Written in Years of Pain.. Blood .. and Scars

She said.. "Your father was wrong. You are not responsible for that."

I replied to her. "There are a lot of years .. and a lot of pain and a lot of blood that went into convincing me Tarra. It will not go away very easy .. I can tell you logically that it was not my fault but to believe it in my heart and soul is another thing entirely."

We were speaking of my mother's death of course. The way she died. My involvement in it.. whether real or perceived.

I look back over the years. The bulk of time that has made me who I am today and the staggering amount of experience that went into it. It makes me lose heart a little .. my hope fails ... that is a lot of time to remake and relearn and refeel.

To learn of people. Of feelings. Of motives. Of life. Of consequences and rules. To learn these things so completely that it is not only written on your heart and soul and mind but on your body as well. I can take your fingers and I can let you read the lessons in tiny white lines and marks on my back. It is all there lest I get too comfortable and forget.

If ever the reality fails you and the concepts of what I learned is just too surreal for you ... I have real live touchable examples to give you.

The idea of walking backwards through all of that and learning to see it in a new way is staggering to me. Who has that kind of time? And even if the time were taken is it possible? I have never gone backwards a step in my life. I have always taken the next step .. and the next and the next. Always forward. Adapt. Learn. Move. Survive.

Part of me rages against the very idea that I need to change anything about myself. Who would dare to expect me to? Who has the right to look me in the eyes and say that to me? Am I not a success? Have I not survived? Have I not done nearly everything I swore I would do? Who has survived as much as I have and can stand toe to toe with me and tell me ... I am not enough? Let them taste a fraction of this bitterness on my tongue and let them still stand at all.

But then a much quieter voice .. a tone used mostly for singing to the bosk ... intervenes and I must stop. I must listen. I must protect. For it was that very arrogance and valid self righteousness that led my own father to his destruction. To his death at the hands of his own Clan. I do not want to be this legacy. I do not want to pass on this inheritance. No matter who I am no matter what I have done ... I do want to be something different.

Have I carried this burden .. this guilt long enough? Has the shame of my life over hers bent my shoulders to the point I know no other way to walk? Can I ever forgive myself for her death? Could I ever forgive the man who taught this to me and wrote these things with years of pain and blood and scars?

The one man I want to ask all these things off .. that I want to demand answers from ... no longer lives. I must find these answers myself ... somehow.