Monday, May 4, 2020

May 4, 2020

My sleep has always been problematic. Always a night owl, and for a good lot of my life, I've also endured horrible night terrors. Little did I realize this was a byproduct of abuse and trauma.

The COVID19 pandemic has not helped my sleep at all. I found myself sleeping at odd hours of the day--if I sat still long enough, I'd nod off. I had a hard time staying awake when I wanted to be awake, and I had a hard time falling asleep when I wanted to be asleep. 

So I decided to watch Cracked Up, which is a documentary on Darrell Hammond's abusive childhood--something he is still grappling with as an adult.

No one takes the gold in the olympics when it comes to abuse--it's so subjective and awful for each of us that has to endure it, and as horrible as his experiences were, there were parallels between his upbringing and mine.

And at long last, while watching this documentary, late on a Monday night when I should be asleep, I got to the very core of my anger and rage for the last 51 years. WHAT SPECIFICALLY I've been angry at:

The expectation and demand that I continue to participate in my abuse by remaining silent that it even took place--silent because of fear of reprisals, recriminations, more abuse using shame and scorn. 

Then the call came through at 12:30 a.m. (Tuesday morning) that mom took her final breath at 11:30. 

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