Essays from The Shadows
Volume Two
In the last week of my father’s life, he lingered. Like that party guest who just needs one more drink, he hung around and would not give up the ghost. Or simply become one.
He had gone into hospital for a necessary procedure, with the understanding that he was unlikely to survive the operation. He spent the last week in intensive care, in a coma.
At one point, probably around 3am, my sister was sat beside him and I was stood at the foot of his bed, looking down at this man who had mistreated me all of my life. My sister glanced at me and asked if I was ok.
I said, ‘I am neutral’. Which, considering everything, was not too bad. It wasn’t dark, all-consuming hatred and it wasn’t soft and fluffy and forgiving. I had managed to manoeuvre myself to neutral.
My sexual abuser was arrested and charged; he admitted what he had done to me and another boy. He had abused at least 21 other boys that were known about so far. He had a terminal illness. As he would die before he could be taken to court and sentenced, it was agreed by all concerned that he would be added to the sexual offenders register and cautioned.
There was a slight sense that he was in some way, getting away with everything, but the reality was that we were also saving ourselves the harrowing experience of a court hearing and potential publicity.
I never managed to arrive at the question of forgiveness while either of these abusers were alive. I almost resent the idea that the onus is on me to do that. Why am I the one who has to wrestle with my conscience and make a concerted effort and decide to do this thing?
They got to die without consequences or retribution, let alone revenge. The fact that my father would never be able to hurt me again, not with fists or words or so much as a look, is a win.
My sexual abuser admitting his guilt allows me to move forward in the sure knowledge that it really wasn’t my fault. Not just a concept or a vague notion or a therapeutic ideal. A fact. It was put to him and he accepted responsibility.
Whether biblical, or some vague remnant of my pseudo-Protestant upbringing, or just that I know it is a little grey elephant in the corner of the room…
the question of forgiveness hangs in the air.
Without it, can there be no closure?
Is closure even possible?
I know now that it is possible for things to change. Recovery and healing are possible and attainable. It is unrealistic to expect to be normal, fixed, as if it never happened. I am grateful that I have even got as far as I have. Life seems possible. If this is all I get, this is do-able. I can cope in my current state.
It is why I am not sure about closure. If you always carry the scars and the memories and still battle with the results of the damage, how do you see around that? How do you pause it long enough to see a path to forgiveness?
I speak only for myself. This is tantamount to murder. You killed the person I was and left this behind. You took what you wanted, over and over, until I was left with this version of myself. How do I forgive that?
It is possible that somewhere along the way someone will sit me down and take me through that. Right now, I don’t understand why it is required, nor what it achieves. It has a slight feel of letting you off the hook, and you already escaped prison, justice and retribution. I am not sure you are entitled to anything else.
Especially something that I would have to choose to give you.
Make a conscious effort to allow it to happen. And it would be an effort.
With all my abusers, I have a cold, dark hatred of everything they did to me.
Understanding what they did, what it did to me, the damage I carried for decades does give me clarity, and knowing the truth does set me free.
At the same time, it gives me a sorrow and a grief for what I might have been.
What could have happened if only I had not become this by coping with all that had been bestowed on me?
That grief is like a long, deep groan of regret.
A resonance of hurt that you endured.
Of a silence that you were locked into.
And a loneliness that aches for all the love you could not touch or feel.
Non-survivors in my life have a tendency to think I should forgive and forget, or move on, or just get past it. I can assure you we don’t ignore that, and have probably all made half-hearted attempts to do just that.
Not think about it. Put it behind us. Move on.
Not only is it not easy to do, I am never completely sure I want to.
It is not like I can pretend it never happened when I exist with the repercussions on a daily basis.
I have never slept well in my whole life. I randomly and regularly experience horrific nightmares.
While therapy has resolved some serious things, and existing on a daily basis is far easier than it has ever been, I am still learning and understanding all the myriad ways I am damaged by what was done to me.
You should see the list of things that are wrong with me.
Actually, scratch that. You will never see the list of things that are wrong with me. Bad enough you think I am weird without giving you proof in writing.
We will stick to eye-rolling and mouthing the word ‘trauma’ behind my back.
My family agreed that I was the best equipped to write and deliver the eulogy at my father’s funeral.
I acquiesced on the understanding that it was on behalf of everyone.
The unspoken understanding was that it was not mine.
Mine would have read very differently. It would have included some very bad words.
I also demand some credit for the fact that I did not hijack it, say what I really felt, or rant like a demented mad man.
Which, if nothing else, shows I have reached some level of maturity and a modicum of social skills.
I don’t want to forgive.
Forgiving is too much to ask of me.
Forgiving is not something you can demand of me.
Forgiving is not something you deserve.
I am neutral.
I neither killed you nor allowed my hatred of you, and all you did to me, to reduce me to your level.
Neutral is all you get.