I Will Not Be Ignored

I’d been planning this roadtrip for months. A journey to seek knowledge, to learn, to understand, to grow into myself. I thought I knew where I would find this wisdom. (And I was right— that’s for another writing.) I needed to drive through the area where I grew up anyways. It was on the route, unavoidable. Necessary, but there was nothing there for me. Or so I thought, until a few days beforehand. As I scanned my mind for any meaningful stops to make, places that held memories for me, a new idea started to take form. It scared me. At the same time, it felt important. That’s usually how I receive my assignments.

I procrastinate packing until the last minute. The night before the trip, I spend hours talking to my roommate. It’s a healing and supportive conversation. I appreciate them. For a little bit, I don’t feel so alone. Until I am. It’s time to go. I don’t want to. I’m dragging my feet despite months of building excitement. Finally, I hit the road, trading the city I now call home for a seemingly endless stretch of Midwest highway.

As I enter the state I grew up in, it’s foggy as fuck out. An ominous aura. This feels appropriate. Passing the vast fields and isolated farmhouses, I remember what it felt like to be a kid in the world with no control, riding down these same roads in the backseat, afraid of what awaited me at our destination. I remember what it felt like to be a kid dreaming about Someday while simultaneously sensing that it would never come. Not for me. I remember what it felt like to be a kid trapped in a dead-end inheritance of a life. I remember all these feelings and futures I fought to escape. Why did I return?

I think of my family members who stayed; born, raised, and buried in the same rural town. Women who settled for the illusion of domestic bliss, which actually bred abuse, addiction, illness, and families full with eight kids. I think of the necessity, their dreams sacrificed to the legacy of silence they left me. I reject it.

I finally arrive after dark— I forgot how tiny this town really is. You can drive through the major landmarks in 5 minutes. The town is small, but the emotions it brings back are big.

The water treatment plant we drove past every day.

The forested ditch I used to play around.

The dumpster a “friend” threw my purse into.

The farm supply store my mom took me to look at baby chicks.

The factory the men in my family worked at.

The old bridge you cross to reach main street.

The playground of the school I attended, pretending I was a fairy who could fly away from my pain and confusion.

My grandma’s Catholic church on main street.

The laundromat where I bought candy for a quarter while my mom washed clothes.

The little strip mall my parents worked at while I roamed the halls, befriending other shop owners.

All of this continued on without me.

All of this is still connected to me.

What is left? What remains?

That’s it. That’s why I’m here. The pieces of our shared past are still in me, like shards of glass piercing my soul. They may never be removed. That’s not the point.

What can I make of it all? Where do I go from here?

There it is. The house where sexual abuse happened. A porch light is on. A picket fence has been put up. Someone else lives there now. I wonder if the swing I used to love is still in the backyard. I wonder if my grandma’s vegetable garden is alive or grown over or gone completely. I almost want to knock on the door and ask if I can come in, but I don't. That's not my mission.

I came to speak the Truth.

I came to connect the pieces correctly.

I came to put past pain to rest and awaken the possibility of new potential.

I drive in circles to somber music, allowing memory to wash over me until it’s late. I figured I would sleep in the parking lot of my childhood apartment, but this plan is disrupted when a cop pulls me over for driving too slow. She more or less tells me to leave town, so back down the country roads I go, driving with no real destination and only my headlights to illuminate the pitch black surroundings. Darkness swallows me.

I find myself at a lake my family often camped at as a kid. I had forgotten about this place, but it hasn't forgotten me. I park next to a strong tree I recognize from my childhood and sleep in the driver seat as a storm rolls in.

I’m surprised I get any sleep at all. I know it’s because that tree was watching over me. In the light of day, I can see the campgrounds clearly. Where I once stood over the water on a wooden dock, green grass is now growing. The dock is gone, not a boat in sight. The lake has changed. It’s almost dry.

I write a letter to the family member who sexually abused me, trying not to call it stupid even as I cringe. I talk to the tree. Touch it. Remind it who I am; try and remember it, too. Thank it. Ask for strength. Then I drive back into town. Park at his house. Put on gloves and veil my hair. Gather my courage to walk up to the door. I knock. Once. Twice. Three. Four times. With each knock, a fire grows inside me. I feel it in my hands. It’s unfamiliar. No small flame, nor frantic or desperate. Exigent— important. Loud. Slow. Strong. Hard. Firm. I am here. I stand in my knowing.

I bang on that door until my hand hurts. This feels like the most powerful part of the whole experience. I’m not leaving until you acknowledge me. I will not be ignored.

I'm about to drop my letter in the mailbox, disappointed, when the door opens, and there he is. This man I lived most of my life in fear of. This man twice my size. I look him in the eye. He seems smaller now. I’ve grown.

He doesn't recognize me. It has been years since we last saw each other across the church at my grandma’s funeral. His face falls when I tell him who I am.

“Now’s not a good time.”

“There will never be a good time.”

“I need to talk to my parole officer.”

“This must be faced.”

Then I speak the Truth. I return it to its rightful owner. I release it.

He listens. He nods. He says very little. I think he receives.

I leave.

I know for a fact no one else has ever said these words to him. No one else ever could. Maybe he needed to hear them, but more importantly, I needed to speak them. The Truth doesn't die. Neither does trauma. It lives on in us, around us, in everyone involved. This connection cannot truly be severed, only transformed. If it’s ignored, it echoes, thriving in the unconscious. It repeats indefinitely unless and until it is acknowledged. I am done with this cycle.

I honor that child who dared to dream of a distant future even as the walls closed in around her. I honor her courage in finding forms of self expression while adults abused their control over her. I grew up to become someone who fights for her freedom, just as she fought for mine.

And now, it is that Someday.

Of all the lives I could have lived, I’m glad I chose the one I did.