"There are no facts, only interpretations". ~Friedrich Nietzsche
And so it begins.
The reading, the head nodding, the choked up throat, and the eyes brimming with tears.
“I struggle to reckon with my own silence, my own lack of fight. I allowed my family and my community to abandon me when I was drowning. Worst of all, I allowed my baby to be abandoned. I abandoned my baby. I never said a word. Sometimes my own failure of courage feels like the most hideous kind of cowardice, a flaw in me that confirms my unworthiness for love. Sometimes, rarely, I get a flicker of understanding about other realities, and feel a powerful protectiveness of that stunned and desperate girl."
These various truths sometimes collide with memories I have used to reconstruct the puzzle, but they cannot alter the perfect truth I carry of having been turned out.” page 15, Without a Map, Meredith Hall
The passage above is from “Without a Map” by Meredith Hall. I have only just begun the book and it is slaying me, validating me, making me sick at heart and yet simultaneously comforted.
The sentiments above express EXACTLY where I am at in my own journey (and have been for a long time). Reunion doesn’t change any of that. It doesn’t make it any better. It does not negate the fact that I was abandoned and then I passed the poison and abandoned my child. I knew it was wrong. I really did. I always sensed at some deep psychic level that something was supremely fucked up with the situation but I said nothing.
I thought others knew better than me.
I was wrong and so were they and my daughter has paid the price.