I'm reading a blog
and it makes me very sad. Chasmyn told me about this blog, how the author was dealing with having had an affair, how real the blog was. Eventually, I took her advice and wandered over to read it. I came in at the end of her story, and had to read the archives to catch it all. The next time I visited the blog, she had a new post about remembering sexual abuse. I don't talk about abuse very much on this blog, and (other than the rape) I don't mention it at all on my other blog. Most of my family lives in denial, and the few of us who bring it up are told to not discuss private matters. So I keep quiet around my family, and I wonder about my sister and my cousins. I wonder what they're keeping silent in their heads. What monsters do they have to smother daily, in order to keep that happy smile fixed in place?
Anyway... I read her post about remembering, and after a lot of thought, sent her a comment. Here it is:
"Somewhere down the road, you're going to get angry with yourself for forgetting what happened. You might see yourself as weak for not tackling the recovery process sooner. When you feel like that, know this: forgetting is not wrong. Forgetting gave you a childhood of joy. It was simple defense. Isn't it amazing, the things we do to protect ourselves? Forgetting WAS your recovery. You're remembering now because you finally have the tools you need to heal.

Thank you for sharing your story. You make a world of difference."

I felt kind of guilty, because everyone else was posting about how sad they were for her, or how much they loved her, or how they just know she will get through this -because they had. I felt guilty for not saying those things, yet I felt that I really needed to say what I did. Someday she will get mad at herself, and when that someday comes; everyone else will have forgotten.
So I sent off my comment, visited other blogs, and thought no more about it. I visited her blog maybe one or two more times, but generally went on with my life. Today I saw that her site had some referals to my site. I couldn't remember who it was, although the name rang a bell, so I clicked it to see who liked me enough to link to my blog.
The second her blog came up on screen, it all came back to me. Her whole story, the phone calls with Chasmyn, the comment I had left... everything. On her blog is this: " Thursday, 13 November 2003
I always wondered what my last entry would look like.
this is my last entry" and a good last entry it was, too. She explains why she's ending the blog and discusses her past. It's beautiful and heartbreaking. I read more. She is so depressed right now. Not in the hollywood-movie sense, hers is a true depression.
I want to drive to Ohio and find her. I want to knock on her door and say, "I'm here, and you're not alone." I want to hold her and rock her until she cries. I want to take her to her life and get them re-acquainted, because they're both lost right now. She's living in a void, separate from her life; and her life is nothing without her in it. And I know that I can
Then I think, maybe I'm crazy. I mean, I know I'm not going to drive to Ohio, but I know that I can make a difference if I did.
Which reminds me of when I was a teenager. I was dealing with a lot of stuff. The sexual abuse as a child, the rape at 15, the abortion and subsequent dumping by my boyfriend at 17, getting kicked out of high school for being pagan, all served to usher in the Great Depression for me. I had gotten to a point where I'd filled the bathtup with warm water, and I was sharpening my athame to cut my wrists with. (I figured the tub would be easier to clean. When you cut an artery, blood spurts everywhere, y'know?) I had turned off the water, and was finishing the sharpening when the phone rang. It was a girl from my first high school. I hadn't seen her in almost 2 years. We worked at the same mall for a brief bit of time, and I had given her my phone number. So out of the blue, she calls me. She asked how I was doing. She said she had been thinking about me, and really, really felt the urge to call.
She saved my life.
When she asked how I was doing, it snapped me out of my depression. Suddenly the world had color again. Suddenly, I felt alive! Just knowing that there was someone out there who didn't have to care about me, gave enough of a damn to pick up the phone, somehow gave me the ability to cope again.
Thanks to the blog I've been reading, I've remembered my saviour's name. It's Diane. So If you ever run into a blonde woman named Diane, who used to go to Visual and Performing Arts high, (Central High) Tell her thank you for me.