The other night my nephew Brent, the one I barely know, the one I just met, called to ask me to attend my neice Becky's baptism. Of course I couldn't. For reasons all her own, my kid sister chose to invite the relative who molested me, and who still harrasses me when given the opportunity. I couldn't tell Brent that -- he's 19 and has quite a bit on his own plate -- so I made up an excuse about having to work.
After I hung up I was so angry. Once again I'd been put in a position to protect the skinny mean old ass of the man who fondled me.
I didn't have to. When Brent asked my mother and his mother why I wouldn't be there, they told him. Not the whole truth, but a reasonable facsimilie thereof. They told him that old Jim made me uncomfortable and unhappy and I couldn't bear to be around him. Brent said he'd "protect" me, not leave my side, not let Jim be alone with me. I answered so quickly and so definitively and so convincingly that he didn't bother to offer.
This is big. This is important. This is the first time I can recall that anyone ever offered to protect me. Brent, my young nephew.
Also, my mother seems to get it now. She seems to believe that my pain is real and substantial and lasting -- and not my fault. This is big and important, too.
I want to cry. And it's because it's so good.
