This is my personal journal. The story of how I got from point A to point B. This is not a pretty story. It will be painful to write and it will probably be painful to read. Enter at your own risk.

Writing this is supposed to be healing, according to Harry. I know that this is true. Writing has been a very healing form of therapy for me in the past. Besides, I’m writing a fictionalized account of my life and I sort of need a road map because I’m getting lost, damnit.

Besides that, I am pissed at my mother and if I want to rattle her cage I can send her the URL to this site and give her the willies. Yeah, I know that’s a mean and petty thing to do to a little old lady well on her way to her 78th birthday but I’m sick of her getting away with her passive aggressive bull shit and never suffering the consequences of her actions past and present..

This can be the letter I never wrote to her when I was trying my damndest to resolve these issues with her. Back then I was into being gentle and reasonable.  When I was still into taking care of her.  Always the parentified child who reacted exactly the way she  she pushed my buttons, I didn’t want to hurt her.  I didn’t want to cause damage to our relationship.  My gawd… 

Now I’m all about going full bore open and set on scatter gun for doing the most injury. At this stage in my life I have given up hope that my mother is an adult human being who can deal with things in a mature and responsible manner so I’ve stopped trying to be mature and responsible and reverted to the little girl who wanted to kill the wicked witch I lived with and find my real Mommy..

I’m sure the town library has computers she can plug into. It will give me great pleasure to imagine her sitting there reading this, never knowing if I am going public and who I might send the URL to. <smirk> Vengeance is mine sayeth the lord. Just call me Cthula

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Well since I’ve been public for some time now, and my sneaky pleasure has grown with each passing day my monsterhood is confirmed. I’m not sure what that says about me. I haven’t written much since I’ve “gone public.” This is very sensitive private personal stuff I’m writing about. It’s scary to put so much of myself on display for the whole world to see. Part of me feels like I am being re-violated again just writing or even talking about it much less sharing it with the whole damn world.I have to take deep breaths and remind myself that I have nothing to be ashamed of. I was the victim and now I am the survivor who has emerged triumphant.

The best revenge is a life well lived and even with all the curve balls I’ve been thrown I have managed to do that. I really like who I am and I’m proud of what I have managed to accomplish against incredible odds. When I think of the alternatives, I shudder.

I raised two incredible children who have become responsible contributing citizens. They both gratduated from college with honors and for my daughter that was quite an accomplishment since she is dyslexic. They both own their own homes. They are both upwardly mobile and have middle management jobs. My daughter is married, has a child and takes in high risk foster children. My son lives two blocks from her and is a great Uncle and mentor to my young Nephew who escaped Nebraska four years ago at the age of 19 and came to live with him.

I got the education I always wanted. Well, maybe not all of it but more than I ever thought I was going to get. It would have been cool to have gotten that PhD and become a professor but maybe getting shot down when I did was best because now I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to do which is write. And I have proved to myself that I am good at it. My poetry has been published.  In an obscure literary journal published in Liberty, Kansas but hey, there it is in black and white with my name under it for all etrnity.

I may never become famous or make a lot of money doing it but MONEY and materialistic gain was never a priority for me. I’ve never wanted to acquire a bunch of expensive fancy things.  I just wanted to write and write I do.  Maybe some day after I die someone will gather together the things I have written and publish them. <heh>

I’m also aware that pedophiles and other perverts surf the net looking for this kind of shit and that really squicks me out. Frankly, it makes me want to vomit. But then I figure they are still going to be out there getting their sick perversions met whether I do what I need to do to take care of myself or not so why should I be deprived of an outlet to meet my needs just because they are sickos who might be reading what I am writing. How are they really hurting ME?

Besides, my writing is about emerging triumphant and not about being a victim.  I don’t intend to write any blow by blow descriptions about the abuse  (at least not at this point) so they aren’t going to get much fuel to get their jollies from me anyway. My mother knows what happened no matter how much she trys to deny what took place right under her very nose and often in the same damn room she was in. If she chooses to remain in denial that’s her business. I’m not going to expend any energy to cure her.

Frankly, I don’t give a damn, my dear. You are dead to me, Mother and have been for so many years the stench of your walking corpse is getting old. I’m not doing this for your benefit. I’m doing it for mine. These are the tears I didn’t dare to cry when I was a child. These are the silent screams you didn’t hear. This is the story you wrote upon my soul.   I’m rewriting the story.

Barbara Jean Gavin

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2 Responses to “the gist of the matter”

  1. jess Says:

    my heart really aches for you and what you went through…it’s a truly heartbreaking story. I know that I cant change it for you and that you dont know me but if I could, I would because no child/ren deserve that. You are a better person for overcoming it and best wishes to you and your writing!

  2. Bairbre Sine Gavin Says:

    Thanks Jess. I always wonder what I would have been like if I had had me as a mother or so and so as a mother. I imagine myself in those shoes and I always come back and put my own shoes right back on. I’m pleased withwho I raised myslef to be. I *was* my own mother.

    The one thing my parents taught me at a very early age tht was valuable was that I had to take charge of my own life or I wasn’t going to survive. It’s sad that I had to learn it and practice it so young but it saved my ass in the end aand I can say thank you to them for that one precious gift.

    B

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