Just Can’t Write

I am overwhelmed by grief.

I did realise how much I was cut off from my emotions, until Judy died. Then I was slammed up against so many emotions, I thought I was going crazy.

The thing is I lost my Dad as well, and he was someone who was so precious to me. He is and was in the depths of my essence.

He and his family, going back to 1640’s, have been a spirit that give me some strength to survive my life.

My father’s family give me laughter, give a strong self-belief, give me the gift of empathy, encourage me to write and do visual art, give a real family that waited for me to safe enough to know their love.

Of course, I forced my own way out of abuse and prostitution. Yes, that can only be done alone and it truly horrific.

And no-one can be inside my PTSD, no-one can ease until the trauma is seen in it’s fullness.

No-one can who I was as I was raped over and over and over as a prostituted woman.

No-one can prevent the self-hate that drowned me for far too much of my life.

But, but having my father’s family planted a seed that made me know that was not my real life.

I feel that seed is slowly becoming an oak tree.

I was surrounded by books, paintings, photos of every events in life, by watching old films, by football, by holidays in Cornwall, France and America, by meals that became parties, by cocktails, by trips to art galleries, trips to theatres, by birdwatching, by city walks, by restaurants and cafes, by riverside pubs, by London parks, by family stories made into myths.

That was round me even when I could not have it in me.

I breathed it in. It became my oxygen.

So, if I say in many ways my Dad’s family give me the will to live, that may be an understatement.

I knew in the depths of my soul, that whatever violence was done to me, could never destroy that I was part of that background.

I would not stop reading. I was drawing in secret. I still love art galleries. I run away into black and white films.

When not walking as a zombie, I still saw architecture, I still saw nature.

I had too much Mott in me to have my essence destroyed.

So now, my grief is so raw for my Dad. He give me the gift of self-respect.

No-one can take that from me.

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