She was one of us, a woman surviving childhood abuse by a loved and trusted family member, her father. I mourn her loss. She didn’t make it. And it hurts to lose one.
My compassion for those silent goes deep. She has been a part of me since reading her memoir, Call Me Crazy. (published September 2001) Voracious for any spark of meaning in life to keep me going, memoirs and autobiographies were devoured when facing my own past buried deep where many of those sexually abused as children had to keep it.
The fiery crash, speeding into a house, matching what her interior may have been all along. Because we hide the chaos.
Looking fine on the outside, sexual abuse tears apart souls, the pieces tattered, blowing in the wind.
Is it a coincidence that after too many days to count of miraculous sleep, last night my spirit couldn’t after hearing she died that morning? My stomach plummeted like an elevator with a busted cable.
To be that connected to someone I’d never met.