Since I wrote Under the Juniper Trees, I have been in a funk. It’s a twisted sort of mess. Feelings of guilt, and feelings of GUILT!
There is this guilt that is long rooted within my soul.
When I was little all of the adults called me a liar. Told me that it was my fault for the bruises, that I bruised too easily. My Father called me a liar, and said I had too big of an imagination. How can a child imagine the shit that is stuck in my mind from that time?
Oh sure, I was a little kid, but this is my truth. This is my perspective. And it still fucking haunts me.
Like ghosts that never rest, for the feelings of unfinished business left behind, the past of what happened, and how I viewed it as a child lingers in the shadows of my mind.
Someone close said by the time I came to my Father and his new wife, i was so damaged emotionally that I couldn’t accept good love. That I sought out bad love. But then I think, what the HELL were the adults doing that…well it does have some logic to it…but I was 4 years old. 4!!!!
How the hell was I suppose to undo the damage?
I dunno maybe I am wrong. and maybe this shit is too twisted, and I should keep writing it out. Sometimes the hardest story to tell is the one that grieves us the most.