Deepest Thanks and Clarifications

I cannot even begin to express my love and gratitude to all of you who left comments on my post from yesterday.

Each of you wrapped yourselves around me and loved me compassionately, no judgment--without even knowing me.

What a beautiful thing that was to experience.
Tears were flooding my face as I read your words, and peace was filling my heart.
ThankyouThankyouThankyou.

This blogging community that I have found myself in?

Overflowing with gorgeously kind and supportive people.

I give my love to you all.

But I also need to apologize.
 Some of my post was not clear.


My shame does not come from being raped...
Sadly, that time was not the first, just the most heinous.
The one I could not deny as rape.
The first one I spoke aloud.

I am not ashamed of what was done to me. 
No victim should be, but so often we are.

I almost let it kill me, but I made it out.
I am a survivor. 
I am proud of that.

I would be lying though if I tried to say that I got to that place WITHOUT some intensive therapy, and I would also be remiss if I did not admit that sometimes--

There are still trickles of shame.

Even though I KNOW:
It was not my fault.
I could not fight back-drugging takes away choice, funny that...
And 3 grown men against one 5'3 woman with Cerebral Palsy?
Not so much a fair fight.
Or very human, for that matter.

I know that NOW, and I am not ashamed of being a survivor. 

But despite what I "know" there are still moments....
Even while writing this post, I found myself shocked at the familiar wash of shame that came over me.

Our intellectual minds and emotional minds do not always meet where they should.
Sigh.

But those past tinges of shame were not what I was referring to in that last post.

I am ashamed of myself for not reporting the rape.
For not seeking justice.
For sticking my head in the sand.
For letting three grown men violate me and walk away without any consequences.

Worse still?

Knowing that I never will.

I know that there are survivors who fought within an inch of their lives to seek justice.
Exposed themselves.
Faced judgment and further violation, for the sake of taking a stand.

I took no such stand.
I don't think I could have survived it.
I am in awe of you who did, who are.

I am sorry I could not. 
It truly does shame me, but I hope those reading can understand.

You all have my apologies, my love and my gratitude.
With your words have been salve on a very deep and slow-healing wound.

Thank you. So very much.
You've given me such a beautiful gift on my birthday...
Acceptance.

First and Lasting Fools

Went to bed last night thinking of my father.

This happens occasionally...
and I get wrapped up in memories I don't actually have.

I do not know my father.
I have never seen his face.
I have never heard his voice.
He exists in the world, but not to me.

My mother married my first stepfather when I was a year old or so...
Before I was four, he was gone.

I remember flashes of him.
I have seen his face
I remember feeling loved.
But I cannot hear his voice anymore.

I thought he was my biological father until I was 18....

My mother met my second stepfather almost immediately after.
They got pregnant with my sister when I was five.
He was to be my new Daddy.

He didn't want to be my Daddy, I could tell.
But as a kid hungry for love, for normalcy?
I dove in.

Hi Daddy!

 A tenuous bond....
A daughter who was not really a daughter and a father who was not really a father...
yet.

When my sister was born (and shortly following, my brother), it was clear that I wasn't needed anymore.
 Not a judgment or a whine, simply a fact...

I found myself fatherless again.
It felt familiar, but watching it play out so differently for other children, ones of my flesh and blood, was hard.

I did not feel jealous or angry...
just less.

I would often wish that my father would come rescue me...

He was MY father, after all.

Except he wasn't.

When I was 18, I needed my Birth Certificate.
My mother claimed that she didn't have mine-- "lost..."
So I went to County Records-- got my own damn copy.

As I looked it over, I noticed that my father's name was not on it.
Someone else's name was listed there...
Ummm, what the fuck?

My mother's version of the story is as follows:

She let me believe that her first husband was my father because it was "easier."
I would never have to know the truth....

Ummm, really? Poor planning on her part, then.

Anyway-
He was much older

They fell in love...or she did at least...

She got pregnant

When confronted with the news, he denied her, and told her he was engaged.
She was nothing to him and he wanted nothing to do with her or her baby...

She called him when I was born...
I was not supposed to live.
She wanted to give him the chance to see me...

He never came.

When I was about 9 months old, my mother ran into his fiancee....

This woman knew who my mother was, and strangely, she knew me...

Apparently, I looked JUST like my father.

The only detail that my mother would ever give me was his name.
First and Last.
I never even carried his name.
I carried hers.

I wanted to find him.
See him.
Hear him.
I did not want to love him, or for him to love me.
There would be no diving in.

No "Hi Daddys"

I just wanted the other half of the picture that was me.

But I couldn't find him.
First and Last was not enough.

Five years ago?
My mother was at a bar with friends.
He was there.
He did not recognize her.
She said nothing.

I know he lives in my state, probably even my county.
I know his name.
First and Last.
 

I gave up searching for him a long time ago.
He is a man on his path, and I am a woman on mine.

There is guilt because my son does not have the whole picture.

I am used to messy.
I am used to not being whole.

But that is not what I want for my son.

So I find myself thinking of my father.
Of the face that is mine, but I wouldn't recognize on the street.

I think of the siblings I will never know or love.

I think of the histories and dynamics that I will never be a part of.

Longing for that half that I will never be able to share with the child that is half of me...

I find myself angry for even thinking of it at all.

It seems foolish.

He is not my father, he is just a man.
Who happens to look like me.

I am not his daughter, I am just me.
Who happens to look like him.

It's foolish, right?

Until I think of my son.
Of the two halves that came together to make him.
To create his name.
First and Last.
I see a face that has pieces of mine, therefore pieces of his.
How beautiful that face is.

And I forgive my foolishness.
But not His.






[This post was written for the Red Dress Club, as part of their RemembeRED prompt...Unfortunately, I won't be linking it because I couldn't come in under the word limit. Always running my mouth for too long! HA!]