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speaking for those that cant.

i have issue with the self-proclaimed gurus whose advise ‘should’ be adhered too.

actually i have issue with anything that starts with ‘you should’.

which is partly why i don’t do the ‘you should listen to my awesome life experience and learn vital shit from Me’, on this blog.

nope. no can do.

and then i realised the other day (as i was finding more of my screamy self-empowering voice) that while i don’t do the self help guru shit, i will on the rare occasion, speak for those that can not speak for themselves.

most of the time, ‘those’, are children.

sometimes it’s those that had no voice; like myself.

but it’s always hell’ah important that any assistance given is about helping ‘them’ find their own voice. there’s nothing cooler than watching the lights go on for someone and then hear them find their voice.

so, why am i talking about this shit?

today is the 2 year anniversary of my sisters death.

after the week or two i’ve had with father bullshit, i made sure today was kinda more about remembering her just on my terms. i did my shout out to her babies, just to let them know i love them and i’ve remembered them today. i haven’t spoken to the father or his wife. they can go fuck themselves.

so as i lit her candle this morning, i was reminded of the relationship i had with her. that it had started not far from where i live now and that meeting her when i was 7, was way cooler than i thought it would be. having a sister you never knew you had is extremely cool.

as my ‘holiday’ with the father, step mother and new found sister evolved, all 7 years of Me, knew there was a whole lot wrong with the picture i was becoming privy too.

this morning, what i vividly remembered, was her and i standing in the parental douche-bags kitchen; me, washing the dishes and her attempting to dry them. she would’ve been about 5. my drunk father was sitting at the table, inhaling a meal the step mother had prepared hours earlier for him. as he looked up from his trough, he started mumbling something about my sister ‘doing a better job’ of drying the dishes. i watched her arms tighten. although i didn’t really understand what was happening, i understood fear. i understood it intimately. and here she was, her arms, then her hands, then her torso, slowly and gradually started to tighten and freeze.

i remember looking at the drunken bum sloshing his food about his mouth and wondering if he was serious. ‘a better job’ was not a phrase he really understood, that was for sure.

as he parroted his twoddle and got louder and louder, my sister started to cry and he went from annoying pickiness to anger. scary anger.

and that i understood too.

i tried to step in front of her and move her away; to the side of me; but she was frozen. i didn’t understand that then, but i get it now.

i told him to stop it. in a quiet voice. but a voice non-the-less. my sister shot me a quick ‘shut up’ glance, and so i didn’t say anything else. he wasn’t going to stop though, i could see that. so i started to cry.

that set the step mother on edge who started badgering him to stop. he got angrier and threw his plate at the wall and stormed off to the lounge.

no-one said anything else. and i’m sure he did a quick wife-battering and the went to sleep.

and my sister; she relaxed again.

what really struck me about all of this this morning, was that because my sister was the only one of us that lived with those 2 fuckwits consistently, she had spent a lifetime co-ordinating, navigating and placating them.

the cost?

her.

her existence. her life.

i despise them for that.

i admire her.

i shed tears for those moments when there was no-one there to speak for her; to stand in the gap for her; to protect her and to ask her if she needed anything. wanted anything.

i’m glad i got to do that for her, at least once in her lifetime.


kpm ©


 

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