A Fragmented Story
I need to grieve.
But I don’t know what to grieve or how.
The grief is a constant ache in my chest, a fixture so permanent that I can’t even imagine life without its weight.
I’m supposed to grieve this. Ventilate the pain. Cry.
I don’t know. I’m so confused.
Someone, please tell me a story of my life that makes sense.
Give me a coherent picture to look at. My picture is so hazy and so gray and full of missing pieces.
What is my story?
Is my story that which I’m learning now, a story of neglect and abuse — a story of a child mistreated and deprived of her birthright to be taught and guided and loved and wanted — or is my story the belief that I grew up on: I’m a member of a fine, upstanding family whose offspring are unspoiled, unentitled and selfless people?
Unspoiled — or untaken care of?
Unentitled — or made to feel undeserving?
Selfless — or coreless?
How do I even grieve this when I have no idea what to grieve?
How do I make sense of a story I only remember fragments of?
How do I make sense of anything?
How do I rouse this grief inside that has turned into a ball of steel? How do I penetrate the barricades that have bolted the door to my past?
How can I access memories that I don’t even have?
If my parents were wrong all these years, then what is left of my life?
Who am I then?
Can I betray the people who gave me life, when I have for so many years witnessed them simply trying their best with the little they had? Even if their best poisoned my mind with deep self-hatred?
Can I ever live with the knowledge that those battered, aging souls left such insidious black stains on my very soul?
Is it right to sully them in my mind just so I can heal?