Greetings and hellos and such. How are you folks today? I'm hoping this entry finds you well and healthy and happy and all that wonderful good stuff. *grins*

I figured it's been too long since I've launched into a specific tirade, so I'm going to do that now. *grins* Hope you guys get comfy and all, cause this might take a while.

I want to talk about abuse. Not just some generic "Abuse is bad" kind of thing, but really diving into what I consider to be "abuse" and my opinions upon the subject and those who stay in abusive situations/relationships.

To actually preface and all... What I'm talking about here are opinions. I do not have any actual authority in matters of abuse, stopping abuse or anything else like that. I am merely hopping up onto my soap box and going off.

I'm sure that there are some people out there who have been abused or are currently in abusive situations. I am also well aware that one person's experience is their's alone and can be extremely traumatic to them.

I have friends who have lived in abusive situations, emotionally, physically, verbally, psychologically and sexually. I have friends who have never seen a day of negative feeling pushed toward them. I am speaking in the most general terms, unless specified.

I do NOT claim to have any specific information whatsoever... this is simply an erruption of thoughts and ideas splashing across the screen like some volcanic vomit. Or something....

Now, that said... Let us proceed. *grins*

I don't think there's anyone out there who thinks that abuse is good. Least ways, not on the receiving end. There are some folks who are truly masochistic. They get some sort of thrill, joy, excitement or something from being subjected to pain and torture of various different kinds. I'm not talking about those people.

Hell, to each their own. If you like it, do it. Just don't inflict it upon me.

But, what exactly IS abuse in my opinion? It's subjective. Each person has their own opinion of pain, of abuse, injustice, whatever. To me, "abuse" is when someone else willingly and or forcefully crosses someone else's boundries with the intention to inflict pain or discomfort.

That vague enough for ya?

I do believe that there are other forms of abuse and I believe it is possible to be abusive unwittingly. However, I don't think that those forms of abuse are on my soap-box adgenda tonight.

My primary focus is the mentality of abuse. Why would a person choose to abuse someone else, and why would an abusee remain in an abusive situation?

The most common form of abuse, in my opinion, is emotional. However, the most talked about and known is physical. I'm sure that everyone out there has had some exposure to abuse; either through first-hand experience, watching someone else, seeing movies or news segments or seeing pictures.

There may be a few folks in this world who have absolutely no knowledge of abuse in any of its forms. If that is so, kudos to you. Wonderful. You haven't been exposed to such a vile thing.

I, myself, grew up around abuse. I saw it every day. Or nearly so. I saw the results and I saw the cause. I'm speaking of physical abuse actually.

It's not at all pleasant to witness. It's not at all pleasant to experience. I was only beaten twice. Both times it was because of a loss of control. The individual doing the "spanking" was doing so in anger, not out of the need to correct a behavior.

I suppose that's the real reason people inflict abuse upon others. It is a form of anger. Not just being angry, but being so enraged that you refuse to control yourself, or become unable to control yourself.

As I look back with adult eyes, I see that the discipline was carried out while the person was completely enraged. Their face was red and shaking, the eyes were crazy.

I watched my brother get beaten two or three times a week. It was nasty. In his situation, it's difficult for me to really talk about. And I mean really difficult.

Okay, fine, so this isn't about generic abuse. I suppose I really need to vent this stuff. Damn, I don't want to. I don't want to talk about this at all. I hate talking about it.

Mom.... don't read this entry. Just don't read it.

When I was a little girl, I remember sitting in my closet with the doors shut, the blanket up to muffle the sounds, curled up, terrified. I knew I wouldn't be getting hit, but it sounded so.... mean. So violent. It sounded like my brother was being murdered slowly. As it is right now, I'm typing this in an ultra small font cause I'm feeling so small and fragile and scared and.... it's like I'm 6 years old again, praying that the pain will go away. Praying that he'll stop screaming. Praying that I"ll die so I don't have to hear it anymore.

My brother should not have been beaten. There is no excuse for what happened to him. But, it's so hard for me to say that, cause I love my Mom so very much. I don't ever want to think of her as doing anything wrong. I feel so.... helpless. Gah, this is pathetic. I don't want to talk about this. I don't want to. I dont' want to. I just want to hide. Just go away. Just smile brightly and pretend nothing is wrong.

I love my mother so much. I want every wonderful and good thing for her. And, she's so different now than when I was a little girl. But I remember being terrified of her. Even now, when she raises her voice... I'm 30 years old and I get terrified and scared of her. Not just frightened, but absolutely terrified. I don't like that.

When I was little, I remember my mother telling me that the reason I was born was to keep my brother alive. That God gave me to Mom to show her what a responsive child was like. I remember being told that I was my brother's brain. That I had to make sure he actually came home in one piece. He always did dance to a different beat. While mom was (figuratively speaking) listening to Mozart, Dan was listening to Snoop Doggy Dog. There was such a clash of mentality, such a clash of interpretation.

It was so hard to live with. I understood my Mother. I understood that when she said no tv in the morning, that meant we didn't watch any tv in the morning. Dan never understood that tho. Or maybe he forgot. To me, it seemed so foreign. I mean... he was there in the room when Mom said no tv. When she asked if he understood what that meant, he said yes. She asked him to tell her what he thought she meant. He said that she didn't want us to watch tv in the morning. Seems like that would be simple to remember. For me it was.

For some reason, Dan never could remember that. he just..... *shrugs* he would watch tv every morning. I would tell him we weren't supposed to, he would tell me to leave him alone. I knew it was my job to keep him out of trouble. Damn how I tried. Oh man, how I dearly tried. And every time he would get in trouble, I felt like it was my fault. I hadn't been convincing enough, I hadn't done enough. I hadn't kept him out of trouble. Damn, I failed him every single day.

