I M Perfect lady

Today I overheard a very derisive chuckle, a snide jeering about a 'pervert'.  And, it wasn't so much the messenger; but the personal affront I felt.  It wasn't about my father; but it could have been.

As I stood there, I felt ashamed and defenseless. 

 I can't explain how it pierced my little girl inside of me.

Like I was being mocked.

And, I had no leg to stand upon.

It was true.

I was being made fun of…in a round about way.

How do respond when the truth of your heritage is the brunt of ridicule?

Today the story in my jeep was "Where the Light Gets In" by Kimberly Williams Paisley.

It is a story about a mother who is suffering from dementia and how it affects the family as she spins out of control.

While it is a devastating life altering event, it doesn't compare to the behaviors of pedophiles.  

The love and caring that is involved in her story, compared to mine, had me in tears.

What her mother does that is embarrassing is so mild, again compared to mine.

I felt cheated.

Her mother had a reason, a valid reason, for her behavior.

I had none.

I don't believe that I have felt the realness of what it means to be a daughter of a pedophile.  To feel how he is laughed about in a sick way.  And, not to feel somehow dipped in the same can paint.

How often am I jeered at and derisive comments sent my way?

What do I have to contradict them?

What can I use to state my case.

Instead it feels like I have to be the tough one, to let the scoffing roll off my back…stand straighter, and walk on.  Walk with the ugly truth in all its glory.  Trying not to hold its hand, but having no choice. He is part of my DNA.

It is a wonder that I do public speak, that I do stand in the spot light and share my story…a lone voice…against the jeers. 

I know they were not directed at me; but my father.

Yet, he is where I come from.

 I am separated physically, but my heritage cannot be change.

"Bloom where you are planted"…is hard at times, coming from whence you came.

Just another little bump in the journey of being me.

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Words hurt.

And, the truth often pisses you off; before it sets you free.

I wasn't angry, I was hurt.

Perhaps the grieving process is accepting the truth and finding peace from there.

It is a tough pill to swallow and continue to feel empowered.

The jeers I can use as motivation to rise above their mockery.

Maybe he wasn't someone to stand and defend; but I am.

I am my father's daughter; but I'm working on changing my legacy.