Feeling: Relieved
Listening to: watching Gilmore Girls- reruns are lovely.
Reading/Watching: Re-reading Rasselas and Candide for a test. wish me luck.

I used to hate him. For many reasons.

Well, not always. I started out loving him. He was just the cuddly, pillow-bellied creature that every little girl runs to with open arms. I can close my eyes and hear exactly how his voice sounds when he drawls out my name.

And then I start remembering all the excess baggage attached to him now. Remembering my sister, sitting on her bed, me on the floor, while she drew her knees to her chest and talked, and talked, tears rolling down her face, telling me about what he did to her. What he did, nearly every time she saw him, for years and years.

Her voice cracked every now and then, but even her tears were unable to check the words that fell, each one tumbling out faster than the one before, and I felt like the ground I'd rested upon so confidently all my life was being drilled through, each word creating another hole, perforating the earth beneath me until it crumbled.

I thought you were supposed to trust adults like him, and I hated him from that moment. I think I was maybe twelve when I found out, which is how old she was when he stopped. Think about that.

It took me over a year before I could stay in the same room with him; I always found some reason or other to leave as soon as possible, because I couldn't quite trust myself not to scream recriminations and fly at him with fists clenched. (I may have been a pesky little sister, but no one could ever say I'm not loyal.)

Then he had his stroke. It was a weird moment for me, because my initial thought should have been, "Oh dear, I should pray for him. I should come to visit. I should send a card."

It should have been what I thought. Instead I thought "I hope he dies."

Which, naturally, caused a huge guilt trip, resulting in tears and more conflict. This anger/guilt lasted for months, until I saw him again.

I should explain: he's been a farmer and a carpenter all his life. A very hale and hearty man. He stands about six-foot-two, or at least he did. The only thing that ever slowed him down was the arthritis in his hands that made him give up piano and trade house-building for birdhouses.

After the stroke, he used a walker. His mouth hung strangely. His hearing, already deteriorating, was cut in half. He moved at the speed of a crippled sloth. He is no longer a man that anyone could fear.

And instead of hating him, I can only pity him. For which I am extremely grateful. Pity is a charitable emotion, which I can pretend comes from love. Hate was something that was eating me up inside.

Mostly I'm relieved, because I can get it off my mind from now on.

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