Patches of Light, Pieces of Grace

After months of therapy, the first time I talked with a professional and began spilling the horrible secrets of the sexual abuse that lasted throughout my childhood, I returned home to have a conversation with my mother. My therapist and I had practiced this, considered what my goals were, what the possible outcomes could be. Still, in my heart I just knew my mom loved me enough to wrap me in her arms and try her best to wash away the hurt. That is really all I wanted. What I got was almost as damaging as the abuse. She told me that because my father was already dead, she couldnโ€™t ask him about it. Conversation done. As if there needed to be two sides, as if I might not be telling the truth. As if my voice didnโ€™t count. I learned then that speaking up was a dangerous risk, oneโ€ฆ

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