Of course, now I realize that he made his own choices and it was definately not my responsibility to make sure he stayed out of trouble. But still... the guilt is still here inside me. The guilt over my brother is here, resting in my stomach. It's the weight I've been carrying around for so long.

Regardless, at that time in my life, I believed it was my fault that dan got in trouble so much. I mean, I wasn't able to keep him out of trouble and that was my responsibility... I would beg and plead with him to turn off the tv. To not watch it. to do anything else. I would give up. He refused to listen to me. I would nag and complain and whine and cry and he didn't care. So, I just stopped.

I think that's part of the reason why I just simply shut down when someone doesn't listen to me. That's largely why I don't like giving correction to people either. They're gonna do whatever they want to do no matter what I say or think, so why waste my breath, huh?

Anyway... *sighs deeply* So, I was there to see some of the punishments my brother received. before he was even touched he'd be screaming. And I don't mean just crying or letting out one whine or something, I mean, when Mom told him he was gonna get spanked for the behavior, whatever it was, he would start screaming bloody murder and try running away from her. Fully a third of all the scrapes, bumps and bruises my brother got as a kid were from mom reaching out to grab hold of his arm or shirt or neck or whatever extremity came within range.

He kicked and screamed and bit and hit. It was so....... *shrugs* terrifying. I would watch my brother. I would sit there after having told him not to do the activity... after having begged him to stop doing the thing that was forbidden, whatever it was, and he would look at me and laugh. Sometimes I thought he looked for ways to get in trouble just to see me cry.

And when I got in trouble? He was laughing at me. he had this evil look in his eyes and he would just laugh at me. *shakes her head* It was like growing up with a demon instead of a brother. he didn't think like I did. He didn't speak like I did. He didn't look like me. He was so completely foreign. and he didn't care. Not at all.

I remember one time, dan had done something bad, mom caught him "red handed" so to speak. I don't remember what the activity/behavior had been. But, I remember her looking at him, catching him and telling him he was in trouble. She asked him if he knew what he was doing and if he realized it was forbidden. He said yes to both questions. The look in his eyes was so....... cold. So mean. So hateful. She said that he was gonna get four swats for what he'd done. He shrugged, i think.

He tried to run away. She grabbed his arm, he jerked away from her, absolute hatred in his eyes. She lost it. her kid of 9 years old looking at her that way. He screamed something at her, something like I hate you, or you're not my mother, or something like that. The look in her eyes was a mix... hurt and fury. I could see, so clearly. she reached out to grab him again and he pulled away, tripped over the leg of a chair and smacked his chin on the floor. She made a grab for his arm, jerked him to his feet and quickly grabbed his throat. That's when she started choking him. He glared at her, screaming so violently. his eyes were practically black with rage.

She started choking him, he kept screaming. his arms were flailing and he was kicking at her, slapping at her, trying to rake her with his nails. it was like she'd captured a feral cat rather than a human. In fact, I'm sure a feral cat would have been easier to raise. *shrugs*

He couldn't breathe then and his eyes started to bug out, but he kept fighting with her. He wasn't screaming anymore, he was wheezing. Damn...... that so terrified me. I was crying, curled up tightly into the smallest shape I could find and he looked at me and the look in his eyes was so...... cruel. As if he thought I was the worst kind of human in the world. I was so weak to have been crying. That's half the reason I hate to cry now. Nearly 22 years later. Can you imagine that, folks... it's been longer since that specific incident than many of you have been alive. And I can still see the cruel hatred in his eyes.

He couldn't breathe. Mom was yelling at him. She was screaming at him to just stop, to stop fighting, to just take his punishment. she let go of his throat and he was coughing so violently, saliva dripping from his open mouth to the floor as he was bent over. his chin scraped, his face almost purple, his skinny body wracked with shaking from the coughing. And he looked up for the briefest of moments.

Tears were streaming down my face, I couldn't breathe cause I'd been crying so hard and he looked at me with betrayal and hatred in his eyes. As if he were accusing me of not protecting him like I was supposed to. He was 9. I was 7. so lost, so scared, feeling like I was responsible for my brother's life or death and he hated me for it. He always has. He hated me for not getting beaten. He hated me for being like my mother. he hated me for loving him. he hated me for crying, for thinking, for caring, for giving a damn and for not keeping him away from pain. And I hated me too. For all the same reasons.

Damn it.... I can't do this anymore. I looked at my mother and I was terrified of her and I loved her and I was afraid of her and I wanted her to hug me, to tell me I hadn't been bad and I was terrified that if I moved she would see me and start in on me and I couldn't do anything and I was only 7 fucking years old.

Damn it.

*smiles softly* Sorry bout that. Guess that's something I haven't really dealt with all that well, eh? *chuckles*

Okay, now that we're back to reality, and present day...How bout that rain?

Sympatico had a really cool entry last night where he talked about... wonder of wonders, me. *grins* He was really quite humorous and his entry is a much more positive and funny one than my own. I highly suggest that you read it.

Also, please go read Charles' entry cause he doesn't update very often at all, and this recent update is really funny in my opinion. Also, after you've read it, leave him a brief note on his message board. He's under the impression that no one read it cause no one else commented on it. *chuckles* Amazing, eh?

kiss the rain
and wait for the dawn
keep in mind
we're under the same skies
and the night
is as empty for me
as for you
if you feel
you can't wait til morning
kiss the rain
kiss the rain
kiss the rain