This is just a little present-day update post. I know some of you may be wondering when the pitiful saga of Jess the child will continue. I’ve written some of the next post in my trauma narrative. However, I’ve encountered a dilemma. While my previous posts have included people that are either no loner living or not a part of my life anymore, these next posts will mention present day members of my family with whom I am still in contact, at least periodically. This has apparently already caused no small amount of distress for my Nanna. She fears I aim to ruin the lives of everyone around me with my tales. She sees no true purpose behind this narrative I labor to translate from my mind to screen. See, I had a feeling she was not quite as receptive to my publications as I’d been naively hoping. Over the last week or so she has become distant with me. Nanna and I are too much alike in this regard. Neither of us is truly comfortable with confrontation.
Upon my invitation to dinner the other night, Nanna walked over to my house. She held a sleeping P as she revealed her concerns to me. With her eyes averted in an effort to avoid meeting my gaze, she asked that I refrain from publishing anything in the continuation of my Trauma Narrative that could cause my dad to lose his job or our relationship to crumbe. The tension in the air was palpable as I carefully considered her words. I knew this conversation could take a turn that would be unpleasant for us both and that my response would steer it down whichever path. I weighed my options from simply replying with “ok” to discussing my own thoughts. Naturally, I chose the latter. This won’t be a shock to anyone reading this who truly knows me. In fact, I suspect my Nanna knew the possible outcomes of this conversation, if her reticence was any indication. In retrospect, I could’ve chosen my words so that my response wasn’t quite so abrasive upon reception. I stated that someone who was really concerned with his career would not have done anything to put it at risk. Obviously, this only fanned the flames. Nanna nodded with frustration as she told me she hoped I would find the satisfaction I am searching for in my posts. I can’t even begin to explain how this made me feel. I was hurt, to put it as mildly as I possibly can. I tried to put my feelings into words and failed miserably, of course. I attempted to explain that she should be concerned that her worries lay with my dad’s career and not what I’d been through. She was visibly angered by my response to her request. She snapped that she’d been through her own traumas and refused to tell her own mother in the hopes that she would be spared the pain. To this I replied that this was her choice. My mind was filled with thoughts that I reined in and held tight. I had already said enough to detonate the bomb. Nanna stood and passed P to me, who had been awakened by the blast. She snapped at me as she strode to the front door that she hoped I was the perfect mother I say I am going to be. I tried to stammer out that I have no such expectations when my door was slammed shut.
I shouldn’t be surprised. There is, after all, a good reason for my silence on the subject of my abuse for the last fifteen years. Members of my family are typically narrow minded and willfully ignorant in matters they would rather ignore. I can’t necessarily blame anyone for being or feeling this way, but my story belongs to me alone. I have felt such fear and anxiety over the prospect of telling my story for so many years. I understand the confusion behind my intentions in making this story public. However, to clarify, the telling of my tale is simply for my healing. We all have our secrets and shameful sins we’d rather be kept buried. Unfortunately, when we do things that can forever change someone’s life, whether for good or bad, these things become immortalized. Just as scars are visible reminders of past wounds, memories carry the same imprints. An old injury can ache when cold weather arrives, and the heart may feel a pang with a certain scent or sound. To this day, the smell of Ivory dish soap reminds me of my Nanna’s kitchen and AWOL Nation’s Sail brings to mind memories of my mom’s passing. My point is that I believe I have the choice to tell my story to any and all. I have no intentions to hurt anyone else, which is why I am doing no more than typing it all out and posting in a blog. Judge if you wish, as that is your own choice. I will finish this story. Thank you all for reading this far.
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