I were finally able to talk to the cardiologist and get the ‘truth’. The truth being the facts: NOT the story mum was telling.

As you may know, people in denial: hear what they want to hear, say what the doctor wants to hear, and then when the doctor (or other health professional) leaves, go back to doing what they WANT to do — and, then lie  to their family (or conveniently forget what was said) about what the doctor or other health care professional said.

Yesterday I explained to my sister that neither of my parent’s could be reasoned with. They want what they want and they DO NOT want to have to CHANGE!

So, I told my sister that she and I (and baby bro) needed to psychologically prepare for my mum to die because of NON COMPLIANCE with doctor’s orders. My sister nodded her head and agreed! (GEE! I wonder where she learned that?)

I told her, “I’m letting go. I’m backing away. I’m not any longer going to try to convince mum and dad to change.”

I promised I would phone baby bro, who had been out of town during this adventure, and fill him and his wife in on the details and next steps.

TODAY:

I phoned bro, talked to his wife, and was surprised to find both of them calm and cooperative.

Then I phone sis to keep her in the loop and to suggest that she might want to want to move into a hotel when my mum came home. I said, “you might not want to be in the middle of an insane situation that is going to cause you pain!

Sis proceeded to argue with me. “No. Mum maybe had some slight brain damage from hypoxia. No. She’s not being resistant. She’ll take her meds. She’ll change her behaviour.” This garbage coming out the mouth of the woman who just yesterday agreed that mum and dad were both in denial and resistant.

I said to sis, “Look. This is my advice. I’m done. Do what you want.” Sis proceeds to argue with me, even more.

Now, I’m pissed! So, I say to her, “I SAID I WAS DONE! GOODBYE!” And, hung up.

I’m still pissed. Even though I’ve practice my deep breathing and vacuumed the floor.

So, I decided to vent by writing this post. And, using the writing to figure out the cause of my anger.

DUH! Darling Sis just stomped all over my boundaries.

And, what IS the BIG ISSUE for sexual abuse victims?

Can you say: BOUNDARIES?

Good thing I’m leaving for Yoga in 5 minutes. I know that by the time I’ve done 90-minutes of floor routines I’ll feel better and less likely to want to smack her a good one!

MMu

When I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia Dr. Donaldson
suggested that I was "Type A". I didn’t agree then. And, I don’t
completely agree now. Sure I can be driven and competitive but years of
chronic illness preceding the diagnosis long ago drove away any
tendencies to workaholism.

I began to ponder the characteristics that got me in trouble and
that I saw causing problems for my ‘wounded’ clients. What I saw were
people who put others first (last and always), failed to care for
themselves, and seemed to wedded to the notion of being Helpers.

I coined the term Type H to describe this condition.  Apparently though the syndrome I call Type H already exists. It is the "Cancer Personality".

I read the list of characteritics and it was BINGO!

Bang on on all aspects. Especially the one about stuffing anger.Many of my clients confess to harbouring deep seated RAGE.

So, how come some people manifest cancer and others fibro?

Actually in some way they aren’t all that different. Cancer occurs when
cells go wonky and mutate, growing crazily, like eating one’s own body.
(Do you like my scientific explanation?) Fibro has been labelled an
autoimmune condition where our immune system attacks the body.

Really, doesn’t it seem to be about self-hatred?

And, fear.

I was abused as a child. Every single one of my clients who is ‘wounded’ was abused in some way: sexually, physicially, emotionally, or psychologically.

That kind of serious abuse leaves deep, abiding wounds.

What’s really sad for me is that the wounded person then not only feels unloved, unlovable, but DO NOT love themselves! In fact, at a cellular level seem to hate themselves.

It is as if they are trying to kill the bad that was done to them.

Yet, Jude (quoting the apostles) said to hate the dirty garment not the person who wore it.

So, why do we hate ourselves so much that we manifest this pain?

For what it’s worth I think I’m the only so-called straight person there.

Recently, I asked about the whole "coming out" issue. "Why", I asked, "is there such a big foo fra when a celebrity comes out?"

The answer can be summed up this way: "Those who are GLBT suffer a great deal from suppressing who they are. Coming out, both frees them and sets a pattern or model for those who are still trapped in pain. Pain? Yes, pain: psychic, emotional, spiritual, and physical because they keep all that SHIT inside."

Coming out by celebrities validates the whole notion that it’s OKAY to let people know who you really are.

It occured to me then that many of us have issues with COMING OUT.

For example, in the late 80s and early 90s I suffered with stress and angst around COMING OUT as a "Recovering Fundamentalist".

Now, I want to formally annouce my COMING OUT as a the adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse.

There! I said it!!

Feels good.

More to come (pardon the pun).