Indecipherable 70's music blared in the background, barely drowning out her screams, while I watched the violence, stricken by the horrors. All I could do was lie on the kitchen floor and shake. Even at it's worst, I knew it wasn't real, but I felt it. I felt it all, two weeks ago, here in Durham, NC. My dad's been dead for eight years, my mom for thirty-seven, but that night two weeks ago, staring at the linoleum floor, it felt more real than ever.
After some time away, I've decided to write another blog entry. Where did I go? Nowhere. I just started writing about my childhood, and here I am, waking up from a fog of retrospection. This was supposed to be a healing journey. It has been, in many ways, but I'm starting to feel like I'm drawing from a potentially endless well of pain. How far do I want to go into my own mind? How much can I tolerate and still function?
One of the things I'm learning is that lots of people grew up in abusive homes. Everyone has fear. Everyone has shame. Everyone has secrets, even if only from themselves. First, I was disappointed that the rest of the world is just as full of suffering as my childhood home. That's been a depressing realization. Now, I'm starting to adjust, remembering that we're all just people. Whatever we've been through, whatever we're afraid to face, we're still just human beings, doing the best we can.
I think the world might still be a beautiful place. I think it still could be.
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