Wednesday, January 20, 2010


Well, having felt very pleased with myself for managing to dye yarn beige, I then went and buggered it up when I tried to add the other two colours wanted. I should have painted them on but I didn’t and dipped dyed them which went horribly wrong. The colour turned to shit as the two dye baths got sucked up throughout the yarn and mingled. What a mess. So I immediately rinsed it all out, was left with a paler mess. I overdyed by painting with black and red and purple and still it was naf. So I then but it completely into a bath of hot pink. I am so glad I did and didn’t throw the hank away. I like the result.

I commented to John about how rough my two brothers look. (If you recall I freaked a little when I saw them both as ‘suggested’ friends on Facebook.) John’s response was immediate and emphatic: well what do you expect when they have lived such wicked lives?

I was somewhat taken aback by the strength of his comment. He has no time for them at all and feels differently to I about what they did to me. I find I am ambivalent about them both, more so the younger one (by almost 3 years). I do at least have one memory of him showing me compassion. In between the telling me how God hated me and how wicked I  was.

The older (by just over 3yrs) I have no good memories of at all. He was always callous, cruel and self centred. He never gave.

Yet I am acutely aware that they had the same cruel and self centred and abusive parents. Only they chose to identify with them and join in making me the scape goat.  Both were willing to, and did,  leave me rotting in an asylum rather than tell the truth.

Do I hate them for it? How can I? One, there is no point, I have never felt hatred. Anger yes. Hatred would poison me and not harm them. I am glad I did not take the path they chose. I do not ever want anything to do with them, there is no healing of our relationship. I don’t want it. I am content and I don’t need anything from them.

Twice in the last 15 years by younger brother has made ‘peace overtures’ which always ended the same way-with him telling me yet again how evil I am. It seemed that my lack of hostility toward him and my refusal to join in his fantasy of a happy childhood was something he could not handle.

Strangely, and denial is extremely odd, he did phone we once in tears to profess his sorrow at leaving me to rot in the asylum and begging my forgiveness. That contact ended in him screaming abuse at me and once again reminding me of my evil soul.

Fortunately for me, I have snail mail and e-mail from him which does tell the truth of our childhoods and at times when I have been confused I have referred to them just to settle myself.

I have no need of such things now. I have no need of them. I don’t need them to corroborate anything. I don’t need to forgive them because I don’t hate them. I am free of them. How blessed am I? I only hope that they find what I have but I shall not know of it if they do.

At least not in this life.

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