breaking the silence

I am filled with feelings of guilt and disappointment. The anger only serves as a protection against the deep sadness I have felt for so many years. In a rare moment of reality, the anger dominated the sadness yesterday and years of withholding the truth became too much to bear. The words that escaped my mouth were certainly words of truth. They were words that should have brought a sense of freedom. Words that should have finally allowed me to let go of a past that has haunted too many generations. But my words did not free me. They left me instead with guilt and fear and the knowledge that resolution is only possible if I choose to forego what I know deep inside and continue to live in silence.

Since I was a little girl, I was taught how to act “appropriately”. I was taught to love this man that never knew the true meaning of love. I was taught to respect someone who did not deserve my respect, who did not deserve respect from anyone. I was hidden from the tragic and brutal reality for many years. I caught glimpses of the tragedy that held this family in its unrelenting grip, but I never saw it with fully opened eyes. It was not until I reached adulthood that I learned the truth of this horrendous history. I learned because I asked, because I refused to live in denial, because I needed to know what lay underneath the feelings of fear that accompanied my every step in his presence. The knowledge I gained opened up numerous doors for me. Doors that had been shut and locked and barred every day of my life. As time passed, the doors began to open wider and my glimpses into this world of Hell became an unfolding reality that could no longer hide behind my terrified eyes. The view was crystal clear, and the picture before me was far worse than I had ever imagined.

With the knowledge came insight. I began to understand more, and for several years I allowed that understanding to permit the excuses that were offered. I knew what I would see if I opened my eyes, and so I refused. I kept them tightly shut, determined that I would not allow myself to witness such horror, lest my awareness convey acceptance. For years, I believed that keeping my eyes shut and keeping my voice silenced was enough. My silence allowed some semblance of peace for a family that had never known it. But my silence also allowed the continuous states of denial and suggested on a deeper level that what had happened, and what was still happening, was okay. And it was far from okay. It will never be okay.

I suppose it is easier to pretend to forget, to pretend to not see, to pretend that the picture before you is not so ugly. I suppose it is easier to not be plagued with guilt and disappointment and the awareness that there is no resolution. Perhaps I was naïve, believing that speaking the truth would somehow change the future. Perhaps I was just filled with too much false hope, believing that every person on this earth has goodness somewhere within their hearts. Or perhaps the time had just come that I could no longer live in silence.

I am not sorry for speaking the words of truth, for confronting a fear that has held us all within its grasp for far too long. But I am sorry that these words did not bring a sense of relief or freedom or resolution. I am sorry that I was taught to feel such guilt over honesty. I am sorry that silence is not a path of comfort for me. Most of all, I am sorry to realize that this man truly has no heart. I am sorry that his own pain and self-hatred have caused such agony for so many others. I am sorry that his wife will die never knowing what love really is, never knowing the feeling of happiness. I am sorry that his children will live the rest of their lives haunted by the absence of a loving father, reminded of the bitterness and hatred that can overtake humanity. I am sorry that any person on this earth should be subjected to such cruelty.

But I am not sorry for breaking the silence.