It's a long story. Not really long in length so much as it happened a long time ago. It may be very hard to comprehend. Lord knows its a bear to even write about...but it's a story that needs to be told.
When I was seven, my dad had already started sexually abusing me. He wasn't the only adult male. And I was not the only child.
I'll spare some of the details. The important part is that on one ocassion, I was locked in a closet with another little boy my age. For some reason, the abuse didn't feel so bad because it was shared. He and I both, experienced the confusing, painful terror.
There were times we huddled together out of fear and seeking warmth. I tried to protect him, he tried to comfort me. I remembering looking at him when he had fallen asleep in the corner. I didn't feel so alone, even as he slept. I actually kinda envied him.
He is sleeping again, now, in heaven.
I'm upset he and I didn't get the chance, as adults, to talk about and process what happened back then.
It's like two soldiers in the same war...we would have understood exactly how the other felt. We could have shared. There would have been more validation of the experience and our emotions. We could have shared the nightmare in the day.
I grieve more for his loss than for my own father. This boy was worth it. I feel an egregious loss.
I am forever grateful to have had him at my side for those hours.
I love the boy in the closet. My heart just breaks.
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