Why is it that when these terrible things happen to us, that we question ourselves? What did I do wrong? Was I asking for this? Was it my fault?
Even after all these years I can still close my eyes and find myself in the room with no carpet, staring off quietly, questioning why. I used to think that what happened was my fault. It took a long time, but I know now that it wasn’t my fault. I was a child, and I should have been protected. As I grew older, I found more like me, who went through the same thing as me. At the time it brought me comfort to know that I wasn’t alone and to have someone to share things with.
The anger I have is a hot stone I carry in my chest. It radiates and burns. While I am working to ease the pain, I still find it inexcusable that so many have been hurt at the hands of those around them, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, siblings, neighbors, teachers, clergy and friends. How can they abuse their position? How do they sleep at night?
Comments