Recently, a couple of elderly relatives have started talking about the abuse that they had grown up with. I had suspected it on and off through the years. But truthfully, I was unprepared for the depth of the abuse they said they had experienced at the hands of their father. My denial cushioned me against facing the spectre of abuse that runs rampant through my family. I wasn't ready for the denial to flee quite yet. It is an odd thing really. This denial. It is both life-saving and damning at the same time.
Until recently, it used to be thought that one had to go through several years of therapy in order to face the abuse (as I did). And until recently, I thought that once someone reached their sixth or seventh or eighth decade any direct talk of abuse was not to be. I was mistaken on both counts. And the thing that triggered these revelationary talks? Some guy on television a couple of decades ago talking about adult children of alcoholics. I remain astonished. Not grateful. I cannot be grateful for the pain of others. But astonished nonetheless.
If you are waiting for a punchline, a moral, or a "what I learned from this," I will offer none of these things. Instead I will sign off now til next time.
sapphoq on life
No comments:
Post a Comment