She stayed up and finished a novel. Her body felt like a teenager again. Call it a coincidence, or call it God, after ten years of reading deprivation, the first novel she finished brought her closer to her own story. The part of her childhood she actively buries, spilled over the page. She felt responsible to hold the book as if she was holding her younger self. She can help her now.
The plot and the characters are not skillfully sculpted. It is not a literary masterpiece. The ending is unsatisfying. But the tightness of the story pulled her in. And the language is easy on a deprived reader. The book illuminated the fact hidden in plain sight – the part of her that was abused, is alive. She has taken on her abuser’s role. It is difficult for her to stomach. She worked hard to prevent that from happening. And she refused to see the fact until the book opened her.
It is a common response for anyone who was abused as a child to become an abuser themselves. She was determined to break that pattern. To her credit, she did solid work to heal and help herself. She didn’t want to get sucked into the vortex of her paternal grandmother. She despised that serpent. She despised her so much that she didn’t even want to kill her. Death would be too easy. The serpent dressed up in God’s righteousness and love, busied herself with inflicting pain and terror on a small and helpless child.
She is angry. She is rightfully so. Here she is, occasionally tormented by her past. Who isn’t? The serpent deceives and blinds her from time to time, but she is no longer tied up on a chair. She can help herself now. There is almost always a choice. The choice to believe that she is safe and free. The choice to stand up and walk out of the cage.