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  • Writer's pictureMelissa

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.

But how?

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?

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