tough stuff

A house full of memories

I am spending this week in the house I grew up in, my mothers house. We moved out of here when I was Twelve and into my step fathers house, my mother never sold this place but rented it out to a family instead. Now she wants to sell it, so here we are again. This week she is on holiday, so I am taking car of the place, and my cat, while she is away which is more than a little challenging. I am sleeping in my sisters old bedroom, as my old bedroom is the size of a closet (being the youngest and the unplanned child I lucked out on the bedroom choosing). Its odd to be back, to see the bedroom where I would come home from my fathers house and hide under that bed. Where I slept in the toy box as a little girl because I thought my teddy bears needed the warmth of the bed more than I did. This is the place where I hid as my parents fought loudly in the living room, where the police came to take away my big brother to prison, where I fell off the garage roof, while hiding up there so that I didnt have to go with the man who was abusing me who was supposed to be taking us to my fathers house.

Remembering Women

Today I got in the car in the pouring rain and sat in the drivers seat wondering where shall I go? It's the first whole day off I have had in a while and with all my friend's back at university I really was at a loss for what to do today. So I decided to drive out to the country to visit my Nana's grave to say goodbye before I leave to Canada in a few week's. I hadn't visited her there in a long time and as I drove out there I was thinking about her the whole time. And it made me think how sad it is the way we remember people. She died when I was 12 years old, after a long battle with cancer. I remember how much everyone at the funeral kept saying what a great wife and mother she was, and how nice she was, and thinking they were right, but also that they are all forgetting what an amazing Woman she was and how those things they all were saying did not do her justice.

Guilt of the past heavy in my heart.

In my last counselling session I found myself caught in a conversation which I had previously tried to avoid entering into with anyone. Those words: “Do you think he has hurt anyone else?” make me feel sick to my stomach. That is never far from my thoughts and the guilt I feel about that weighs heavy on my heart. Yes. I do think he has hurt others. I think there were others before me. I think there were others after. I wish there were none, including myself, I know I couldn’t have saved those hurt before me, what kills me is that I could have made the lives of girls after me better. And I didn’t.

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