Stories not told before, at least not in this forum. You'll notice a certain theme, which is another way of saying this gets kind of heavy and repetitive. (Want more? Really? Okeh, here y'go, bars on the windows and everything: see
hereOne day in September 1981, I started kindergarten at Village Heights Elementary School on Colorado Boulevard in
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My mother resembles your mother so much. And that person that your mother is? VILE. Not that you need anyone to tell you that. I'm so sorry you went through that.
And as the mother of a kindergarten age kid, even though I intimately lived through that... I can't IMAGINE yelling at him in that way, or ridiculing him. He's so little and innocent. As were you.
I do get frustrated with him. I get frustrated at having to tell him 10 times to get his clothes on before he's dressed in the morning. I get frustrated when he play hits me after I've asked him not to. And I yell those times. And I hate myself every time I do. But I never, NEVER yell like that. I'm never... MEAN or arbitrary or nasty like that.
I'm sorry.
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(I just realised I got so wrapped up in telling stories that I left out the punchline to the Ms. Burse story; I've added it as the 3rd-from-the-bottom paragraph).
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I was just reading some excerpts from a book you can get used for cheap, titled "Prisoners of Childhood". Basically it's about how narcissistic parents inflict abuse that is not obviously abusive (particularly from the child's perspective) but actually is. Not like there was any ambiguity in your case, and the author does have a particular point of view that is maybe kind of inflexible, but it might have something useful in it for you. I'm thinking of picking up a copy myself.
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I've managed not to speak to mine for 20 years or so, now. Speaking out, talking about the impact, is one of the best ways we can heal ourselves. Keep holding on, brother!
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