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This area is reserved for the tidbits I know hope will be of interest to my readers. Check back often for regular updates. 

 

Check out this article about the Fifty Shades of Grey phenomena, including a list of organizations which strongly oppose this sick trend, and have implemented various means of helping women who have been sexually victimized.

 

Were you raised by a narcissist? Chances are you were if you suffered any form of childhood abuse. The Little Red Survivor website is filled with excellent articles examining the many faces of narcissism.

 

It's been a long time coming---7 years to be exact---but finally email notifications for new BD posts is available. Sign up today and never again miss another post. You know you want to!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Kate Is Rising has an excellent Survivors Resources page which directs you to numerous websites dealing with issues of abuse, healing and recovery. Please bear in mind that the information on these pages may be triggering.

 

 

There's lots of good stuff at the Dissociation Blog Showcase, including a list of 180 blogs dealing with some aspect of this disorder. 

 

 

On the Overcoming Sexual Abuse site there's an article entitled, "It's Not About You Mom" which I could have written myself. I bet many of my readers could say the same!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Sunday
Jun232013

I Refused to be Grafted

We had a pink and white dogwood tree in the front yard of our House of Incest. A white branch had been grafted to a pink trunk, resulting in two different colored blossoms. I don’t know if this two-toned tree was rare, but we received many admiring comments.


There is a sense in which I had a lot in common with this tree. I was the wild shoot, grafted on to the trunk. While the resulting blossoms may have been pretty in the tree, they were not so pretty on me.

 

From the moment I was torn from my family of origin, transplanted onto foreign soil and expected to thrive, I did just the reverse. I began to wither. My mother, for reasons of her own, wanted me to blend in with her new little family; she would have preferred for outsiders to not know or guess that I came from different origins. Or, if not blend in then at least add something of beauty and grace to raise the value of our family in the eyes of our neighbors.


Oh, what a trial was this! For I simply couldn’t do what she expected of me. I couldn’t pretend to be one of them. Every bone in my body resisted her efforts to make of me something other than my truest self. She suggested this or that, I balked. She frowned disapprovingly at my deft hands, at how quickly they did their kitchen duty (reminding her, as she once confessed, of my father’s deft movements on the drums or with his sketch pad), and I accelerated my movements as much to exasperate her as to hurry with my chores so I could leave the house for the evening.


There was a constant sense of never pleasing my mother. The fact that I would have my father’s sense of humor, that I would be a dreamer like him, that I would concentrate more on the soul of things than I did on practical considerations–how this went against the grain of all she hoped to accomplish! For, obedient as I was, she couldn’t mold me into a clone of herself. Couldn’t change my stubborn determination to take pride in being my father’s daughter. I was the perpetual pebble in my mother’s shoe, and she got that message across to me loud and clear without having to say it in so many words.


Our grafted dogwood tree was pretty in an odd sort of way-- though didn't it just figure that we would be the only ones in our neighborhood to have the tree which stuck out like a sore thumb?


In retrospect, I'm glad for our quirky dogwood tree. My adult self can see the symbolism, for I was the oddity (like the tree) who couldn’t blend in. Something tells me it would have been paramount to selling my soul to the devil had I succeeded in doing so. I can’t help but smile at the fact of my own childhood stubbornness when all I had left to cling to was the tiniest root of my treasured origins.



~ by beautifuldreamer on February 11, 2007.

5 Responses to “I Refused to Be Grafted”


  1. a pebble in her shoe, a small discomfort for what she pretended wasn’t happening to you!. I too could never make mine happy and John has noticed that so many of the multiples and abuse survivors have such contempt for the mothers over their lack of caring. Until he really began to understand what happened to so many with the mothers silent partnership with the abusers, no wonder mothers are viewed in the light as co-perps or worse.Glad you weren’t “grafted” into that “family”!!Keepers

  2. You are, and it sounds like, you always have been a strong person. I love that about you. I love to read your blog, because you write so very well. I really admire your strength and boldness Beauty. I wish I could meet you in real life one day. I think we would be instant friends.

  3. Hi Jewellybeano,
    WEll maybe we can meet some day, who knows? It might be a kick!

  4. Dear Keepers,
    Thanks, I too am glad I refused to be grafted. I think I inherited that stubborn quality from my dad who also disliked pretense and conformity. Probably just another reason for my mother to resent me, another instance of how I took more after him than her.

  5. I love your positivity.
    Even through your pain, there’s positivity.Beautiful Dreamer.-Tom Dandy