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 couldn’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 didn’t count. I learned then that speaking up was a dangerous risk, one…

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