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01.07.04 - 1:48 a.m. It's just one letter to write. One topic to breach and bear. Dear Mom, Your father molested me. A lot. Keep an eye on the grandkids. Love, Your Son Seems simple enough, no? But, I just can't bring myself to do it. One letter is going to turn my family upside down, shake it a bunch and see who survives the fallout. So many possible outcomes to this story-line, so many chances of...what? What am I thinking worse-case scenario would be? I've not a fucking clue, to be honest. Jesus, Fuck, this has to be done. What a hard little task, this rite of passage of mine. I better get a pair of friggin' angel wings and halo out of this...a harp or perhaps a robe at the very least. Okay, then, tomorrow I stop this putting-off thing, that I'm so gooood at, and I write the letter to my mother, put the letter in an envelope, adhere the stamp to the upper right corner, and pop the little pandora's mail into the mail box, and wait for fate to unfold it's secrets. I'm not doing this to hurt anyone. I'm doing this to heal, the greater wound...the collective wound, and to make sure the cycle ends and no other child has to lose what I, and so many other people have lost...the innate sense of innocence. Keep the focus and act mindfully. How zen.
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