effective decision making skills

This is not my usual sunshine and kittens sort of post. If you donapos;t like it when Iapos;m not sunshine and kittens, this is a good time to take a pass and go over to Boing Boing Gadgets or something.

Like my posts about bi-polar disorder, I am not writing for peopleapos;s comfort or sympathy or (my fave accusations, bring it on some more) drama.
Iapos;m writing to remove isolation and secrecy.� The same way I wonapos;t pretend Iapos;m not bi-polar, I also have no time for sub-humans who hurt children and animals.

Some of you reading this are going to be aghast, you might even take to your beds with the vapors, but I want you to consider something very, very carefully: you were protected from disgrace and censure during his lifetime. Consider yourselves lucky that you had someone to cover up for him, to tell me how hurt youapos;d be, and that I was the best little girl ever and I said nothing.
You got nice homes, financial security, material goods and travel. More than you deserved, but, hey, you never forgot what you traded for that, so weapos;re probably even.

This is a warning: When I say I donapos;t want to hear from you, I mean I donapos;t want to hear from you.�
Tell me who died, cried, fried, lied and I am going to tell you a story about them.
Like right now.

I wonder how many of you are unfortunate enough to know or fortunate enough to not know what itapos;s like to always have to surrender your bedroom for the couch when guests visited. And the room you give up is smoked in (even though it made you sick), left in a shambles (and you are the maid, itapos;s your room, cleaning up after guests goes with cooking for all the ungrateful men).

You go into this room, in which you are a tolerated tenant between guests, the room with its sweet pink walls, wacky flowered wallpaper, and hi-lo pink shag carpet (you know, a little girlapos;s room), to kiss your soon-to-be second-least favorite uncle (and thatapos;s a pretty goddamn low bar to limbo under) good night.� He asks you to rub his back. Then he asks to rub yours. You say no. He asks you to lie down next to him while heapos;s hanging on to you and pulling you down. He tries to drag you back into your own bed when you try to leave. Twice. When you get loud enough to wake other adults in the house, he lets you go.
How I was twelve and already knew what grooming behavior was and to not be fooled by protests of love or threats of abandonment? Iapos;d already learned it in that same room.

I was twelve, he was my favorite uncle, he said I was his favorite niece. That made it impossible to look at him after and not feel like throwing up, like crying because he was allowed back as a guest over and over again. I forgave him for being weak, dumb, venal, immature and creepy. Iapos;m still trying to forgive him for not being the uncle that he sold me on: funny, kind, a good dancer, someone who thought I was special.

Second-least-favorite uncle died last May, and all I feel is relief. I hope I am the only one who needed to. I want to say Iapos;m sorry I didnapos;t know the person you did, but the truth is we all knew the same man.
�

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