My aunt, the one from the previous post, died last night, outliving her son by just over a month.
I can, and do, take a small amount of pleasure in knowing she died alone in her home. Not "surrounded by her loving family."
Still, FaceBook is full of "the kindest person I've ever known," "we miss you," "a terrible loss to the community"...
Are these people insane?! Or is this how they deal with reality, shutting it out and remaking it into something rosy and beautiful?
I CAN'T.
I won't.
And I won't play nice and go along. Or allow my daughter to be exposed to people who are so blind, probably deliberately, to the horrors committed by "loving, wonderful, caring, kind" family members.
I'm done. The whole clan can go to hell. I am not necessary to them, and they are poison to me. I will not allow them to poison my daughter.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
Time Does Not Heal
A cousin of mine died a couple of days ago. He was a year older than me. Way closer to 50 than 40.
His life was nothing to be proud of. A prison stint for abusing his girlfriend's children, never convicted of molesting another cousin or his own nieces -- we keep our secrets, this family of mine. He died a wreck of a human being, a final heart attack after many.
I haven't seen him in three decades or more. His siblings have fared no better in life: a sister with many children who drinks herself unconscious every day; a brother who is totally immersed in Fundamental Christianity, also with several children who are secluded from all contact except church-related; another brother who appears "normal," but what festers beneath?
What do I remember about this cousin?
I remember standing beside him, before his mother, as the woman grasped his arm and held a flame from a cigarette lighter to his hand. I remember her telling me that she wished she could do it to me. She obviously was afraid that my mother might object. A ridiculous fear. I remember... I remember knowing there was no one I could tell, no one who would stand for me, protect me, help me. Certainly not my mother.
I don't remember him crying.
I was three years old. But I remember her face, her words.
My mother, sister and I lived with these people during one of my mother's many "vacations" from her abusive husband. So many bad things happened in that house, but this is seared into my memory, as clear 45 years later as if it had happened yesterday. Seared with the flame that scarred him, outside for a while, inside forever.
He chose to deal with the abuse by becoming an abuser. I do not feel sorry for the man he became.
I cry for the child standing beside me with his hand in the flame...
His life was nothing to be proud of. A prison stint for abusing his girlfriend's children, never convicted of molesting another cousin or his own nieces -- we keep our secrets, this family of mine. He died a wreck of a human being, a final heart attack after many.
I haven't seen him in three decades or more. His siblings have fared no better in life: a sister with many children who drinks herself unconscious every day; a brother who is totally immersed in Fundamental Christianity, also with several children who are secluded from all contact except church-related; another brother who appears "normal," but what festers beneath?
What do I remember about this cousin?
I remember standing beside him, before his mother, as the woman grasped his arm and held a flame from a cigarette lighter to his hand. I remember her telling me that she wished she could do it to me. She obviously was afraid that my mother might object. A ridiculous fear. I remember... I remember knowing there was no one I could tell, no one who would stand for me, protect me, help me. Certainly not my mother.
I don't remember him crying.
I was three years old. But I remember her face, her words.
My mother, sister and I lived with these people during one of my mother's many "vacations" from her abusive husband. So many bad things happened in that house, but this is seared into my memory, as clear 45 years later as if it had happened yesterday. Seared with the flame that scarred him, outside for a while, inside forever.
He chose to deal with the abuse by becoming an abuser. I do not feel sorry for the man he became.
I cry for the child standing beside me with his hand in the flame...
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Standing Before a Door
I’m standing in front of a door…with the only key. I built this door, carved a place for it in the wall I raised to protect me from what’s on the other side. And to protect what’s on the other side from me. What’s on the other side is thirty years in the past.
I’ve kept many things from that other side, bones I bury and dig up, bury and dig up. My own personal graveyard with angry ghosts that scream and weep and demand retaliation, and weary spirits who plead for release from the too-frequent resurrections.
None of them whisper, “forgive… forget.” To forget would invalidate who I am, because the past created the person I am today. The person whose rage and pain gave her strength to fight back, to make different choices, to refuse to accept still more pain. To forgive would dissolve their guilt, tell them that their actions were acceptable, and they do not deserve that.
They deserve to burn in Hell. And in this life, to know no peace, no joy, no happiness.
Yes, my past has given me interesting hobbies. Such as the Hunt. When the ghosts scream too loudly for retribution, I can quiet them with the Hunt. When the Hunt is done, they are appeased, all I hear is the soft pleadings of the weary, and I am as tired as they are. My mind can rest for a while; the bones return to the earth.
What is the Hunt? The search for those who made my life a torment. A search driven by my need to know what they have made of their own lives, and the hope that those lives have been scarred, wasted, marked by loss and failure. I do nothing with the information.
How does this work? In a brief pause in writing this, I picked a name out of the past, and began the Hunt. Within five minutes, I had her married name, the name of her husband, the names and ages of her children, how long she’d been married, and the names of several of the friends she’s maintained contact with since those halcyon days. Fifteen minutes more, and I will have her address, phone number, and other personal information. And it won’t cost a thing.
I am not a nice person. I never pretended to be.
But this recent Hunt has snared more than the previous, and laid out before me is the proof of their freedom from divine punishment. Spouses, children, successful careers, stature in the community, beautiful homes… happiness. And this has caused the ghosts of rage and revenge to tear at their cerements, demanding … something more. Demanding explanation for the deeds of the past, and acknowledgement of the pain they caused.
So I am driven to build this door.
And the key is heavy in my hand.
Do I open the door? What would that accomplish? Would there be explanation, apology, acknowledgement?
Or blank stares?
I’ve kept many things from that other side, bones I bury and dig up, bury and dig up. My own personal graveyard with angry ghosts that scream and weep and demand retaliation, and weary spirits who plead for release from the too-frequent resurrections.
None of them whisper, “forgive… forget.” To forget would invalidate who I am, because the past created the person I am today. The person whose rage and pain gave her strength to fight back, to make different choices, to refuse to accept still more pain. To forgive would dissolve their guilt, tell them that their actions were acceptable, and they do not deserve that.
They deserve to burn in Hell. And in this life, to know no peace, no joy, no happiness.
Yes, my past has given me interesting hobbies. Such as the Hunt. When the ghosts scream too loudly for retribution, I can quiet them with the Hunt. When the Hunt is done, they are appeased, all I hear is the soft pleadings of the weary, and I am as tired as they are. My mind can rest for a while; the bones return to the earth.
What is the Hunt? The search for those who made my life a torment. A search driven by my need to know what they have made of their own lives, and the hope that those lives have been scarred, wasted, marked by loss and failure. I do nothing with the information.
How does this work? In a brief pause in writing this, I picked a name out of the past, and began the Hunt. Within five minutes, I had her married name, the name of her husband, the names and ages of her children, how long she’d been married, and the names of several of the friends she’s maintained contact with since those halcyon days. Fifteen minutes more, and I will have her address, phone number, and other personal information. And it won’t cost a thing.
I am not a nice person. I never pretended to be.
But this recent Hunt has snared more than the previous, and laid out before me is the proof of their freedom from divine punishment. Spouses, children, successful careers, stature in the community, beautiful homes… happiness. And this has caused the ghosts of rage and revenge to tear at their cerements, demanding … something more. Demanding explanation for the deeds of the past, and acknowledgement of the pain they caused.
So I am driven to build this door.
And the key is heavy in my hand.
Do I open the door? What would that accomplish? Would there be explanation, apology, acknowledgement?
Or blank stares?
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