[overdue] conversations
"Why didn't you ever leave? You said you thought about it."
"I almost left before the other babies were born. And maybe I should have. I set some money aside, I had my eye on a house far enough away, a little brick place on the corner of a road. The counselor convinced me to try & make it work, my friends too. And then again, after New York."
"I don't get it. Like... I just- I know you didn't know better, but how does someone... not see the signs?
"I don't really know. He only ever hurt me. It was only ever me. I was convinced he didn't touch the kids, that he wouldn't ever lay a hand on you guys."
"Mom, that's not... " and for the first time, my voice cracks. I can't remember the last time I showed emotion in front of my mother. It's very, very rare. "That's not- how it works." I finally manage to push through the scratch in my throat.
Her own grief mirrors mine, but hers is also draped in something I have *never* seen my mother, the woman who lives loudly and boldy with her heart on her sleeve, wear: shame. "I know that now. I just didn't at the time.
"...He was always so... protective. Half the time, the violence, the crazy reactions, were about something he deemed 'unacceptable' with you."
*Protective. Protective. Protective.*
We both know it's the wrong word. I close my eyes and inhale, a big, long, breath before blowing it out, exhaling the headache, and, I hope, blowing away my anger. Probably not, though.
Because the word, of course, isn't "Protective." It's "Possessive." If there's one thing in the world that that man is a winner at, it's owning things. sure hope it's made him so incredibly happy.
I don't say it. I don't say any of it, don't even bother correcting her beyond saying, "I guess people don't know about this stuff if they've never been exposed to it before. It's not your fault, it never was, Mom. I used to be really angry, you know. I used to wish you had left, even if it meant I didn't have as many siblings." She nods, understanding. Silent. Rarity.
"But it's just so wild to me that we will make so many excuses for people we love even when they hurt us."
I don't continue what I'm thinking, which is this: 'And where's the line? When does it go from hurting us, to hurting others in the name of protection? Excuses, excuses, excuses.' And all of a sudden we're looking back and we have become the enablers of abuse. And not only do we feel responsible, but now we feel guilty too. Like my mom does right now. Like she does about my sister. And bringing her up right now. Because all of a sudden, we see the cycle repeating itself, and it's far too late for any one of us to do anything about it except watch from a distance. Because I refuse to stand there and take yet more abuse from someone who doesn't even pretend to love me. And I refuse to watch yet another person hurt her while my mother stands there and just takes it. I will not, and cannot, be witness to it again.