What they don’t tell you is that while you are finding out who you are, you will isolate your self from your old life; you will become a stranger there, while becoming your own best friend.
My five sisters are gathering together this week, and not a whisper to invite me, I am too odd, and too weird, too nuts or insane, a myriad of labels, but a sister to be included I am not.
There is a part of me that grieves for the loss of being included and my little girl self feels sooo misunderstood and so misclassified.
It seems my truth seeking spun me into this evil creature that they don’t want no part of.
The deeper I delved, the more I explored, the more distance I put between us all, my healing keeps pushing me further away.
It is like I am set out to sea while they are on the beach having a party.
I know intellectually, that my spirit and soul would have no peace with them, that I have lived too deep now to go back to be a surface dweller…yet I grieve.
I grieve for what is, for what was.
I feel being isolated for all the wrong reasons or so it seems.
I didn’t sexually abuse them…my father did; yet I am out for talking about it.
I didn’t neglect them like my mother did; yet I am out for pointing it out.
It is odd for my little girl to reconcile to make a nice neat understandable folder to put them all in.
The girls I used to take care of, no longer care for me.
By doing what is right I am wronged.
I get it and I don’t.
It amazes me that they can’t see the bad in my father and then see only bad in me.
My son, when he was a baby, always said when he did something I thought was wrong…”what did my do?” With a face of innocence…he wondered.
And that is what rings hollow through me, “What did my do?” What hurts the most is that I did nothing wrong.
All I did was walk hand in hand with the wounded girls, the girls who were all hurt by him, I never left my line…I never wavered, never veered off course, although there are times like these I wobbled.
I wobble, shed a few tears, and feel the separation and the unjustness of it all, but I forge ahead.
I forge ahead with the truth and bear the consequences.
They say, “what doesn’t break you makes you stronger.”
I am being forged in grief it seems at times.
How can my mind comprehend me being worse then they who hurt them, again, what did my do?
It seems they have their story of me and a story of my father, both are stories of fiction…
