If you don’t run by grief and graze it, it may just take you out of the race. Pain is one thing. Grief, a very different beast.
I was my father’s toy, his confidant, his companion. Or so I thought. My mother hated everything about our relationship, but that was fine by me as a child. Dad and I were tight. When he cleaned up his act and found religion, our world was slated to become a better place.
Lie after lie. I trusted him. Deception was a coat of armor in our home.
Murder and rape was the obvious conviction that brought me pain. That was easy — in its way. It was the falsehood my father erected after the original carnage that I found too heavy to bear.
What do I mean by that?
I mean, that as a destroyed little girl, my pain would keep me up at night. But, when dad found religion, I had an uptick in hope. I believed in this new cloak he found himself wearing. We were cleaning up our act. Things were going to be different.
What a fucking joke.
The layers and layers of years of abuse, now made a foundation for another theme:
When I left my father’s house at 18, I stopped in my bedroom, looked up to the sky and told the god of my father that I was done with him. He could fuck off and get out of my life.
I was so confused by the time I left their wretched world; was I in pain or was I now reborn into beauty? I didn’t feel any transformation but I was taught an indoctrination that feed me silence and told me I was fine.
Grief for all of the many years I’d suffered. Years that cannot be returned to me. Grief for the burden of figuring this masquerade out. Grief for the tragedy I brought to my own children. In a way, the grief doesn’t end. It changes course, it morphs, it abates and then rears it’s head again, but it always remains.