Is it your own story or is it the story that your parents taught you and demanded you tell?
I struggle seeing all of my story, I’m not going to lie. I know it’s the truth. I know it happened. And, I struggle with it.
I’m not supposed to tell. I am supposed to hide the sin, never divulge the secret and make my parents look the part they wanted to play. The fun to them was obviously in the hiding and they were good at it.
My mother was called the “white sheep” of her family. Her family smoke, gambled and drank. So what! My mother is a pedophile, lived in filthy perversion with her husband, and extended their lies through pretense to her family and the community.
Which is worse?
Hiding pedophilia behind the façade of some screwball made-up religion or smoking?
These people I came from believed their stories, right? They believed them as long as their children believed them. I have two siblings that stay in the story my parents gave to us that we were not sexually abused. There was a time when my family came together and we all agreed we had been. Then, they recanted.
They recanted their own story for the story of my parents. Did they need these sick creatures love that bad?
Today, I tell my story. My soul stays slightly conflicted with the residual affects of my affiliation to their strong lies.
I am preparing a video outlining the details of the murder today. It’s hard to convey the timeline and facts as they happened so I hope to present it in a fashion that brings conviction around the truth of it. I need help.
All week I’ve dreamed of my mom. I know why, too. I don’t tell their story anymore, I tell the truth.