Today, my father would have turned 88 years old. I have roughly six years of peace as pertains to him; one and 1/2 as pertains to my mother. After they left and I all I had was myself, things started to come up to the surface. There was all this space that initially seemed empty/peaceful, but it was actually full of shit that didn't have time or strength to be recognized before.
How odd that I should end up registering sex offenders as part of my job. I knew I hated it, but some of the reasons were probably apparent to a few others before I knew myself. The universe pokes and prods and sometimes you land in a space that's uncomfortable for a reason, maybe just to push you into recognizing why you see yourself in every survivor. The memories that you refused to give credence to, the black spots where you don't remember anything, but you remember everything before and everything after.
I almost cried today because I thought I was missing the part of him that made me believe he loved me. Then I realized I wanted to cry because I loved someone who treated me so abhorrently.
I wanted this space and quiet in my head; I thought I could find peace there. Maybe someday. At least there's a recognition now, and I see some of the things I always lied to myself about. I've been as willfully blind to myself as the caretakers/parents of some of these survivors were about what they put their children through...to have a man, to not have to make tough decisions, to blame it on the child, to blame it on a religion. I am to myself as some of the dirtbags were to their charges. No wonder I was so pissed at all the parents that didn't take care of their children. I wasn't even as angry at my mother and father than I was angry at myself as an adult not protecting me as a child.
