Lately I’ve been struggling with some difficult memories. For the sake of my family I’ve tried to to keep a lid on them, but I’ve come to realise that the only way I’m going to find any kind of peace is to let them out. I hope, if any of those I love see this and feel this is wrong, that they’ll forgive me, and try to understand. None of them knew anything of it, until several years later, and for the most part they have supported me, and not pushed me away.
I will not publicise this blog, but neither will I hide it – I’ve been doing that for far too long. It might be best if I was more open, anyway, as it might explain some things about me and my personal choices. **UPDATE** in the light of the #MeToo revelations, and the need to raise awareness of the scale of this issue, I am going back on this decision not to share the blog. I wrote it several weeks ago but it feels like it’s time now.
I have lost some family over this; I was in a strange and difficult place, and I said something that was the truth, though I regretted immediately and have apologised, but it was too late; one third of my family has withdrawn from me, and is set on punishing me for the rest of my life, but there’s nothing more I can do about it. Nothing more I want to. I’ve moved on. So here is something I wrote when I finally realised too much of my life has been sacrificed to the looming spectre of one person. I’ve lifted the lid, and last night I slept really well; the only bad guys in my dreams were zombies, and I can deal with that.
Man of the people, everyone’s friend. I was about three when you came. You smiled, you waited. When I was nine, you struck.
But you did not break me.
You sculpted my youth to the shape of your twisted mentality.
You created a Hell for me in your secret hideaways. Those who loved me remained outside, oblivious.
You wielded your threats like serrated blades, carving your lies. I obeyed; I deserved it, you said so.
But you did not break me.
And as I grew, your darkness grew with me; your violence followed me; your hatred poisoned me.
You writhed your way into every part of my life: my play, my friends, even my job.
You were behind every door. Your cold brown eyes found me in my innocent laughter and froze it in my throat.
You said others would come, that you’d invited them, that I should be grateful; I lay wide awake and nauseous in the dark, waiting.
It did not break me.
You proudly showed me the weapon and ammunition you said were my fate; the place outside the workshop, beneath the wet fallen leaves, where you laughed and said you would bury me. Where no-one would look. More empty threats to plague my sleep, and taint my waking hours. I was a child, you controlled me, but you did not break me.
And when you finally left this Earth a better place for your passing, you reached out from your stinking grave and painted me the demon, the liar, the destroyer of illusions.
But I have fought and beaten stronger things than you.
You will not break me.
© Terri Nixon 2017