I still get stuck in the belief that my parents weren’t that bad. I was raped before I turned four and my mother was an active participant. But a child has to believe that the person put in charge of taking care of them is good, right? What else can a child believe.
So, day after day, year after year — I stayed with the staggering denial that my parents loved me.
They didn’t love me. Love doesn’t treat, sound, act or reason the way they did.
I find myself sometimes stuck in the belief that they were doing their best, that they tried. The truth is difficult to stay with. The fact that they lied about who they were when I grew up was a great indication of the hearts that remained in them — distant and cruel.
It is much easier to keep ourselves away from hurt and pain when we stay in the reality of who these incestuous abusers actually are.
Remove your blinders. They did not love you. That’s the truth.
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