I am trying really hard to not rain on someone else’s parade. Been trying for almost a week now and succeeding. But it is still stuck in my craw.
If you grew up being physically and emotionally abused, and the emotional abuse continued into adulthood then you know what I’m talking about.
It doesn’t matter how many hours you spent on that therapist’s couch. It doesn’t matter how you rationalize it to yourself. It doesn’t matter how you use your intelligence, your own psychology training, your own inner strength – You are still THERE.
So when you see, online, a paean to your abuser, filled with misinformation about everything including a recipe (a recipe for god’s sake) the anger rises. When you see people comment positively on the subject of the post (my abuser), saying what an amazing person they are, the inner you screams “You wanna know the truth. I’ll tell you the truth – about everything!”
But you don’t. I didn’t. Why rain on the writer’s parade? They want to believe the lies they were told – let them. They have their story which they love, I’m guessing. My story impacts them very little.
Or maybe it has affected them more than we both know – and do we need to?
That is the question for me – does the writer of that post really need to know my truth when she has her own. And when her own truth is mostly positive. I’m assuming her truth is mostly positive because I was not witness to her relationship with my abuser, only witness to her loving paen.
No. She doesn’t need to know my truth. Or even that manicotti is NOT cannelloni – two different things girlie, two different things. Just as our relationship with the person in the post are two different realities.
I can’t let go of my past anymore than I can let go of a piece of my DNA.
There may come a time when the writer of that post may come to me and ask about the past, about my truth. As I sit now, I don’t think I would share. Just as I won’t share now. I won’t rain on her parade. I won’t comment on that post. I won’t correct even the innocuous errors, such as the date of her grandfather’s death or the difference between cannelloni and manicotti or even her grandmother’s past (no, my father was not my mother’s first “gentleman caller”, and no, my mother did not learn to cook from her mother or grandmother, and no – oh, hell the girl got not one fact correct except that, indeed, my mother won many dance contests in her youth.)
So – no parade raining. No fact checking.
Still – the anger is there. But it’s my anger. And it is more than memories, it is ingrained. It is who I am. Who I always will be. It’s hard to move on when there is nowhere to move on to.