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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 Trust (1)

Tuesday
Dec172013

Ordinary People

The childish singing greets me the moment I enter my granddaughters' school:

"I'm a little snowman

short and fat,

Here is my scarf

and here is my hat..."

 

As you can probably imagine, it's sung to the tune of "I'm a little teapot short and stout."

 

They're rehearsing for a Christmas program. I stand in the hallway with the other grandparents, parents or older siblings, waiting for their release. I people watch while doing so, noting the odd woman in the unbecoming pink knitted hat, hurrying into the front office. I see her every day; she is the kind of person who makes me uneasy. She talks loudly, sharing personal things about herself that the rest of us can't help but hear. She is friendly, too friendly, and this too makes me uneasy. I make a point to avoid standing next to her as I did out of ignorance last year. I haven't made that mistake twice.

Next to me is a set of grandparents whose features are so similar they could easily be brother and sister. I see them every day too. They are here to pick up their grandson, who looks to be about 7. When he saunters over to them, this scrawny boy with his grandparents' earnest expressions and facial features, his grandfather takes his face between his hands and gently kisses the boy on the lips, then strokes his hair in absolute adoration. I make myself glance away, afraid that I've witnessed an intimacy I'd no right to see.

There is the receptionist: tall and skinny, with a huge pot belly. I never see her smile. She rules her office grudgingly, performing her multitude of tasks with a brisk efficiency which reminds me uncomfortably of my mother. I watch her covertly, remembering how she scolded me last year on my first day of picking Maddy up from school. I hadn't known it wasn't okay to walk down a certain hallway to use the restroom. Surely she could have informed me of this without the anger, and crisp, caustic words?

Maddy's best friend's daddy wanders in at the last minute. He's older than I, with grizzled beard, curly grey hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, and wears the kind of crumpled hat I associate with fishing. He speaks gruffly, but is friendly enough in his own fashion. Bow-legged and wearing a flannel shirt and the impossible hat, I've come to feel a degree of fondness for him. Seeing him day after day reassures me somehow, reminding me that there is some consistency and continuity to life. There are seasons and routines; everything isn't quite as willy-nilly as I've always suspected and feared.

I watch these individuals, and many more, through blurry eyes. I don't want to wear my glasses unless I absolutely have to, so the people I watch are comfortably blurred. It hits me from nowhere that there is a rightness about the routine of it all. We are all caught up in an awkward--a beautifully awkward--ballet of humanness. We're every one of us at once both fragile and strong, stupid and smart, funny and dull, grudging and forgiving, stumbling and focused.

Perhaps it's familiarity itself that is the foundation for affection and friendship. If I were to play this role in my granddaughters' lives for all of their grade school years, would I come to be friends with any of these? Would I gradually unclench long enough to see there is nothing to fear in the over-friendly, loud talking woman? Would I grow to realize that she is lonely and doesn't understand that her desperate need for attention drives others away?

What about the twin grandparents? There is something odd about them. It's not simply the fact that they are dowdy, as if from another era. There is an exclusiveness about them which makes conversation with them next to impossible. They are a clique of three: grandmother, grandfather, grandson. They need no one else or, no, maybe it's that they trust no one else. I'm never able to gain their eye contact, and I never see them speak to anyone but their grandson. But surely after years of sharing that shiny-floored hallway there would be a relaxing of their need to shut out the rest of the world. They might let me in just a little, enough anyway to learn their first names, and the name of their beloved grandchild.

I wonder if the constant exposure to the same people day in and day out is how others form friendships. I've lost my childhood knack for making friends. I'm much more self-conscious now than I ever was then about getting to know someone new. So, is this what happens? You see the same individuals day after day after day, season after season and then, after the summer break, you are thrown together once more, everyone older, the children taller. You make casual conversation and then, or so I imagine, something is shared of one's personal life: how many kids, how many grandkids, etc. Notes are compared, common interests discovered. These people I watch five times a week, these people I mostly fear, belong to families. They are mothers, fathers, grandparents, sisters, aunts and uncles. They despair of a wayward child, they clumsily balance checkbooks and fret over the same things I fret over: the price of living, the lack of manners and goodwill, the gradual sauntering into old age which, once begun, becomes more of a gracelss gallop than a saunter.

They are people, just people. I tell myself that. I tell myself if I'm not so quick to judge (and by doing so, keeping them at a safe arm's length) I might just discover that they are not so very different from me. I might begin to relax enough to allow myself to become known for more than the dowdy nana I must surely appear to them.