A Mind-fog on Regret and Moving On

(Whew…wrote this right after I finished my Abuse post yesterday with the intention of pacing this out a couple days. Had this post scheduled for Friday at 9AM. Blowback happened a lot quicker than that. Anger and sadness from people who are doing their best to see two sides of a coin with a photograph of the coin’s Heads but not its Tails. So, to them, I apologize for starting this two-part post off like a hand-grenade before cooling you down with a balmy firefighter hose of Olay. Dick move on my part.)

So…

That was pretty heavy.

A lot of emotion in it, putting it lightly.

If you’ve got it in you, I’ve got one more. This one’s less triggery but still serious.

Last serious one too for a bit. Don’t want to mood you all to death and I think I’m starting to have some sort of fun-times buildup in me.

*coughs up streamers*

Anyway.

With my grandpa dying, thus dies too an opportunity I’d been sitting on for a year or so. If I remember correctly, about February, 2013, my dad told me that grandpa wanted to see his grandchildren.

He wanted to see me.

Now, as I said in the previous post, I had been convinced it wasn’t abuse at the time. In that time since, though, that episode in my childhood festered like a leprous head wound; constantly itching and making me think I’m the smelly kid on campus. It bled and scabbed over and got worse and worse. I grew to hate him through my teen years. And only recently did I come to a pleasant epiphany about it all.

I told myself I wanted to see him; I needed to. Just so I could see him as an adult. See him smaller than me.

But knocking around in my heart was that kid. Terrified of a man who had abused him. Terrified of a man who had been in jail for years because of him.

The paperwork! That’s what I said. The paperwork would take too long. That’s why I didn’t have to confront this. I mean…I have to find my driver’s licence (pocket), my birth certificate (drawer), and my dad’s birth certificate (which he emailed to me when he told me about it). THEN I’d have to submit it and wait three to four weeks for it to get approved. The agony! Like putting lemon juice in an itchy, leprous head wound.

I told myself he’d be dead before the paperwork got filed.

Heh…heh…*sigh*

The paperwork never got filed. And he still died. I still remember that gnawing sensation, like a rottweiler chewing a year-old bone, in the pit of my stomach when dad texted me grandpa died. For a moment there was relief. “Whew…there goes one prison visit.” I chuckled to myself. After that a slow-simmering teapot started to heat up inside me. The more I thought about it, the more I blamed myself. The more I regretted never seeing him.

What did he think of me now?

What would he have talked about?

Did he know I forgave him?

Because I had. I had to because I needed to get past this. Soon after I heard he wanted to see me, it was clear that whatever bitterness he might have held toward me was buried under an ever-growing termite pile of death. He felt his health failing him and wanted to see people for the last time. He’d resigned himself to jail for the rest of his days and wanted some human contact. The reaper’s scythe makes a sickly friend.

But I don’t get the answers to those questions. Because I stood, ready to skydive, and never made the leap. Nerves, laziness, whatever I can name it…I get less closure because of my actions.

So now what?

*cricket noises*

That’s what I was asking myself all weekend. But I couldn’t let this keep defining me. Most of my life, this abuse stood like a colossus over me. Constantly staring. I could keep it secret. Crack the closet door for close friends to see inside. But to what end? He’s dead.

Time to make my own stories. My abuse, from both my grandpa and my dad, had been an easy fallback for a gritty story. I could whip it out in front of friends at parties as if to say “LOOK! THIS IS WHY I EAT TOAST LIKE I DO.” But it would still be the colossus. Still be that leering Jenga tower. I’d be carrying that tower on my back like I have been since this all started.

No more.

Just like I said before, your actions prove to me your caliber. My grandpa wanted to see me in his last days and I let the past creep on me; hold me down like clinging ivy. He was already paying for his past…so I could have at least given him this. In the same vein, my dad hit me as a kid. Since I’ve moved out, he hasn’t hit me. Hasn’t hit my siblings either.

He and I don’t talk much even today.

I could at least give him this: he’s changed after all.

But do I let my nerves hold me down like super glue again?

Do I wait until he’s almost dead too to start making more excuses why I can’t talk to him?

More to the point, am I going to wait on everybody who’s done me wrong in my life? Harboring ill-feelings like a never-changed piece of fly paper?

No.

I can’t.

I don’t have the time or energy to spend whiling away, harmed by people whose actions years ago were the cause of such pain.

I have to move on.

I’m going to.

I have.

Readers? Maybe there’s a colossus standing over you. Whatever the issue, I recommend working that out. Don’t let it loom. These things are holy-balls heavy.

So Grandpa? I’m beyond it. If you’re reading, Dad? Let’s talk sometime. Anyone else? Let’s have more good times than bad.

I’m sort of spinning in circles now.

But you guys get the point.

At the very least, thanks for reading.

*knocks over the Jenga tower*

*explodes in a cloud of confetti and balloons*

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2 Comments

  1. You’re such an amazing writer and I really enjoy reading your posts. You have a gift for the right words to express your thoughts and emotions. There shoudn’t be any fallout from your first mindfog post because that’s your life, your experiences and your feelings. You are expressing the truth and that was very courageous to put out there.

    You’ve learned some hard lessons at a young age that some people take a lifetime to understand. I hate that you were put through these experiences by people who should have protected you. I’m not gonna say that this happened for a reason, or that God gave you these trials to make you stronger. I really don’t believe that. These things happened to you because other people made horrible decisions to take advantage of an innocent boy. You have worked through grief, agony, guilt, anger and who knows what else in order to survive and be a stronger person. Some people who have gone through abuse are unable to overcome it and it consumes them.

    I can’t begin to express how proud I am of you. You are a great man with a kind heart and a brilliant mind. Please don’t let anyone, living or dead, make you feel badly about yourself.

    I love you, Micah!

    Aunt Allison

    • Thank you so much, Aunt Allison! It means a lot to hear that.


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