They are horrified at what happened to us.
They are saddened that our childhood was stolen from us.
They are angered that our little bodies were battered and bruised.
They wish they could have been there to stop it.
I had times in the abusive days when I wished someone would rescue me.
I was pretty naive during the sexual abuse so I never thought anything was wrong.
It was the physical abuse, the physical pain, when I wanted help.
I wanted someone to bust through the door, shove my dad aside and take me out of there.
But that never happened.
Wanting a superhero to come get me was only going to happen one way.
I was going to have to leave.
I had to runaway from my home and escape to a place where I wouldn't be found.
So that's what I did.
But as it turns out, the place I ran to called my mom and dad.
I didn't tell her about the abuse.
I didn't tell anyone.
Had I told I didn't know what would happen.
People who weren't familiar with abuse tended to overreact.
I could loose my parents, sisters and home.
All that pain I felt inside?
I shoved it very far down so it wouldn't surface.
Those memories of physical, sexual, verbal and mental abuse?
I shoved down even further.
It was a matter of survival.
Now that one of the abusers is dead, I can finish that work and call it done.
The other five can be worked on and finished just as well.
There is no timetable for the work to be done.
Slow and steady wins the race.
