I thought I’d be dead by now.
Things don’t always work out I guess. But laying in the grass after a rainfall, I wonder if I should have died already.
People hurt me, often and severely. When someone is hurt as often as I have been, thoughts start to seep up from some subterranean depth.
Thoughts that tell me people are right to hurt me, to hate me. How can so many people collectively make the same mistake of hurting me, unless its not a mistake at all?
Sometimes I feel his penis inside me when I least expect or desire it, like a nagging voice.
I told myself it was just a nightmare, some transient image of a past that never happened, but more and more the dreams bleed into reality, and what was once a dream seems more a memory.
I hate him. I found out a month ago that he hurt other kids, too. I hate myself for keeping quiet. I was scared, and my fear caused more kids to be hurt like I was.
I should be dead, a punishment for my silence.
Silence is never free; paid for in blood. How many kids are dead because of me? How many decided they should be dead? They paid for my silence.
I saw a lawyer say that I could get money for what he did to me. That priests are finally facing justice. But they tried to get him before. They moved him to another church, said he “Mishandled his role as lead of children’s outreach”.
They use long sentences to say a simple thought: he raped me and who knows how many other kids, and we are supposed to keep silent.
I’m angry at my mom. We are Jews by blood, but she allowed me to be raised by Catholics. Catholics who hurt me. I paid for her silence.
I shouldn’t blame her. I love her, she didn’t know. They paid for my silence.
I wish that I had been like my Cousin. I wish I had denied my Catholic upbringing for my Jewish heritage. I wish I had escaped before he could have gotten to me.
I remember the mix of Yiddish and English my mom’s family spoke; their rapid-fire sentences and political debates, their food, their culture, our people. My mom made us read Jewish literature, be familiar with Jewish history; to know of the Shoah.
Why couldn’t she let us be Jewish sooner? Get away from the men who hurt me?
Not all the priests hurt me. Two tried to help me. They tried to keep me away from him. It wasn’t enough. They didn’t save anyone. We paid for their silence.
I can’t tell my dad what happened. The priest isn’t dead yet, and my dad would kill him if he found out. Its good my dad doesn’t read my website. Maybe I shouldn’t post this. I know I said a substantive post every day of July, but maybe this is too far.
How can I keep silent when he could hurt so many more kids?
I tell myself that he is too old, that no one would ever let him be around kids again. But he’s back.
They let him return to the church I grew up in. He’s back and all those kids are in danger.
The debt of my silence has once again demanded to be paid.
Would anyone even believe me? Would anyone hear my words and trust that I wouldn’t lie? Maybe I’m mistaken, maybe it was someone else. Another priest, another man, another demon. Another fucker who deserves to die.
My mind fragments, protects me from the pain, forces my silence.
I want to tell the world, I want to be freed from the silence, I can’t let those kids hurt. How can I let those kids hurt? Why am I letting those kids hurt?
More and more I see the younger me, curled up on the floor, rocking back and forth, wondering when the pain would stop. My pediatrician didn’t tell my parents I was hurt. He saw the signs, but said nothing. He was complicit. Why didn’t he say anything? I paid for his silence.
Someone told me that the pediatrician hurt them. Maybe that’s why. Maybe those who are silent are scared that others will hear them. Hear what they’ve done. What have I done, that I want silence?
Maybe being hurt is enough. My tainted body will never enter the kingdom of God, or so he said. I don’t believe in God. I didn’t before or when he hurt me, I didn’t after. I still don’t. But despite that, I still cry out above, hoping someone will hear me. I am silent.
Yisa Adonai panav eilecha v’yasem lecha shalom
I should be dead.
I should be silent.