It took me all morning yesterday to figure out why I’ve been struggling more than usual with emotions/flashbacks of my childhood abuse.
Today is the 25 year anniversary of the climax of it all. 25 years since my perception of everything changed. I was just 15 years old.
On this day in 1995 I found out my dad was ready to testify against me in court. His sworn deposition with the defense called me a liar, a story teller, and confused.
His betrayals haunt my sense of self, my feelings of worth, and my ability to trust.
It has been 25 years since my grandfather killed himself rather than face me in court. I still couldn’t tell you exactly how I feel about all of that.
Over two decades since it was ingrained in me that there is no justice for the abuses I have suffered, no closure for my pain, and no accountability for my lifetime of affects.
And even now, 25 years later, I can still feel his hands on my young body sometimes; his mouth, his breath. It’s enough to make me want to climb out of my skin.
It is not my burden to carry – yet the memories will not let me go.
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