i feel entirely battered by this past week’s words.
to be fair, i am likely just feeling battered by december: a month of rampant over-consumption, of consumerism, of pressure to be happy and to get the right gifts and to send cards (i never do), a month where i have to hear about people’s family gatherings and traditions, where there is such emphasis on togetherness and peace and FUCK OFF ALREADY, a month to overeat everything in sight, and the month, nearly to the day, that three years ago, i first remembered the incest. while doing something innocuous and festive with my daughter, on a sunny afternoon.
kiddo and i did that same festive activity tonight (for the first time in three years) and i was trying really, really hard to stay present. i think i succeeded. she had fun and went to bed on a huge sugar high. i didn’t crumple into a heap on the kitchen floor, or scream or weep. (well not tonight i didn’t. that was earlier today, on my own.)
one of the few friends who knows *all* of the shit about my dad said, the worst thing about all of this [pain and upset and hurt] is that none of it is your fault. you didn’t do anything wrong at all. and i’ve read those words a million times in a million places and my wife and therapist and pocketbrit have said that to me another trillion times yet it took this friend saying that, as simplistically as she did, for me to truly take it in. it wasn’t my fault. i was just a little girl.
i take ownership for so much else, but finally, finally, i know that bit to be true. it wasn’t my fault.
it wasn’t pocketbrit’s fault (no, my love. i promise. not ever.)
and for everyone else reading, if you were little, and someone hurt your body or your mind or your safety, it wasn’t your fault, and i’ll hold that for you until you can.