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Today marks my 5th day without working on my book writing.  I am feeling very discouraged.  Why bother?  Why would my work possibly matter?  To whom?  My circle of supporters is very small, it seems.  Everyone is very busy and highly stressed in their own lives.  This is lonely work.  Will I feel better tomorrow?

My abusive mother’s longest “friend” called me tonight and talked for over an hour.  She is reading Mother’s letters.  Joe Anne is concerned about the really nasty things Mildred wrote about other people who Joe Anne knew — and says to me, “They don’t deserve to have their names connected with the things your mother said about them — most of it completely untrue.”

I feel angry, not at Joe Anne, but at the unfairness of child abuse!  Who among any of those adults who knew my mother ever bothered to care what was happening to that woman’s children?  Why in God’s name (sorry God) should I need to be concerned with anyone else back then — most of them dead — when none of them cared one flying TWIT about the torture that woman did to me for 18 long years?

Joe Anne tells me that because Mother is dead, and because those books will go out with my name on them, that I am the one who is accountable for Mother’s words.  Do I want to hurt people?  Do I want to hurt the children of the people Mother berated and gossiped about?  No, I don’t like to hurt people.  That is not my nature.

Something about this whole mess is really upsetting to me!!!  I am not sure I needed to hear from Joe Anne today, not when I was already feeling discouraged.

Joe Anne thinks everyone should be turned from a name to initials.  What a HUGE job that is going to be!!!  This is an important part of “the back story” about the back side of a severely mentally ill psychotically abusive woman!  Mildred wanted to control what everyone thought of her.  She’s dead.  I have her letters.  I am going to publish them, and then I am going to write a rebuttal in my own words about what my experience was being her targeted for hatred and abuse daughter.

Change everyone else’s names — in case — what?  Mildred did not write of her abuse of me.  That is all hidden.  It was always hidden.  At least it was able to remain hidden because nobody cared enough to notice what was going on in our home.

I have to ask myself, “What do I care about?”  I ask myself whether I would do the amount of work I have done — and the work, the LOTS of work that still needs to be done, if I could ONLY help spare ONE CHILD the kind of suffering I went through.  Is ONE child’s life worth my efforts?  That one child — who will suffer for the rest of their life from the lifelong effects of psychotic abuse from a mother such as mine was if the same everybodys ignore what they see the way they ignored what happened to me.

Is there anything I can say that can help disclose the mental illness in some other abusive mother?

Does anyone CARE?

Does anyone care what a psychotic abusive Borderline Personality Disorder mother can LOOK LIKE to outsiders who are the only hope a child being abused by such a mother has?  What about fathers?  My father did nothing.  Is there anything in this story that might help even ONE FATHER wake up and take action to protect his children from such a woman?

Is there something wrong with me that I do this work?  Why am I not perfectly content to rest within some trivial life doing absolutely nothing to try to help anyone else?

Every day I think about the person I could have been had I not gone through what I did so that now at 61 my body is worn out from the effects of that horrendous traumatic distress.  Along with all the rest of the consequences of having been so abused.  I write and write and write on this blog about the kind of physiological lifelong damage infant and child abuse does to its survivors.  Who cares?

I better go out to the mental/emotional pastures and find my writing steed.  I better mount and ride again — or?

Do I have hopes where I should have none?  Where am I ever going to find someone with the time and expertise to do the editing work on these books that needs to be done?  Is what I am trying to do absolutely and profoundly IMPOSSIBLE? 

How stupid is it to attempt the impossible?  As did any one of us who survived through childhoods in hell that were unsurvivable — we DID do the impossible!  I did the impossible.  Maybe this job I have set myself to do is no different that what I did in the first place:  survive mother, survive my infancy and childhood.  But how tough am I still?  Tough enough?

Tonight I really don’t know.

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