Pattern Of Pain

It’s my pattern, apparently.

It’s my pattern of raising something I have previously identified as important but that has been lost by others, and then taking responsibility for not being clear or explicit enough.

That’s the pattern that makes my sister grow cold, trapped between my father, my mother and herself, and withdrawing into her own confusion, frustration and hurt.

See, she doesn’t like to see me hurting.  But she doesn’t like to see me hurt others, either.

Today, the trigger was asking where $6 worth of grocery chits, chits I fought for, went in the clean sweep that my mother triggered and my father executed during my absence in preparation for their friends arrival.  They got thrown out, of course, no one here able to understand why they would have any value to me.

Of course, that’s the problem I have.   My sister is busy, my parents slowing, and having them remember what I value seems like too hard work.  In fact, so much of what I value seems so queer that they deliberately choose to ignore & dismiss it.

This makes me confusing and dangerous to them, as I may be upset that they threw out something that I valued and get a blast for it.  And, what for me seems the simple solution, actually engaging me about things and listening, well, that seems bloody stupid & impossible for them.

My sister wants to see me stop being in denial, being in pain, and taking responsibility for all failures.  Those patterns chill her.

But, on the other hand, she doesn’t want to support me in confronting my parents, breaking through the wall, helping me be out and centered.

No wonder she feels confused and frustrated.

And then again, no wonder that I get frozen out for what she considers my patterns of pain.

One thought on “Pattern Of Pain”

  1. My sister, just for the record, doesn’t really get why I hate having to negotiate everyone else’s fears.

    I sense that I am not really allowed to have feelings, just senses. I have to take responsibility for pushing other people’s unhealed buttons, but they have no responsibility for hitting my sore spots. Obligations that stench, at least to me.

    It’s always my obligation to enter their world, but never their obligation to enter mine, and that’s a consistent challenge for queers.

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