"The dreams still haunt me, leaving me in the dawn wet with tears.
It is true, there are moments in one's life
more memorable than entire years.
But these moments are those usually wished forgotten."
But these moments are those usually wished forgotten."
Hunter Bell's Diary, June 3, 1857- The Looking Glass- A novel by Richard Paul Evans
I was confused about the aspect of right and wrong touching at a very young age.
He'd call me to stand in front of him and she'd be right there on a sofa,
just a few feet away.
She'd actually just sit there and watch him as he'd instruct me once again to put my hands down at my sides. Instinctively I'd feel immediately caught up feeling both deeply uncomfortable and
intimidated to the point of my feeling like I had to do as he said...or else.
My mind was too young to process or formulate the understanding that this was a wrong worth defending for myself.
Meanwhile, deep down I could feel within myself how wrong and unnatural this was. I'd look to my mother for some form of salvation. Although I didn't understand how to speak up my hearts demand for my mother's love and intervention; her protection.
Her eyes were detached. I did not understand. To this day I can honestly say I never will.
My father would reach his hand to fondle my underdeveloped breasts and squeeze them for a reaction. I looked away feeling so violated and so confused. I hated the very moment like nothing I have ever known. Yet I did not know how to hate him or her,
my parents. So I began there, hating me.
She watched... For me it was as if she was saying to him, 'Go ahead..." For years I have quietly struggled with the very reality and inability to shake that she watched.
intimidated to the point of my feeling like I had to do as he said...or else.
My mind was too young to process or formulate the understanding that this was a wrong worth defending for myself.
Meanwhile, deep down I could feel within myself how wrong and unnatural this was. I'd look to my mother for some form of salvation. Although I didn't understand how to speak up my hearts demand for my mother's love and intervention; her protection.
Her eyes were detached. I did not understand. To this day I can honestly say I never will.
My father would reach his hand to fondle my underdeveloped breasts and squeeze them for a reaction. I looked away feeling so violated and so confused. I hated the very moment like nothing I have ever known. Yet I did not know how to hate him or her,
my parents. So I began there, hating me.
She watched... For me it was as if she was saying to him, 'Go ahead..." For years I have quietly struggled with the very reality and inability to shake that she watched.
And deep down I realize today that I still have not shaken that from deep within my soul;
yet I have learned to love her. Something I personally acknowledge today as God's hand on my heart.
I am not consumed, however, I cannot erase, nor forget the images which stand like hallmark monuments which represent the vivid flash-like phases of traumatic events; those that are the physical cruelties upon my life, my spirit and innocence as a child.
yet I have learned to love her. Something I personally acknowledge today as God's hand on my heart.
I am not consumed, however, I cannot erase, nor forget the images which stand like hallmark monuments which represent the vivid flash-like phases of traumatic events; those that are the physical cruelties upon my life, my spirit and innocence as a child.
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