tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28133718.post9050566754423320280..comments2023-06-28T22:58:28.247+10:00Comments on Sixth In Line: Memory's thumpElisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04015624747225433940noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28133718.post-22518551685698244772015-05-07T08:51:03.487+10:002015-05-07T08:51:03.487+10:00Yes, you need to get this story out there. In the ...Yes, you need to get this story out there. In the present environment where the sexual abuse of children, and domestic violence is being discussed, I would like to think, and hope, that your long years of thinking and writing about this very thing, will have a receptive readership.Christinehttp://www.freudinoceania.comnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28133718.post-28225504333264772022015-05-06T14:34:13.019+10:002015-05-06T14:34:13.019+10:00Oh, Elizabeth! You must write and keep writing abo...Oh, Elizabeth! You must write and keep writing about this, and so must your brother. Too bad if there are people who don't want to know—they need to grow up and learn to cope with the truth. There has been too much silence and cover up of child abuse in all of its forms. <br />What your brother witnessed is not his fault—it's the perpetrator's and, to a slightly lesser extent, those who turned a blind eye. Your brother and the rest of you have the right to tell your stories. Bugger your father's memory, the truth needs to be told about what he did. Wanting those who suffered to stay silent or labelling them liars is abuse all over again. <br />You are two courageous people in having the guts to speak openly about it. I don't doubt either of your memories.<br />I can't help wondering about your sister in all of this and how she has fared through it all.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05313139983430962088noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28133718.post-83090617420721514912015-05-05T13:15:19.916+10:002015-05-05T13:15:19.916+10:00My family was made up entirely of black sheep. As ...My family was made up entirely of black sheep. As it turns out I was the favourite. They’d waited twenty-one years for me. No matter what I did to disappoint them there was no way I could change that. I’m not sure who I thought was the favourite. I was convinced it wasn’t me and as it wasn’t a position I coveted it didn’t really matter if it was my brother or sister but if I’d been a betting man—well, boy—I’d have put everything on my sister. My brother was openly rebellious early on—desperate for attention I can now see—and I was just… different, so different from my parents (how could these two have had me?) which left my sister who was cute and a girl and who didn’t like girls more than boys? As adults, in one of the last conversations we would ever have, we all revealed that we thought <i>we</i> were the black sheep. So, three black sheep.<br /><br />We never talk now. Not in some fourteen years. So I have no idea what they now remember of our overlapping pasts. The past as Venn diagram. I’m not the boy—now, man—I was then. I’m off in a bubble all on my own floating further and further off. It’s a nice bubble, “a large hollow sphere, hermetically closed to the universe without”; I’m quoting Beckett. It satisfies all my present needs. <br /><br />As the eldest it was my job to divvy up the cash after Mum died. There was really only the value of the house and I accepted the first offer. Maybe if I’d held out we might’ve made another two or three or five thousand pounds but I wanted to be done with it. Neither my brother nor my sister quibbled about the sums they were sent. My brother used his to furnish a new house—I only know this because he called me once on business—but I’ve no idea how my sister spent her inheritance. Maybe she paid off her mortgage. We’re none of us spendthrifts. I like to think that my share is still in the bank but in reality it was spent and replaced years ago. It’s not the same money. And that’s how I feel about my memories of the things that happened to us growing up. Something is still there in the space where my original recollections were. A pain-sized hole. But it’s not the same pain.Jim Murdochhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12786388638146471193noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28133718.post-87131042853393405982015-05-05T00:51:48.284+10:002015-05-05T00:51:48.284+10:00"My father penetrated my sister’s mind. He p..."My father penetrated my sister’s mind. He penetrated mine."<br /><br />We observe, construe, maybe misconstrue, but we express and squeeze until what comes out is our truth. How this is received is the responsibility of individual readers.<br /><br />I, for one, am grateful for your candor.Kasshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05233330248952156754noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28133718.post-85306877215998604672015-05-04T02:06:43.670+10:002015-05-04T02:06:43.670+10:00Good memories are remembered. Bad memories are for...Good memories are remembered. Bad memories are forgotten or justified..<br />A number of years back I wrote something I called “My Moments With Mom and Dad”, as a holiday present to each of my parents. It was made up of short stories of events I shared with them as I remembered them and how they affected me.. It was honest and truthful, and mostly positive as my parents, now in their nineties, have lived good though very safe and cautious lives. I was surprised how many of the moments they decided never happened, or had completely different outcomes. <br />Anthony Ducehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17476865809734682418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28133718.post-75973858666707834572015-05-03T20:08:53.521+10:002015-05-03T20:08:53.521+10:00Elisabeth, what does your sister say of the events...Elisabeth, what does your sister say of the events that happened to her?<br />Karen CAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28133718.post-28790166454091915462015-05-03T19:38:15.090+10:002015-05-03T19:38:15.090+10:00How to describe this posting:
1. Honest
2. Though...How to describe this posting:<br /><br />1. Honest<br />2. Thoughtful<br />3. Powerful <br />4. Heart rending<br /><br />When we 'turn a blind eye' we do so for various reasons, such as cowardice, selfishness, sympathy, agreement, nudge-nudge wink wink and possibly others.<br /><br />Your father - a despicable excuse for a man imo.PhilipHhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06811831703263176415noreply@blogger.com