DARKNESS
It took every ounce of strength and fortitude I possessed to pick up Granny’s journal again. I couldn’t end it there. I had to keep going. Or I would stop. Forever.
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October 29
THEY HURT ME.
I have spent my entire life prevaricating when it comes to the way relatives have treated me — both mine and Adam’s.
I have been told implicitly and explicitly that I must always look past or, better yet, completely overlook any wrongs they have ever done because that’s what the Bible says.
So I have made excuse after excuse after excuse for them.
I have continually told myself it wasn’t that bad.
I have given them a pass time after time after time.
But I’ve always known the truth.
My body has always known the truth.
THEY DAMAGED ME.
THEY WOUNDED ME.
THEY CRUSHED ME.
Each and every one of them.
And I have been forced to “see things from their point of view” and I have been told that I have no right to feel any pain because they are just damaged people, too, and didn’t Jesus say, “…forgive them for they don’t know what they’re doing”?
I have constantly and consistently been told —
YOUR PAIN DOES NOT MATTER.
Only other people’s pain matters.
I’ve never been able to declare my pain without someone telling me some version of “you need to be more understanding” and I’ve believed that’s what God has been telling me, too.
And yet every single molecule, every single atom in my body is screaming
THEY TRASHED ME,
SOUL and SPIRIT
HUNDREDS OF TIMES OVER,
and THEY. DID. NOT. CARE.
The rage rises.
I guess what causes the most intense fury, aside from the appalling lack of consideration and respect, is the fact that no one, not one of them had or has even a minuscule inkling of the devastation they have wreaked in my life.
And what infuriates me even more is that THEY DON’T CARE TO KNOW.
They would rather blame me.
I am insensitive, intolerant, uncaring, unloving, lacking in compassion and kindness.
I am only wrapped up in myself and don’t care a fig for what THEY are going through.
The blame is always mine and mine alone to bear.
Never theirs.
Thus it has been and thus it shall always be in their minds.
Because they don’t care about me.
They care only about how I make them feel.
November 11
It has been such a gargantuan struggle for me to see God as loving, and I think one of the primary reasons is because I’ve had this thought pumped into my brain for as long as I can remember — BE THANKFUL TO GOD FOR EVERYTHING THAT’S HAPPENED TO YOU.
God is to be blessed and thanked that those who donated their biological material dumped me in front of some public building like an unwanted dog.
He is to be praised for me being given a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and food in my stomach by people who treated me like I was a trained monkey at best, their personal slave at worst.
Do I get what they’re probably saying?
Yes, I do.
Bu I am more convinced than ever that they’re saying it for their benefit and not mine.
Because a person who actually took a moment to think wouldn’t respond to another person’s excruciating pain with, “So you should be over the top thankful to God that you were made to suffer so horrendously!”
No, that’s something a person says when a) they don’t want to wrestle with a God Who does things that they don’t understand; b) they have a strong need to justify their own past mistakes and sins by claiming that God works it all out in the end and anyway, whoever I wronged should thank God because everything I did to them brought them closer to Him, right?
What was it Paul said?
Their condemnation is just.
I think, though, the worst of the worst is when I have made what were admittedly feeble attempts to share my pain with the few people I have whom I thought were friends and their first response has been to tell me that they’re praying for my relatives.
FOR THEM.
Really?!?
Telling me that you’re praying for those who made my life a nightmare from which I can never awake.
That their well-being is the first thing you think of when I try to share a suffering and torment that almost can’t be expressed in words.
What is THAT?!
Sure, I get that you want to come across as super spiritual and whatever, and my rational brain will even admit that there is a place for praying for people like that, but for the love of all that is holy, that is NOT, NOT, NOT what someone like me wants to hear right off the bat.
Be a spiritual giant on your own time, please.
November 13
I knew the day was coming when I would have to confront this again.
I’ve been so focused on relatives that I’ve been constantly shoving this away.
But apparently now it won’t be shoved aside any longer.
The catastrophic horror.
The humiliation and shame are absolute.
I am running.
Running so fast.
As fast as I can.
But he’s right behind me.
There’s no escape.
I’m not fast enough.
He’s always there.
I can’t get away.
That is my truth.
That is my reality.
I can’t breathe.
I can only stagger beneath the crushing weight.
The abuse by relatives is devastating.
But this makes me want to tear my brain out of my head so I never have to remember or see those images flash before my eyes ever, ever, ever again.
And what do the acceptance and submission junkies have to say to that?
Okay, that was harsh.
I am sorry for that.
I recognize that so many people grasp at the easy answers because they’re not ready to come to terms with their own pain.
But please, please, oh please stop trying to tell me that everything is cut and dried, black and white.
Because pretty much nothing is.
Especially not when it comes to this.
Not even in the Bible.
The women who were violated in the Old Testament are never given any resolution.
None of the men in their lives protected them.
Their fathers were abysmal in their responses.
Their brothers used them as an excuse for wholesale murdering slaughter.
And where was God?
Why absolute silence from Him?
No one gave them justice.
No one vindicated them.
(And no, murdering everyone in sight is NOT vindication of any kind.)
The only thing God has to say on the matter is that if a woman is violated in a town and doesn’t scream for help, she gets stoned to death.
Why is her consent implied simply because she doesn’t cry out?
What if she’s like me and all her former trauma causes her to freeze so she can’t cry out?
WHY?!?!?
Why doesn’t God address parental abuse and the most hideous violation a man or woman could ever perpetrate against another human being?!?
I mean, obviously it’s evil.
But why doesn’t God specifically call it out and condemn it in the strongest terms possible?
Why does it seem like the Bible has so little to say about abuse of any kind?
Don’t kill.
Don’t envy.
Don’t disobey your parents.
Don’t commit adultery.
Don’t lie.
Don’t cheat.
Don’t steal.
Don’t gossip.
Don’t be unforgiving.
How about “DON’T VIOLATE ANOTHER PERSON’S BODY IN THE MOST HEINOUS MANNER IMAGINABLE”?
How about “DON’T TREAT YOUR CHILDREN LIKE WORTHLESS PIECES OF DUNG”?
Where are those commandments?!?
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Once again, one of Granny’s journals went sailing across the room.
This time, though, it wasn’t fury that put it in flight. I’m not really even certain I was entirely cognizant of what I was doing in the moment. It took a few minutes to realize that what I’d thought were imagined screams coming from Granny were actually erupting from my own vocal cords. I crumpled to the floor, gulping for air.
Granny’s pain was palpable, each word pounding on my brain. Thing is, they weren’t just her words. Not all of them, anyway.
As my breathing slowly returned to normal, I found myself anxiously wondering if any of my neighbors had heard me. I picked myself up off the floor and retrieved Granny’s journal, carefully placing it on the couch next to me as I sat down.
Tea sounds good.
I made myself a steaming cup of tea and splashed a little more cream in it than usual, after which I sat down again and flicked on the TV, slowly and distractedly sipping the tea.
Maybe you should get the decorations out — now’s as good a time as any.
Right. I’d been meaning to get the boxes out of the closet. It was already the middle of November and I felt like I was behind. My Christmas decorations usually went up on November 1 because, well, because.
It wasn’t until a very, very long time later that I realized what my brain was doing, but nothing could have seemed more normal right then. I didn’t really even give it much thought when I tossed Granny’s journal back into the box and packed the box in the closet right next to the now empty Christmas decoration boxes.