"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.
â€œI 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.â€ page 15, Without a Map, Meredith Hall
The passage above is from â€œWithout a Mapâ€ 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 doesnâ€™t change any of that. It doesnâ€™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.