There are none so blind...

Journal entry: September 11, 2019

Yesterday morning, I finished editing the chapter in "DREAM OF THE BUTTERFLY" that I was fine-tuning. The emotional thunderstorm that rolled through me, as a result of being triggered all over again by events from my past, released so many old toxins that I was left feeling strung-out; Jonesing for sugar, alcohol, and junk food of all kinds. Simultaneously, I felt like sleeping forever, like running down the road screaming, like catching a plane and flying away to Europe. (That third choice really, really appeals to me!) I wanted to be anywhere but where I was, sitting at my desk, working on this manuscript. I've got it to do, though. If not now, then when?

It is my own soul calling the shots these days, even knowing that rereading my personal story will trigger torrents of suppressed emotions over what was happening thirty years ago. The back of my eyeballs burned for hours as I wept uncontrollably, physical evidence as to the acidic nature of my tears. How else do we cleanse our bodies of this stuff?

The main scene that broke through my intellectual/mental wall, catapulting me straight into "feeling body mode", was the instance of the only family-of-origin wedding I ever attended with those people. It had been several years since I'd seen most of them, including the criminal parents. They had never before been accorded the privilege of meeting my baby. Not until her admitted pedophile grandfather innocently sidled up to my five-year-young daughter, taking her hand in his and smiling his fucked-up predator's smile, did the falseness of that gathering crash onto me. And the very real danger inherent to a small child, surrounded by those people from the Family Damned.

I had run up and swept her away from the old fucker, while everyone stood and stared, acting as if I was the bad one. Even though they all knew what he had confessed to doing to me and my sisters when we were all too young to defend ourselves.

Writing of writing about this horrendous mess, and the subsequent unleashing of nearly out-of-control feelings around the incident, is reminding me, all over again, that this kind of multi-generational wounding happens every day. Right in front of us. The initial encounters between sexual criminal and victim; child or adult, usually take place in the unsuspecting company of others. Read the previous sentence as many times as it takes to understand it on a visceral level. Most people deliberately choose not to see what they are seeing. The fact that so many of those in that wedding party wanted only for me to be quiet and not disrupt the festivities, is testament to just how in denial humans can be. Myself, included.

Looking back, I only wish I'd been strong enough right then, while in the midst of my sisters who were also the pervert's victims, to bring legal charges against the evil bastard. Everyone urged silence, though, pleaded for more secrecy.

"Oh, can't we set that aside for the sake of a happy wedding celebration? This isn't the time or place, Rush,...please? Besides, dad had prostate cancer surgery, as you know, so he can't do anything to anyone ever again."

How completely wrong the lily-livered ones would turn out to be. Sixteen more years would elapse before the other shoe dropped.

By noon, yesterday, those newly freed old toxins were flooding my bloodstream, making me feel sick and slightly unhinged. I forced myself to leave the office and head to the kitchen. Instinctively, I pulled a few wholesome ingredients together and built a new loaf of sourdough bread, kneading the robust dough until my arm muscles quivered with fatigue. Until my mind settled and my heart stopped hurting. Until I was fully back in the present moment. Then I set the loaf to rising in a brown glass bowl, on a sunlit window ledge, in my painting studio. With the kitchen cleaned up and set to rights, I knew it was time to take the next step.

The woman who answered my phone call to the printing company was pleasantly businesslike, asking for details pertaining to size, number of copies, quality of materials, etc. We arrived at the issue of the cover, and she wanted to know a bit about the contents. In a few words, I supplied it, unable to keep my voice from breaking long distance. The woman's tone suddenly changed. "Okay," she spoke gently, "now I want to read your book, too!"

"Why?" I questioned, stunned.

"Because your story is real. Because my family is messed up in its own way, also. Because your book is so needed in this crazy world. Because I can hear the truth of your words in your voice, and if you write the way you speak, others will be able to feel everything you've just made me feel. Let's do this!"

Copyright Rush Cole 2019. All rights reserved.

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I am focusing on using the story of my own life; the good, bad, and ugly parts of it all; mine and other's crimes alike, to help change the way we treat each other. If you'd like to be included in the Acknowledgements of this first volume of what will be a series, please click on this link. Thank you for taking the time to read what I write.

https://www.rushcolefineart.com/BOOKCOVERS.html