Please be advised that the following post contains sensitive content related to child abuse, rape, and grief, which may be triggering for some readers. Please prioritize your well-being and engage with this content at your own discretion.
Today, my heart carries a double burden. It’s the day my son would have turned 36. A milestone forever etched in the realm of “what ifs,” a poignant reminder of a life that burned too bright and too brief. Alongside this familiar ache, another shadow looms – my biological father is dying.
For many, the passing of a parent, regardless of the relationship, brings a certain weight, a sense of finality. But for me, the prospect of his death, and the unsettling thought of his potential resting place near my son, ignites a visceral revulsion. Sympathy feels like a foreign language when I look at him, because etched behind his aging features is the face of my first rapist, my abuser. Time cannot erase those early horrors. His presence, then and now, is a stark reminder of the violations that shaped my young life.
My mind wanders back to the fragmented memories of a child living in fear. The three-year-old me, huddled beneath the bed, clutching the evidence of a stolen innocence, a secret shame hidden from a mother already drowning in grief. I see the older child, seeking refuge in the anonymity of a car parked behind a sleazy motel, anyplace better than the room where nightmares became reality.
That child, that terrified version of myself, would scarcely believe the life I inhabit now. A clean home, a safe family, consistent meals – a luxury beyond comprehension for someone whose early years were defined by instability and fear. This sanctuary was not gifted; it was forged in the fires of a 22-year-old’s courage. The memory of pushing my toddlers across town in a stroller to file charges against the man who should have protected me is a testament to a fierce determination to break the cycle. Speaking the truth fractured family bonds, but it was the first step on a long and arduous path toward healing.
Therapy became a lifeline, education a tool for empowerment, and work a means to build independence. Most importantly, creating my own healthy family became the balm that soothed many of the deep wounds inflicted in those early years. Yet, the finality of my father’s life, his impending departure from this world, has unearthed a reservoir of buried turmoil.
The past and present collide in uncomfortable ways. I find myself questioning my ability to have healthy relationships, not just with others, but with the different versions of myself that have existed throughout my life. How do I reconcile the woman I am now with the child who knew only fear, or the young mother who fought so fiercely for a better future?
In these difficult moments, I am trying to consciously choose love. Love for the memory of my son, love for the family I have built, and yes, even love and compassion for the wounded parts of myself. I am trying to focus on nurturing the relationships that bring light and strength into my life, rather than dwelling on the final heartbeats of a man who cast such a long shadow.
It’s a struggle, a daily practice of redirecting my energy. But I believe that by speaking love to myself and to those I hold dear, I can navigate this turbulent time and continue to build a future rooted in healing and connection, rather than the lingering pain of the past.
