| Author: | L Violo | ISBN: | 9780994981509 |
| Publisher: | L Violo | Publication: | December 11, 2015 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords Edition | Language: | English |
| Author: | L Violo |
| ISBN: | 9780994981509 |
| Publisher: | L Violo |
| Publication: | December 11, 2015 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords Edition |
| Language: | English |
The darkness plays with light like a soft breeze, in and out of the sweetest sky. But the stunning colours of the dawn crack, exposing the grey. Then, without so much as a sound, the storm swirls in... smothers.
The twenty years of journaling my story, The Man in the Room, resembles this type of sky. Our universe requires us to move, to grow. Yet, it would seem to me, you cannot embrace change until you acknowledge the deepest center of yourself.
This progression requires me to expose the secrets of my family, which keep the sickness of dysfunction beating with a pulse, and bind us as to one another when we call each other "friends".
While I wrote this book, emotional change overtook me. I loved and I grieved the moving parts of a little boy who became mine at four-and-a-half through incredible life circumstance. As I sit here in quiet reflection, I truly believe with all my heart that it has been my responsibility to acknowledge these days on paper. This writing affords me a certain luxury now, a permission slip, if you will. It gives me a measure of detachment from the outcome, the life choices of my son Toth as he slips in and out of addiction recovery.
This type of mental illness requires both a compassionate stance as a nurturer and the ability to draw a hard line. A boundary where I seriously consider my self-preservation.
This disease is punitive, robbing me of a child I adored with every ounce of my mothering heart.
My thoughts drift... I remember when Toth had enrolled himself in a recovery program. He asked me out for an "accountability coffee;" as we gathered our beverages, he spoke and I listened to his pain. He focused on all the ways I had hurt him in my parenting. There was no denying, no justifying this injured being before me. In the end I asked for forgiveness, told him how sorry I was. There was no kindness from Toth's heart that day. He had a firm grasp on his resentments, and I believe that to this moment, he clenches them tightly.
I left that coffee shop and wrote about my character defects. Ripping and tearing myself to shreds, I grieved in an agony I didn't know possible. I believe a part of me died like the shedding of an old skin. After I felt such release, my soul demanded it.
Right then, I decided to change the meaning of "I love, “It no longer meant I could keep this young man I had raised all these years. It now moved into “I live, “For my life's purpose, honoring the gifts that my hands provide to our universe. Since that day of rebirth, I have this incredible ability to discern and stay away from relationships that swallow me whole. Spitting out the chaotic pieces of that primary relationship with my adopted son has opened my world into a life worth living.
With gratitude, I smile. The soft light in my umber western sky has yet again arrived.
The darkness plays with light like a soft breeze, in and out of the sweetest sky. But the stunning colours of the dawn crack, exposing the grey. Then, without so much as a sound, the storm swirls in... smothers.
The twenty years of journaling my story, The Man in the Room, resembles this type of sky. Our universe requires us to move, to grow. Yet, it would seem to me, you cannot embrace change until you acknowledge the deepest center of yourself.
This progression requires me to expose the secrets of my family, which keep the sickness of dysfunction beating with a pulse, and bind us as to one another when we call each other "friends".
While I wrote this book, emotional change overtook me. I loved and I grieved the moving parts of a little boy who became mine at four-and-a-half through incredible life circumstance. As I sit here in quiet reflection, I truly believe with all my heart that it has been my responsibility to acknowledge these days on paper. This writing affords me a certain luxury now, a permission slip, if you will. It gives me a measure of detachment from the outcome, the life choices of my son Toth as he slips in and out of addiction recovery.
This type of mental illness requires both a compassionate stance as a nurturer and the ability to draw a hard line. A boundary where I seriously consider my self-preservation.
This disease is punitive, robbing me of a child I adored with every ounce of my mothering heart.
My thoughts drift... I remember when Toth had enrolled himself in a recovery program. He asked me out for an "accountability coffee;" as we gathered our beverages, he spoke and I listened to his pain. He focused on all the ways I had hurt him in my parenting. There was no denying, no justifying this injured being before me. In the end I asked for forgiveness, told him how sorry I was. There was no kindness from Toth's heart that day. He had a firm grasp on his resentments, and I believe that to this moment, he clenches them tightly.
I left that coffee shop and wrote about my character defects. Ripping and tearing myself to shreds, I grieved in an agony I didn't know possible. I believe a part of me died like the shedding of an old skin. After I felt such release, my soul demanded it.
Right then, I decided to change the meaning of "I love, “It no longer meant I could keep this young man I had raised all these years. It now moved into “I live, “For my life's purpose, honoring the gifts that my hands provide to our universe. Since that day of rebirth, I have this incredible ability to discern and stay away from relationships that swallow me whole. Spitting out the chaotic pieces of that primary relationship with my adopted son has opened my world into a life worth living.
With gratitude, I smile. The soft light in my umber western sky has yet again arrived.
