I feel as though my bubble has been broken. The happy bubble that I have been riding on for days, the pride in myself, in my Meemo, in my situation. It isn’t gone, just been popped.
I feel as though I should start from the beginning, I apologize as this post may get long and boring. I am bareing my all here… raw and emotional as it is.
I hate my cousin K. I hate him because he molested me from the time I was nine years old until I was fourteen, exactly fourteen actually. The last time was on my fourteenth birthday. I have never written this because I was ashamed, for the longest time I was ashamed. I felt like I had done something wrong. I am not ashamed anymore. I will not give him the satisfaction of being ashamed of myself because of his actions.
My parents didn’t know what was happening. I fight my anger with them at times as I am sure they discovered us alone in my room plenty of times, although I am equally sure that like any parent, probably thought of nothing more than two cousins playing, or talking, together. We were never discovered in any kind of uncomfortable situation, as he learned quickly what the footsteps in the hall sounded like. For a long time I don’t think I realized it was wrong, for a long time I think I thought it was a normal thing. By the time I got older, I knew better.
I told my mother when I was sixteen. Right after my first official therapy appointment. It was almost as if I HAD to spit it out, I spit it out in my first appointment, and told my mom right after the appointment, in the car, on the ride home. It was emotional, it was hard. But I did it. She asked me what I wanted to do about it, if I wanted to confront K, tell the family, what I wanted to do. I could think of nothing more embarrassing than exposing my most shameful and embarrassing moments to the whole family. Much less K, so I asked that it be kept quiet.
I guess I assumed that my mother, being my mother, would take the upper hand. She didn’t, after that day, it was as if nothing had ever happened. Every holiday, birthday, family gathering afterwards, I had to see him. I had to talk to him, I had to look at him. I learned very quickly, to close off that part of my mind.
I pretended nothing had happened. And for a while, I suppose that didn’t bother me. For a while, I suppose that I thought I was ok. However, I never really was ok.
I got into therapy with my current therapist J after being in a day treatment program. The same one I got the BPD diagnosis at. I was 20 years old. One of the things that was the hardest to work on was the abuse and K. I spent a lot of time trying to convince J that it was no big deal, that it didn’t bother me. This was my common response to everything in my life that I wanted to lock away. Its no big deal, it doesn’t bother me. However, it turns out that it did. As I got farther and farther into therapy, and worked a great many things out. I started to discover how much the abuse and K really did bother me. How much it bothered me to see him, to have to be around him, to have to sit next to him. I realized how much I was hurting inside from this.
The process of getting this into my head took a couple of years and a couple of groups of holidays. Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter were always the worst. I discovered more and more how much being with K really did bother me. How much my subconscious, and now my conscious mind was hurting from him. I decided last year at Easter that I never really wanted to spend another holiday with him. How I was going to manage this was unbeknownst to me. I didn’t want to spend the holidays sitting alone either. But between the choice of the two, alone was looking better and better.
Along came Meemo, and voila! I have a REASON not to go to Thanksgiving, not that I needed one, but an ACTUAL place to go. It was quite an amazing coincidence that she came along in the perfect time. However, I have already decided that it couldn’t have happened any better. However, my mother never quite got that I wasn’t there because of K, she thought I wasn’t there because of Meemo, and of course, blamed it on her.
I told mother, and I told her again, about K. I explained to her that I was NO longer going to attend holidays that he was at. She didn’t get it, must not have heard me, because of course I got the email about Easter (read two previous blogs to understand 
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I went through the motions, fought the fight. Got a voice that I didn’t even know existed within me. Told her how I felt, told her in great detail the emotional issues behind what K did to me. Told her a great many things that it has taken me YEARS to get the courage to think, much less say. Stood up for myself. Was stronger than I have ever been able to be. I was proud of myself. I was proud of my strength, my words, my insight, my ability to do this. I thought maybe, just maybe it would be my time. Maybe, just maybe if I spoke loud enough, fought hard enough, she would understand.
I have come to discover that I was wrong. I don’t know why I was expecting anything to change. I don’t know why I thought my mother would come through for me. Maybe I just had hopes, maybe I just thought she would finally realize that this is her issue too, not just mine. That I am her daughter to protect, to love and to help. I don’t know why I thought. I guess after all these years, I should have understood not to hope. I should have known better, but I did hope. I was wrong.
The last email I have gotten from my mother, the last of a long string of emotional emails was one as unemotional as the last I sent to her. One that basically said that she doesn’t understand because it didn’t happen to her. And that she isn’t going to take the time to understand either. That she couldn’t do anything because she didn’t know. Which is correct, but she knows now, and still continues to do nothing, and apparently, doesn’t see a problem with that.
However, we are very different in some ways. One of them is how we react to people. I tend to get very attached to people, she is on the opposite end of that spectrum. I tend to want to be around the people I really care about, she likes her space (at least when it comes to me). I tend to be overly sensitive to things, and she is something like a brick wall at times. It makes this relationship interesting. I suppose it worked that way for a reason, God (or whoever) is probably kinda looking down on us having a chuckle about it. Surprisingly enough, for as much as we frustrate each other with our differences, it works. I think if she were as clingy and mushy as I am we would intertwine and never come apart. Very good thing that we aren’t. 
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