After telling my professor why I missed class, she proceeded to tell me that she understood because she was molested by her grandpa when she was eleven. Then, she said that she used coffee shop goers as therapy because she couldn’t get herself to talk to an actual therapist. This is how I know my life is spinning out of control. I’m so desperate, I will talk to anyone I come into contact with.
Every time I go home, it’s like reading a book and someone yelling PLOT TWIST in the background. My latest plot twist was not my dad dying, because I’ve known that since 2009. He died on a Tuesday and the funeral was on a Friday. The service was held by a rather unfortunate amount of religious folk who insisted on saving everyone–from their sins if willing–in the room. One of the officiators, my once Grandpa, did a great deal of talking that included: himself, more of himself, Jesus, and my dad.
This said Grandpa made sure everyone adhered to what he said. Although I do not know what would happen if anyone disregarded his “suggestions,” everyone followed suite. The service, created by him, said that the family had to be at the church from 10-11 AM to stare at a corpse and properly mourn, while wearing black attire as required. It was said that all the children were going to be in attendance at the funeral, but the eldest was a no show. The pain-inducing service crawled to an end and the feasting began. The food was sub-par, but free and everyone seemed to swallow it down without trouble.
Saturday marked the reading of the will. But there was no will to read. Instead, the three daughters, four sons, one step-daughter, and the widow second wife met up to speak on the dissipating affairs of the dead father. What was left to talk about? Everyone saw the corpse.
So the second oldest son opened the meeting up with the fact that the man was dead. Considering the circumstances, it was as good of an opening as any. But to receive the words were not the people, but what the people had been carrying with them for years. Within the circle of people were anger, depression, shame, confusion, hatred, and grief. In a little corner was relief that he had died. No one would recognize this mysterious newcomer just yet, though.
The second oldest continued with saying that there were things that needed to be said. At this, the fourth oldest broke in saying that it was unnecessary to talk about the details because, “I have already gone to the source and dealt with it.” Yet, the second eldest beckoned on and said it had to be said. Guardianship was in question and we needed to protect our little (the littlest of them all) brother. The second oldest said that Grandpa isn’t who he says he is. He did things with our old brother (the oldest of them all) and with the fourth oldest. And everyone turned to the fourth for confirmation, because the mentally insane is not the best place to get validations.
The fourth had a salad of feelings that defended both him and the Grandpa. He declared that he was not there to condemn the perpetrator, but to state as fact that it had happened. And then added that he did not like what happened and had told the Grandpa that he didn’t. And that was all.
Relief and understanding replaced anger and confusion. The anger and mania. They were both raped.