A friend of mine just brought it to my attention that I more often than not call my sister “Sister” rather than using her name. Perhaps it is because I cherish our sisterhood and the return to being close again. My mother was not a mother; nor my father a father. But my sister was very much a sister — a confidant, a companion, a friend. We were estranged for a number of years. We were mad at each other for good reasons. But the anger finally dissipated, leaving in it’s wake only the feelings of loss. We were ready to reconcile. Love won out. How often does that happen? Not often enough. Now, I can have all the memories of she and I together without the sadness. Oh, things aren’t perfect. She rarely lets me get a word in edgewise during our phone conversations. But, now I am just glad to hear her voice after missing it during our years of estrangement. And so, I write her letters about me and my life so I can feel heard and known. I am sure she is accepting some foible of mine too. There has been much loss in my life in recent years: my husband’s passing , the loss of our home and some of my sanity. But, this Christmas, I can celebrate getting back something that was lost to me — my sister. Maybe, there is a god, and maybe this was a miracle. I don’t know. But it is definitely a blessing. And I am grateful.
A Perfect Afternoon
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Singin’ in the Rain.”
The rain has been persistent all day. It’s been dreary inside and out this morning, but I have finished all the chores and it is only one o’ clock. I turn on the lamp by my overstuffed reading chair now. It casts light on the window panes behind it. The rain is trickling down them. A whole afternoon to myself. Free to do anything I want. I start by putting a record of Debussy’s music on the stereo. The Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun fills the room that is lined with books. Then, to the fireplace. Kneeling down on the hearth, I place a log and some kindling inside. After opening the damper, I light the kindling and watch the bright flames flicker. My cheeks redden and warm from the heat. The room has transformed from dreary to cozy. The light from the fire glows in the cut glass of the decanters on an old table. “What a good idea.” I think and pour myself a sherry. Grabbing my latest mystery novel, I sink into the chair and sip the sweet wine. Dinah, my tortoise shell cat, pads into the room and throws herself down on the braided rug in front of the fireplace. I sit, well content, and listen to the music. After the last piece on the album has played, the silence and the sounds of the rain are all I want. And, I have taken the precaution of taking the phone off the hook. Neither the cat, nor I, will be disturbed on this fine, rainy afternoon.
Source: Changing the World Through Kindness
Oh, how I loved Mr. Rogers. He was trustworthy, kind and gentle. What a lovely man. Watch a video from the tag above and see if you can keep from crying.
Okay, so I am not yet the poster child for mental health. But I and my therapist have slayed a few of my inner dragons during my oh-so-many years of therapy. I used to feel dirty to put it mildly. Being around my therapist made me feel ashamed because I felt so disgusting. I didn’t understand how he could be in the same room as me. He seemed so clean and lovely while I was something hideous. I would cringe from my shame. But now, I feel clean too. That was a huge dragon.
I used to feel that the abuse was somehow my fault. The guilt was toxic. Now that’s no longer an issue. They did wrong, I was just a child. And not just a child — but a lovely, beautiful good child. Another dragon slain.
I need to remember these battles fought and won as I grow weary from my latest battles. I am in a difficult place right now. I am surrounded by fears. Fears of leaving the house, fears of the future, and fear that I will get no better and never be released from depression and anxiety. But these are just new dragons. Dragons do not go down in battle easily or even in one battle.
And so, I will take up the sword of hope. I will remember won battles. And dragons lying in smoldering heaps.
Source: Things that make us happy…
I thought this an important post for sufferers of PTSD since bad memories often plague us. To challenge ourselves to have a cache of good memories and sweet moments too would be healing and helpful. One memory that comes to my mind is a few hours spent at a quiet beach with my adult son sitting on the warm sand just soaking up the bright sun, listening to the waves pulsing, and collecting small shells. I am going through tough times right now and feel that my life is just awful. But my life is not just about now, or the parts of the past that were terrible. It has included good times too. Even great times. That time at the beach was less than a year ago. I am going to find a pretty tin or handsome box and then write about wonderful times on slips of paper and put them inside. My story is about more than abuse, more than trauma. I just need some help remembering that. I hope you have many sweet times to put in your memory box should you decide to keep one too.
Please click on the above site for more ideas to uplift your life.
Image from Bing