4 comments on “What makes me me? Rage, hatred, quite frankly…

    • Thank you. This post has been in the “queue” for months, and I tried repeatedly to contact people like a professional therapist or my mother to discuss the content before I posted it. Neither would even acknowledge it. So I decided to post it regardless because it was starting to eat me up inside. Your comment has helped me by reminding me that that was the right choice.

  1. Oh.


    I tried to imagine what he could have done to you, in other posts where you just say he subjected you to “psychosexual abuse.” (I tried, not so much deliberately as because I needed *some* sort of visual to fit the phrase into my mind). I could not imagine this. This is so much more horrible.

    There are few times that I regret having been raised in a secular home by atheist parents, but when I read something like this I always wish I had gods that I could call down from their heaven (or up from the earth or the seas) to help its author.

    I tried for a while to believe in a Goddess of the earth, a loving maternal sort of Goddess, so I send her to you. May she heal you. I feel an affinity toward the ancient Greek goddesses Artemis and Athene, so I send them also. May Artemis’s arrows find your father’s heart, and may Athene’s wisdom guide you.

    • It has been a long time in the coming, really. I first thought up the term a while ago, when I was trying to cope with an incident in which an old cow decided that waiting at the bus terminal of the shopping centre was too much effort, and to put her hands all over me as she was climbing up on the bus that already had more than one person waiting to pay and get on. That was when I began to think about why that upset me so much (and she is grateful, even if she does not know it, that this did not happen more recently… I would have thumped her so hard she’d never get up again), and that was when I began to realise the distinction between touching someone inappropriately and making them feel like they had been touched inappropriately.

      I just honestly wish someone in the real world, in the here-and-now, so to speak, had come to help all of us. My mother, my sister, and me. Quite frankly, if I had been taken away, it would have been better for all concerned.

      Much of what I write or think about lately concerns itself with the balance between different kinds of “input”. The defecit between good input and bad input has become so severe since I moved to Queensland in circumstances that make me very bitter to say the least… it is very big, and I am not very happy about it. I think my mother understands that I am never going to forgive either her or my male parent for it. But who knows… just being in a different place would be nice.

Chuck shit at me here

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