Internalizing anger is my MO.  Surely this is one of the reasons I'm unhealthy.  Allowing rage to surface, "owning" it, and releasing it into the ethers is a skill I've been working on for years now.  Still, it alludes me.  Then there are time when I'm not willing to let my anger go even if I recognize it's presence.  I choose instead to wallow around in it like a fly in shit full of self-rightous indignation.

A situation with my sister and her boyfriend has triggered an emotionally violent outburst from me.  This place only superficially covered up by the distractions of life.  I realized last night that I was still angry over the date rape thirty years ago and trying to emotionally support my son through the infancy of his relationship with his biological father has left me out of touch with my own feelings. 

All puns intended in an effort to grasp onto humor for surely that's the only thing that's going to get me through this quagmire of conflicting feelings.  Still and yet, as I write this, I wonder if I've not lost all respect for men and perhaps even hate them.  Is there anything funny about that?

My absence here has been due to many distractions:  I've been sick with the flu/cold/allergies:  My doctors altered my med's for the various chronic problems with which I cope and acclimating has not been easy:  Then I had to get some major dental work done:  Plus,  except for the cape, I make the costume I told you about at the beginning of this journal.  All of these things have taken a fair amount of time and energy.

None of those things, however frustrating or painful, has seized me at the core of my Beingness as facing and dealing with an issue from my past.  Don't get me wrong, it's not that I begrudge a light shinning on this shadow.  In fact, I welcome it, but it's not been easy none-the-less.  Immaturity.  Character weakness.  The victim mode.  They all played a part in the creation of a cold, dark place in my life.  Now, light and warmth is starting to take over.

When I was in my early twenties I was date raped and got pregnant.  I got married but not to the father; in fact, the father was never told of the pregnancy and my husband raised my child as if it were his own.  JB knew the truth of the paternity and the circumstances around it.  And while we agreed from the start to tell the child the truth, I let JB talk me out of it.  Thinking back on it now I wonder if this act of manipulation on his part wasn't the seed that grew into a divorce.  At least ONE of the many seeds that grew into a garden of dysfunction that we called a marriage.

Thirty years later my son has met his biological father.  It took him six years to digest the truth of his paternity; but on Mothers Day of this year, he met the man with whom he shares genetic material.  So far, this whole experience has been remarkable and could not have gone better.  The timing and syncronicity of events, the stuff of coincidence, has led me to believe that, on some level, this was the way it was suppose to be all along.  Maybe I'm just rationalizing.  Maybe I'm just kidding myself.  Maybe this is all just a dream.

And maybe I'll write a book about it.  You know "The Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction" kind.  Because, Man, if this isn't a blasted dream, it's bizarre as hell.

I finally quite ending my statements with "...anyway."  It wasn't until I started posting on the net that I even realized what I was doing.  It was very confussing to those with whom I conversed via IM.  I have no idea how this stupid habit came about.