Watching this Freddie Hubbard video after a pretty rough day of processing trauma. I feel like a walking body with no life force. Severely empty or numb.
But maybe it is the Anisa Starseed and Freddie burning. I am slowly feeling, creative life coming back into my body.
This weekend my father left a voice mail saying he is getting remarried. My mother died August 18,2023. My father found her replacement in less than a year. He says its “a God thing.” All I can think is my mother protected this abusive man, only to be easily replaced. He will probably treat this woman far better than he treated my mother. These people ceasely argued for my entire life. When she was dying of ALS, she would scream at the thought of him touching her. He would taunt her as she could barely moved. He talked about how women were already flirting with him. My sisters and I had to beg him to give her morphine. She would scream in pain and have to call my sister for help.
My mother wasnt always the kindest and had a very sharp tongue. However, when she was crying in my arms and begging me to pray her disease away, none of that mattered. She apologized for her mistakes and told me she loved me.
Still it feels poetically tragic that the abusive man she so passionately protected, replaced her before her body was barely cold.
It makes me angry and sad. There are so many layers to this story. As the oldest of this looney bin called the Duke family, I have watched so much crazy that I wasn’t suprised that religious abuse can cause heart disease and neurological disorders.
Oh yes I guess I should mention I was recovering from quadruple bypass, as my mother was dying from ALS. The stress in the house was so bad, that 3 of the 4 grafts in my heart failed after the surgery.
Dealing with so much death, it makes me wonder will I ever get to fully tell my story or even live a good story ? I want to have faith, but I dont think I can continue to breath the same air as my father. His narcissism has infected every aspect of our family. How so ?
My kids get angry, everytime I dont want to be in his presence and ruin the family photo op.
But 46 years I pretended and the toxicity killed my mother. You can only act like things are ok, before your body breaksdown. Most of what I know about my family are secrets she guarded. I think being the first mother, I picked up on what was happening alot quicker than my sisters. Plus my sisters do alot of drugs to help them endure.
But where would I start my story ? With being shocked when a family memeber told me my father was fired for sexual harrasement. Or when I was sexually assualted in college, the college found out I was abused by my parents because of the scars all over my arm. Or perhaps when I had to sleep with a knife under my pillow on a mission trip, because he attacked me and gave my sister a bloody eye.
An author I admired Petula Caesar, explained to me no matter how I tell my story, I have to make sure I am ready. That everything I write must feel past tense. With my father still alive, everything is still pretense. So will I ever get to tell my story ? Or will I die from all the unresolved trauma that comes with living with a pure narcisssist.