Firstly let me say a big thanks to all of you who read my nonsense week after week and as yet have neither shunned me nor had me detained and admitted. Sometimes the realms of human acceptance knows no bounds! Seriously though, I’m always really humbled by people taking a little bit of time out of their day to send a wee comment or message, they always spur me on and give me a wee bit of encouragement and are very much appreciated! Anywoo, onwards and upwards!

So I know I’ve already spoken a little bit about guilt (read here) and how that is looking for me but over the last couple of weeks that guilt has began to grow. I Know that this is mostly because I’ve taken another post and my move North lock, stock and barrel is fast becoming a reality. This means leaving my family behind and right now I’m not comfortable leaving my family behind but this in itself is a good indication of why I’m really feeling guilty. Let me explain.

“I am the author of my own book, the captain of my own flight and the master of my own ship. I am a strong, independent woman and I don’t need no man ‘cos I am in full control of my own badass self.”-Book Of Denial, Ch1:V1.

Bollocks.

What I am is a complete control freak. I need to know the absolute arsehole of everything going on for me, the why’s, the wherefores, the what’s and the who’s, I have to be the one to help everyone out, the one people rely on and lean on. Christ I even have to be the one to carry the shopping from the supermarket to the car much to my partner’s chargrin. What I need is to be indispensable but don’t worry, I know exactly why; insecurities, self image, self worth. Control really is something I do have massive issues with but having a complete and utter lack of control has been the catalyst of my guilt.

I’ve already explained that for my own reasons I had no desire nor intention in having ‘that’ conversation with family,  this was my story and my tale to tell. People would know as and when I decided and not before.In the beginning I was too scared to say anything to my family, then too much time began to pass and I didn’t see a need to tell them, couldn’t see a benefit in it. Then all of a sudden my parents were ageing, my sister seemed to be doing okay and my brother was no longer around. My friends knew, of course they did but my family? Not a chance. I think I always knew that had my parents found out what had been going on my brother would have been banished immediately but in my little mind I felt that that would always have been my fault and there was no way I could shoulder that guilt. So I said nothing and controlled everything and got to shoulder other guilt, go me!!

The truth will ALWAYS out itself though, won’t it, and out itself it did.

See that’s the thing with families, they always consist of more than one person and bullies always bully more than one person. Put those two variables together and a couple of things happened. Firstly, through other incidents and events of his own doing my brother had kind of blackballed himself from the immediate family. He was in contact with my parents and sister but it was sporadic and for the most part strained, more of a tolerance really and predominantly he became nothing more than a peripheral figure in my family’s lives. To me though he was always a parasite, a malevolent presence if you will. The familial relationships deteriorated even further through his own choices and behaviours and this led to a second happening.

Through another family member’s struggle my parents became aware of their story, of their history and through that disclosure they became aware of me. And immediately I lost control. I lost control of what they knew, of what they remembered and of how they saw me. I had to have ‘that’ conversation and I had to go through every thought, feeling and emotion with my family that I never wanted to. I lost control of my capacity to protect. To protect them, to protect me and to protect the truth. I had to bare a part of me that I wanted kept buried.

Then the guilt came. Tenfold.

Now I get to feel guilty that they are having to process this horrific knowledge at a stage in their life where they should be bickering over biscuits and hearing aids. I feel guilty that I have kept this from them for all of these years and now they see our childhoods differently to what they were. I feel guilty that they now feel guilt, feel responsible and feel to blame. I feel guilty that my family are dealing with the fallout of all of this just as I’m about to bugger off North to a shiny, happy life with my lobster. Mostly though, I feel guilty because I’m bored of all of this.

I’m bored talking about him, of hearing about him, of thinking about him. I’m bored of his dominance, of his presence and of conversations invariably  always  reverting to him. I’m bored of him and that’s completely and utterly selfish. See, what I forget is that for me this whole story is 30-odd years old. I’ve gone through it so many times I have almost desensitised myself to it. in my mind it’s now just a piece of my history, nothing more, nothing less. I’m familiar with it, I’m (almost) accepting of it and it is a dormant part of me.

Or it was.

I forget that for my parents this is only 18 months old, this knowledge is new and this knowledge changes everything for them, as it was always going to. They need to talk about this, they need to process and dissect this but also they need to be able to deal with this. And that means they need to talk about it all. They need to talk about him, they need to talk about us, about children and bullies and secrets and lies. They need to get things straight in their head and talk about details, and you know what, maybe I do too. I’ve never really spoken about the minutiae of what he did to me with anyone, not completely anyway.  Maybe I don’t need to, maybe I do, I don’t know yet.

I know I’m bored thinking about it though. I’m bored over analysing every minute part of my personality, my behaviour and my feelings. I’m bored trying to find a reason for every damned thing I say or do, every decision I make in my life, good or bad. I’m bored listening to myself. It’s like when people find out you’re gay and they ask how the ‘coming out’ process was for you. That process never ends. There’s always someone new you have to tell, or someone new who inadvertently finds out I’m queer. Always the same questions, always the same comments, “I’d never have known” or “ooh I better not introduce you to my boyfriend, hahahahah!” (Aye, piss off Dierdre, I’ve seen your bloke, BELIEVE me you’re safe).

I kinda feel the same about my abuse history, that I have to continually justify and explain my own emotional behaviours and challenges and I am utterly bored of doing that with myself, with others, with anyone. I know that this will always be a part of me, like the words stamped through Blackpool rock but that doesn’t make it any easier to live with, to deal with or to be constantly reminded of. For the most part I’m okay with it, almost owning it, but right now? Right at this moment? I’m utterly bored of it.

Selfish eh?