This sunday I visited church. I haven’t done that for a long time, not on Sundays, but I do have friends there and I wanted to catch up. Or – to be more honest – to be a bit more socially active.
We have a thing going on at church on thursday afternoons which I frequently attend to and love to be at, but there are no gatherings during the summer. Like a vacation. So I’ve begun to feel more and more lonely, and decided to attend the service this sunday. After all, I have friends there. All the people there are very nice – I have been working there earlier, so many of them are also former colleagues – and it doesn’t hurt to join the service. Not even in my back any longer, I noticed.
But what I longed for the most, was the coffee gathering afterwards. The togetherness, the talking, the good feeling inside of friendship and a good time together.
Me and two of my thursday friends sat at a small round table together, eating sandwiches, drinking coffee and talking. After a while, we reached the topic of child abuse. I told them I had read a couple of books by Alice Miller, and very briefly about physical contra mental abuse and how those children might be and act as grown ups.
We didn’t go deep into this, but L claimed that there are children born with no empathy, and G claimed you have to work with your issues from where you are. No one can change what has been. Better to change attitudes, habits etc.
I agreed. There are children born with some disability or another, mental or physical, and there’s no other way to deal with things other than in the present time. So I chose not to go in to any argument. After all! We were gathered there only for a short time on a sunday, so it was neither the time nor place to talk seriously about child abuse.
This small discussion gave me, nevertheless, some fuel on my own fire. I had already realized that confronting mom wouldn’t do! Even if she still had been alive! This is something between I, Me and Myself. I have to go back Memory Lane, understand and realize what happened. I must see with my inner eyes that I was abused, mentally and psychologically, and come to terms with that.
Do you know what’s the worst?
It’s these questions – How much have I harmed my daughters? Have I given them enough love, enough attention, enough respect? Have I given them at least fairly enough?
And now? Do I?
Surrealism painting by Vladimir Kush