Let me apologize to begin with.
I’m sorry Elliot, and I’m ashamed of myself for not finding out.
It’s not the shameful feeling of “I’m such a great detective so I should have solved the mystery a long time ago.”
Not that shame.
It’s the shameful part of me that I thought had such great empathy to human suffering, the part that should have notice the screaming signs of a molested child.
Elliot, you called me a friend, for times you even thought me as one until you didn’t, and you were right, what kind of a friend would not have realized what you had to go through to become the dissociative disorder person you are?
I had to know that 90% of those that have this mental illness suffered of abuse in their childhood.
But I thought it was your mother, I thought as you told yourself, as you told me, that your father was your only friend.
I had to realize that your amnesia was part of your post traumatic stress due to being sexually abuse.
The signs were all there, I should have known better, I should have felt it in my guts that your mother abuse was not the whole case, that your reaction towards child sexual abusers is that of someone who suffered that kind of abuse himself.
That you telling your sister to hide in the closet when your father came home should have made my alarms go off, but unfortunately they didn’t.
That your mom telling you you should be happy your father is dead, is not an indication to how fucked up she’s been, but how fucked up your father has been.
That an adult that suggests a child to watch an R-Rated movie can not really have good motives, that grooming was really what was going on there.
Was me ignoring those (and great more) signs was because I was not as sensitive as I had me believe?
or was is it because I was too afraid to admit to myself that this is actually what is been going on all along?
That it was easier for me to turn my head the other way because I didn’t want to deal with sex abuse, with child molesting, with the implications of what this does to the soft soul of a child.
That I’m like a neighbor that hears screaming and shouting, and suspects that the The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane is being abused but does nothing because he saw her a few times put a smile on her face, so everything must be A OK.
That I’m the awful person that left you, my friend, all alone, to dwell in your internal suffering, without telling you the core reason for that.
that instead I was waiting for some little bitch turning bully to get it out from you with a swing of his aluminum bat.
I wasn’t abused as a child, I must say. I was bullied at times, maybe had to deal with a rough neighborhood, but that’s it, and I thank my good fortune for that.
But over the years I personally got to know people, close ones even, that were sexually abused in their childhood, that their soul was forever damaged by what happened there behind those closed doors, and I helped them as much as I could to cop with that.
I thought it made me highly sensitive to someone who as a child was sexually abused, but maybe I was wrong.
Maybe in the end I’m still a coward that don’t want to hear about that dark part of humanity, that knows that once it is told to you by someone you know, there is no going back, and you have to deal with that, you have to help him deal with what was done to him, and you have to deal with what this revelation also does to you.
And for that I’m sorry Elliot.
Please forgive me.