Watching war-reports on the channels avai­lable. Now all’s begun and only God can tell where it’ll end. Can only hope and pray not too many lives are lost from hence, in the Middle-East and throughout the World. Gasoline on a fire. Went to the damn demonstration, wrote the upset letters to the primemini­ster and made more to make my opinion heard with this than in any other cause I’ve come across. But where’s the use, when the politicians we elected will not listen to us. There’s always a use in protesting and making ones voice heard, of course. But that soothes not just yet the disappointment I feel in our leaders, whose first and foremost goal is to respect and reflect the opinions of the people, whom they hold their positions by. Hope it’ll all be over very soon, and that the UN will still have a part to play when all has been said and done. Ah, it’s a fucking mess. I’m not proud to be a Dane today. To have an albeit small part in condoning a war, when diplomacy was not worn out. To have this part imposed on me, I’m so angered by it I can hardly think straight. ~~~ Harrowing news from the girlfriend. At one time, when she was about fourteen years of age when she was home from school because she was sick, her mother climbed into bed with her. In a moment of incomprehensible insanity, she, her mother, deliberately caressed her crotch, trying to insert her finger. When my girlfriend protested, she withdrew her hand, then smiled as if perhaps to signal a joke. What to make of it? It’s an appaling thought. To create this kind of insecurity in a child, I find it hard to conceive a more henious act. The reasons behind it, I can only speculate from what stubs of information she has supplied. I know her mother at one point early in marria­ge was stressed with personal problems, such as her husband abandoning her. And I know it for a fact that having to raise a disabled and mentally retarded boy will not have helped in this matter, either. Yet for all sakes’ and purposes she delegated much of this work to her daughter, didn’t she. And I know, for the girlfriend told me so, that she often enough at that time expressed remorse at never having had a friend to confide in. Dammit, the conclusion writes itself: She felt strained on account of the hard work so she left too damn much of it to her daughter. And she felt lonely and abandoned, so she tried to connect with her daughter in the most discraceful way. In cannot imagine what brings a woman to the edge like this, where she would unconsciously try and make a friend and lover of her own daughter. I suspect a mental disturbance here, for I find it hard to believe that no matter how far out one is, one does not try and force oneself on a sibling. Fourteen years of age, my God, if she wasn’t already confused enough, poor child. That’s the keyword, isn’t it, “child”. She was a child then, and she’s a child now. So much of her childhood was robbed from her with all the responsibility she had to cope with then, is it any wonder that without that burden to bear she retracts, and shuns from every other kind of unknown she’s faced with. She assumes her share of an adult’s responsibilities, but does so unwillingly and what should not stop a grown-up in her path is what often brings her down. She reacts in the way a child would, to far too many events. to insignificant details that no one in their right adult mind would allow a second notion. She’s herself admitted to as much, that at times she feels rather helpless. At work they tell her how she too easily falls into stress. Why, because she’s taking on too damn much for anyone to handle, why, because she does not know how to restrict herself in taking on too much, why, because her notion of the concept has been distorted by some time years ago when as a child she was forced to be an adult. And now she clings to that childhood for so many wrong reasons; because of her fear of the unknown, because of her fear of becoming her mother, because of fear of the responsibility that comes with being an adult because “if I’m a child, and the responsibility is so much to bear now, what won’t it be when I grow up?”. All symptoms of the same disease, that goes by the name of child-abu­se. Most often used in the sexual meaning, as of yet I have no way of knowing the extend of that one. But even if nothing sexual had ever taken place, sadly though it did, I would still label her a victim of child-abuse, by the sheer psychological pressue that she was faced with, and, as any child would be, was unable to deal with. Will I ever get her to admit that she was a victim of child-abuse? It’s hardly a notion people have willingly agreed to, for obvious reasons. Who wants to dig down into a mental mess like this. Who wants to push their mothers away, which is what they must do if they’ll ever arrive at a position where they might be able to forgive. It’s all the reason for their existence they must questions. I think it must be the hardest thing, and I certainly do not envy those who undertakes the task. A mental marathon run. But one that needs running. What would’ve happened if the girlfriend hadn’t reacted so violently as she did, pushing her mother away? She herself expressed her doubts as to that question. Did it stop there? So little information she gives me, I simply cannot tell if that was the case or not. If that event was the only one. She herself brought it up; in mentioning her brother and the kind of hatred – her word – he harbors against their mother. There are simply too many unknowns here, and they need to be cleared up and out before she can continue to grow, as a person. To grow up and away from all of this. From the despera­te clinging to family. From rushing in the door and calling her mother up on the phone, to let her know she arrived back safely – when she’s thirty years of age. For still trying to take control of the fate of her younger, mentally handicapped brother, when that responsibility was never and never should have been hers. From the endless number of reassurances on the phone, trying to withstand the pressure from her mother (crying at the other end of the line) not to move away with her boyfriend – yours truly. From not being able to live her own life, to settle in her mind, on her own terms. Having your mother think of you as a fucking girlfriend is not how such a relationship was intended. So many unknowns, and clearing them out will prove a dirty experience. But they must, for it’s the key; the key to unlock her life, her own life, not the life of those she continiously worry about, not of those with whom she seeks confirmation of the validity of her life, but her very own life, where she is able to focus on her own needs, her own time, herself. First and foremost. If she had always a hard time in looking forward to things, it’s because she is locked in the habit of always thinking of others before herself; it even makes her feel guilty when she does. I suppose this is my part in it all: To grant her a little surplus of energy, make some things easy for her so she won’t have to deal with the details while she deals with the big issues. Point her in the general direction of my (probably misguided) solution to those. Involves the help of someone professional in the field og psychology, for she’s sadly liable to listen to anyone else and pay any attention but to the benefit of the doubt on her mother’s side. The conclusions of the above, if I were to show this to her she would agree with me in order to deal with me quickly and escape digging into the past, then do nothing, go away and tend to her usual priorities without taking steps to deal with what’s just come up. Someone professional would fare better. Someone who’s conclusions she’d actually listen to, out of her respect of authorities. Someone who’d suggest she’d stop calling her mother so damn often, make her diminish the contact between the two. Someone who’d suggest she’d enter into a written dialog with same, trying to clear up what happened. Someone who could libera­te her from those episodes that somehow keep popping up, drag them all out into the open and make her deal with t
hem. Maybe there’s a lot of insanity buried, but never as much as in plain denial; the worst of mental illnesses, to the best of my knowled­ge. ~~~ Tomorrow Sunday. Am hoping for a quiet day.