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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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Entries in Friendship (17)

Saturday
Sep192009

The Pied Pipers of Brightwood Street

60's suburbs, and someone singing broken-hearted songs, oh those were the days my friend, we thought they'd never end! A chill up and down my spine at the ache of love and when will someone love me? My thighs in cut offs are unlovely, mere sticks, but everyone loves someone, I know they do. The radio tells me so. When will my turn come around?

Cherry Sno-cones are my favorite; they bleed onto my hand and wrist no matter how careful I am, and summer is yellow not blue like my love which is to come, and red is the color of Sno-cones and Popsicles and something shameful on bed sheets. You better sit down kids, Cher sings with great pathos vibrating her voice, a prelude to that hateful word divorce but no one ever told me such things, no one said what anything was, how did Cher get so smart and soulful?

This is my street my summer my neighborhood, my best friend Bec. Sauntering, gabbing, teasing, laughing, guffawing, blowing bubbles with thick wads of gum; this is what little girls are made of. Skipping rope, riding bikes, elbow nudges, twilight's hasty goodnights, lights out. Another day: let's do it all again in slow motion. Try riding my bike, just try it, I say. See how it wants to steer to the right? But I love it with all my heart, this last gift from my now invisible father the only ghost I believe in, and what happened to bring about his demise, anyway? See how furiously my feet pedal, I'm brave as all get out and wouldn't he be proud to see me ride dare devil, this dashing young man who taught me to ride my first bike? Wouldn't he say, that's my girl, lookit her go! Oh Daddy Daddy, someone left the cake out in the rain I don't think that I can take it, cause it took so long to bake it, and I'll never have that recipe again . . . oh nooooo! But Mother's calling, and my traitorous feet fly into motion, hurry hurry hurry. Across hot pavement, just a hop skip and a jump but an eternity away from the safety zone of Bec's home. What have I done that she's calling me home? Am I in trouble?

Summer is yellow but its nights purply bruised with the underlying odor of something sweet rotting. Bed sheets give me claustrophobia, that feeling of being encased, wound like a mummy in colorless fabric. Help me breathe. I think of Bec safe in her bed, oh so happy for her so relieved she is not one more burden I must carry, no no she is safe, no one will disturb her sleep. The tinny sound of music piped into my ear by the tiny earphones on my transistor, that's better. Music to soothe, music to explain the world to me (though it never does, not really.) Alone now, only the stain of cherry Sno-cone as evidence that I ran in the world today, barged through our back door searching for something new this new day this new day, maybe something new to explain to me myself. Who and why am I?

Everything's a diversion: the slightly warped music wafting from the ice-cream truck a block away or the glint of my mother's auburn hair in the sunlight, a beautiful thing to behold. Little children follow me and Bec; we're the Pied Piper's of the neighborhood leading them throughout its streets because we are generous with our friendship, sharing it willingly with tow-headed kids who adore us for being older and wiser. They can cross streets with us they never cross alone; they trust our sense of direction and our responsible selves bringing them back home on time to mothers relieved for an hour's respite. I'm not above using them too as a diversion for everything crammed inside of me that will not bear thinking of. Let the little ones come unto me, oh I see why Jesus said that, I'm so happy he said that!

I'm full of glee and desolation; I'm at once a contented child and a wretched orphan silently bewailing my fate. Bec and I hold hands and skip, we're too young for self-consciousness, in love with our twin selves, admiring of each other. Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh. I will spare her, this other self I love. I will tuck away my terrors and shame and present to her only the lovely, the giggly, the pleasant. This is my gift to her and her gift to me is that she sees me as my better self, my unmolested self: strong as the trees we climb and nearly as beautiful.

60's suburbs and never again will this season of childhood be mine but in dreams in memories in gratitude for the familiar slanted streets we shared a lifetime ago.

 

 

Tuesday
Sep152009

Oh Captain, My Captain!

Glancing out my living room window yesterday afternoon, I received a jolt of recognition. There on the sidewalk went a tandem bicycle (more commonly known as a bicycle built for two.)

One of the summer time pleasures I enjoyed with my childhood best friend, Bec, was to pool our money and rent a tandem bike. 50 cents an hour doesn't sound like much, but we did good to scrape up enough for a one hour ride. We took turns being "Captain," or the front rider, and oh wasn't it a sort of bragging thing to coast along our street waving to the younger children staring open-mouthed? Didn't our hearts soar as we pedaled in harmony, cracking jokes and feeling the summer breeze in our hair and on our faces? You know we moaned and griped when we hit a bump in the road, or if there was the slightest incline calling for more muscle power. But it was a good kind of griping, the kind you do when something is difficult but worth the effort. The kind of griping you engage in when you know you're going to be awfully glad later that you did what you wanted to, never mind the sore muscles later.

The captain has two major responsibilities:

 

  • To control the bike, including balancing it whether stopped or in motion, as well as steering, shifting, braking.

     

  • To keep the stoker (the back rider) happy! A tandem isn't a tandem without a stoker. The captain must earn the stoker's confidence, must stop when the stoker wants to stop, must slow down when the stoker wants to slow down. Since the stoker cannot see the road directly ahead, the captain has a special responsibility for warning of bumps in the road, so that the stoker can brace for them.

 

Come to think of it, the tandem is an apt illustration of my friendship with Bec. Didn't she act as the Captain the time she warned me from what the boys wanted to do to me during a strawberry picking session one summer? That was certainly a bump in the road! I couldn't see what was up ahead, and so couldn't brace myself for the inevitable collision which would have happened if not for Bec. And when it was her turn to ride in back she did so happily, just as willing to take the back seat and be at my mercy as to be in the Captain's seat.

I miss those old days more than words can tell, but they've never really left me. I see them readily enough in my mind's eye, or am jolted into memory by the unexpected sight of a bicycle built for two lazily passing by my window.

 

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