I had a realization recently, I find myself in this space sometimes where I want to tell my story, all of it, with all the gory details. But I can't, I can't get it out, I can't write it I can't say it. I have written it, I have told most of it, but it is as if it can never be enough. It is as if no one really understands, no one really gets it, I can't adequately describe what it is. I believe it's the child, or children, in me crying out wanting to be heard and understood or comforted. But what they really want isn't for someone to listen to them now, what they really want is for someone to have listened to them then. They want to be protected, rescued, they want to tell decades ago, not today, they want to scream, not hold secrets and silence for so long.
My father is dead, I can't tell him even now. My mother didn't believe me when I tried to tell her, and I don't think is capable of hearing it now.
And I don't have a time machine.
There is so much grief and anger and pain. But this feels productive.