Dawn Loves Buttercups

My name was not chosen for me.  Both my sisters (who both sadly died far too young) were going to have my name as my mother liked it so much.  She was persuaded to choose other names.  These sisters were 10 and 15 years older than me, and as a surprise pregnancy just after the end of WW2, my mother was not happy about it and at one point I was going to be adopted by my father’s youngest brother and his wife.  At the last minute my father changed his mind and my mother said she might as well use the name she had wanted to use for her other two.  So I never really felt the name belonged to me.

For the first 5 years of my life I was looked after by a series of child minders (yes even in the 1950s) as my mother said she had no time to look after me working in the shop with my father. 

I know now my emotional needs were not met in my formative years (no cuddles or praise) but somehow it didn’t matter as I always knew I was “different”.

I had imaginary friends because having sisters who were much older than me was like being an only child.  Except I know now that it’s possible my imaginary friends were probably just different parts of my personality projected out as a protection for my mental health.

At school people thought I was “snobby” because I didn’t mix well and needed time to get to know someone to trust them.  I was abused by an employee of my father from the age of 4 until 8 when we moved away.  There, I’ve written it.  The shame that went with it was enormous and after I told someone close to me after we had children together he treated me badly as if it had been my fault.  I never told anyone else until I managed to tell my eldest son.  No details, but at least he was able to help me think about forgiveness.  Then when I met my dearest friend,  I was  at last able to confide in someone my own age who in addition was a professional.  He was able to give me wonderful advice, not only when talking to me but also in texts.  Sadly I mistakenly deleted all those texts (when just wanting to clear one that I wanted to unsend as I had found a better quality video).  Those texts were funny, full of wisdom, advice and empathy.  I would go back to them if I wanted to remind myself of good advice, or a film recommendation or a book.  All gone.

Of course a lot will remain in my memory, but nothing beats re-reading words of encouragement and loving support.

I feel empty inside.  Why, I ask myself, they were just words.  I know that they were so much more than that.

I have become very good at detachment this last year, after all, nothing is for real, it’s all an illusion.  Yet somehow emotions are so human even when you are looking to walk your spiritual pathway.  In Gaelic Irish, they don’t say “I am sad” as if it were a permanent thing.  They say “the sadness is upon me”. 

The sadness has been upon me for a few days now, which is so unlike me and for some reason I cannot shake it off as I usually do.

I ask myself “why does it hurt so ” now,  in the twighlight of my years, after all soon I will no longer be here, no longer feel emotional pain, and yet it does, it really does. 

Most of the time when I tell myself “I am enough”, I believe it.  Rejection makes it harder to convince me that I am when “the sadness is upon me”.