The impact of lack of intervention

So how do I feel about that?

Crap. Utterly crap. Mum let me down. She didn't protect me when she could have done. Dad's missiles were so unerringly focused on smashing through what little defences I had, and exploding right in the very core of who I am.

Mum. Why didn't you stop it? Why didn't you put yourself between me and him? Why didn't you protect me? Why did you make US/ME feel guilt for dad's awful anger? Why couldn't we talk about it? Why did we have to pretend we were the world's best family? When underneath the veneer we were struggling just like any other family - except we had a dad who couldn't relate and who's pain would explode with unerring frequency, and a mum who would not dare being real for fear of unmasking her own emotions.

It's all so crap, and I am utterly sick of it. The pretense. The veneer. The show. Sickly, putrid slime.

Our public persona was so more important than the real one. Still is. And that really really sucks. Why can't we be real? Why can't we allow ourselves to face reality. The truth? For without truth we are all deceived.

}WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY. It was all so crap. CRAP. CRAAP. And as I say that it hurts. The pain, the deep groaning. The shell shock. ARHGHGFHGHGHGHGHGHghghghghghadfjkb.

Mum you could have stopped it. You could. You really could. But you didn't. Which I guess means you didn't love me. Keeping up appearances was more important than me. Our family motto might as well have been "The show must go on". At all costs. No matter the kids are bleeding all over the floor from the last explosion, and feel utterly condemned by guilt because mum blamed them. Dad on the platform preaching, mum singing, me on the back row looking after my many sisters.

I HATE IT. I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE. I DON'T WANT TO LOOK AFTER MY STUPID SISTERS. I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE. IT SUCKS, IT'S CRAP, IT'S BORING. IT'S ALL ABOUT YOU. Not to mention the missile exploding in the car on the way here. The tears, the shouts, the anger, the directed vile vindictive statements, the threats, but as we get out of the car it's all smiles and love and praise the lords. Whoever he is. Because clearly he is not your lord.

CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP. The whole lot was crap. Worse that straw and wood. This was vile evil from the pit of destruction. Worse than a terrorist bomb. Such a bomb is planted in the mistaken belief it will help them towards their faith (I.e. their ideals). What happenned at home was vile. It was truly awfully crap. It was directed at your own children. It was highly personal. It was shatteringly destructive. It left a trail of entrails. It was continuous. And it was stiltifyingly frighteningly real. And it was done by you, to us.

And it wasn't a one off. It was continuous. Trauma after trauma. No hiding place. Nowhere to run. No ability to speak up, to defend - for in so doing we would attract the immediate attention of the coming explosion.

There was no where to run. Nowhere to hide. No relief. No protection. From anyone. From any quarter. We were alone. And we were kids. And it was awful. Like being in a concentration camp with other children whilst the guards pretend to love them all the whilst abusing them in the most sadistic ways.

I don't like you. Neither of you. You both really hurt me. You both killed me on the inside. You were vile. Despicable as parents. You failed in your primary role as parents - that as nurturers and protectors. you failed. Just look at me, and the mess of goo on my insides. And the way my sisters are. And you go on pretending that it's my fault we don't have a relationship.

That's despicable.

There is not word I have for that. It is the absolute avoidance of truth. It is the shying away from reality. The very truth and reality you sing about - you run from. The narrow road. The narrow path. The difficult path. The one you refuse to walk down. Because it would bring you face to face with your own pain. Your own inadequacies.

So, rather than that you continue in your torrid rotting state. Keeping up appearances whilst on the inside you continue to rot. You pressurise and use tools of guilt, condemnation, domination and control to get your own way. To prove it's not you but others. It's their fault - whether that's your children or the supermarket manager.

And I hate it. HATE IT WITH CAPITAL LETTERS. gjkhasg hasgj hasjg hasjg hasjg hasgh asg hasg hghgh