Old Soda

I’m feeling angry at my family again. Actually, right now I feel dull; blunted and tarnished with foggy thoughts. When I have to spend time with them I feel trapped. To cope with feeling so trapped and triggered I have to smother my instincts and feelings until I can’t quite make them out over the roar of vagueness that is our group’s environment. Then, when I get away, I have to open up like a week-old two-liter of soda: letting out the pressure with a hissssss, just barely open. That’s hard to control though. Really difficult.

I feel pain. My unease is physical pain after two days. I love these people but I’m trying to get well! My family doesn’t include either of my abusers anymore and is instead populated by the other victims and myself and our chosen partners and some assorted new people who share our genes. And yet.

And yet, I need space from them. They are not trying to hurt me; they love me! But I need to be away from them. I need to tend my open wounds and do what is best for my recovery. I believe now that that means less time with my family.


I’ve been home decompressing for over 24 hours now. Things are slowly coming back into focus and then they get knocked askew again. I saw my oldest sibling’s picture on a Facebook post yesterday. I was not ready.

Ouch.
Owie.
Ouch.

F*CK.

What is the right way to miss someone but detest everything they had become? How do you fight the systems of oppression that crushed another child while also protecting yourself from the adult that child grew into? The adult that had to agree with those oppressions to survive. The adult that had to accept the system’s view of themselves. The adult who shared a common abuser with me and themselves also became an abuser. The adult who needed love and compassion to survive but had to make do with religion and guilt. The adult who was always penalized but never rehabilitated. The adult who felt they had no other option but to take their own life.

Sometimes, like now, I miss him.

Most of the times I feel guilty for being happy that he’s dead.
But I’m angry that he had to bear the weight of so much wrong-doing while our bio-dad roams free and shameless.
But I’m also glad that he’s not experiencing any more cruelty.
But I’m pissed that I feel so much empathy for a male that the system wronged while black women are murdered and trans people are maligned and male-privilege smacks me in the face every f*cking day.


Okay. Breathe. Okay.

I’m going to give myself permission to feel empathy for my oldest sibling.

I give myself permission to feel happy about being safe.

I give myself permission to be away from my family.

I have permission to be happy about death. Or sad. Or angry. Or indignant.
All my thoughts are like clouds that pass through the sky of my consciousness.
I benefit from allowing my feelings and thoughts to occur unimpeded and look honestly at them.
My body is healthier for it. My mind is calmer. My community is better off because I am a nicer, more thoughtful, more compassionate person.

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