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No More Secrets
sadness were surfacing quickly. I discovered I'd reached a point where I wanted to write about
my feelings from my present adult perspective. Using words torn directly from the fairy tale books
to write about my childhood experience was an amazing tool integral to my gradual ability to
overcome my fear of verbal expression. I found seeing my own stories pieced together with words
torn from this trusted source to be an extremely effective method to help me connect emotionally
to the reality of what I had been forced to experience. The next step, alternating between stories
pieced with words torn from the Brothers Grimm and Anderson volumes, and writing my own
poetry had been another excellent way for me to ease the discomfort of coming forward with the
truth of my past.
I was ready to move on.
There is still such an overwhelming tendency to look at the fearful feelings I experience as an adult
in the same way I might look at an invasive disease requiring immediate eradication. I came to
understand this perception only causes frustration and further anxiety. Instead of immediately
rejecting or repressing the feelings so ingrained from the early part of my life, I try to objectively
observe the feelings with empathy toward my child self and acknowledge the survival tools she/I
developed to cope with the reality of a horrific situation. At that point I to turn to new tools of
coping while gently reminding myself that I am no longer a child dependant upon abusive adults
for my survival. It still takes a LOT of gentle reminding not to be hard on myself when fearful
feelings surface.
I am also beginning to truly understand that there is a great difference between healthy compassion
coupled with responsibility and self-sacrifice to the point of non-existence; that there are times for
me when what feels like compassion and “the right thing to do” is actually a false feeling driven by
old fears of being judged; of having that scarlet word—BAD—hung around my neck. One of the
most important (and oh, so difficult) things I am working on, is to give myself guilt free
permission to know that I am not obligated to maintain a relationship with a mother, father or
family member who is abusive; that no family title comes with a license to inflict verbal or physical
abuse. It was, at first, a frightening and heartbreaking realization for me; the word—FAMILY—
holds such imagery and emotional implication of loving bonds and a sense of responsibility for one
another. To break from family was to have to acknowledge the reality of my past and present.
next three web pages) depict my feelings as they have developed over the last number of months. I
reached a point where I felt the need to be more direct in my story writing. It was in the process of
creating these last four works, that I discovered and admitted to myself a painful but liberating truth.
during, and I remember when it stopped. Then I can only remember being alone.
I had to have been the one to wash away the blood. I’ve tried hard to remember. Sometimes I
sense it. It comes like the last flutter of a dying moth in a dusty corner, but I can’t bring it back to
life.
I see them on those TV crime shows—terrified parents consoling their child. They ask questions.
No one ever asked me those questions, so I answer, too.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Yes, he hurt me.”
“No, I mean did he . . . you know—HURT you?
And then I get confused, because, like I said I remember during. I remember what awful things he
did do, and I don’t think he did that. Can you imagine there are times I feel shame because I don't
think he did that. Because, maybe I wasn’t good enough for that. How nuts is that? THAT.
No, THIS was something else. THIS was loathing. Savage, vicious, hot, dark,
Kingsnake-in-the-grass slithering round my feet hatred. THIS seemed to flare from the raging
flames of his regrets. I know he wanted to kill me, and each time I remember wondering if
THIS would be it. But then it would stop, and the rest is a lonely blank.
When I try to remember, I feel possessed by a screaming pressure cooker feeling of The Alien
ready to burst from the rot of my guts. I do remember days after—even years after it stopped
how she’d say it with a smile that did nothing to conceal her deprecation.
“You have your Daddy’s beautiful eyes.”
Such fucking pretense.
I can’t do this anymore. I won’t play this pathetic survival game of masquerade. I won’t become
another gnarled branch of this twisted family tree. I’m sick of the secrets.
I remember before. They were all there. I remember during. They were on the other side of the
door. I remember when it stopped and how he’d throw me to the ground in disgust then go back
to them. Maybe I don’t have to remember what happened after—how scared and lonely I must
have been when nobody came to see if this was it, so I washed off my own blood and then . . .?
THIS—THAT. Does it matter when it’s betrayal?
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© 2006 Meg Fox
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