Silver Jubilee?

Twenty-five years ... I wonder if there is some mysterious or biological or psychological magic, which calls us to commemorate significant events after two and a half decades.

Thoughts and memories of what was taking place for me and my family of origin have been knocking around in my head and my heart and my gut ... and when I finally did the math, I realized 25 years had passed since a living nightmare had ended with gunfire and a phone call. After the shock and self-blame, real healing could finally begin.

"Leave the past in the past" was a common phrase in my family of origin. Why?

Remembering the past was inevitable, but discussing it was taboo.

Discussing events of the past -- especially events that should never have happened, but DID --made the perpetrators of "unspeakable deeds" uncomfortable. Ha. As if they had a right to comfort. As if their deeds were theirs alone, their shame was the only consequence of those actions they had either chosen or felt compelled to carry out. As if THEY were the victims.

NOT discussing events of the past made the past fade away ... for the perpetrators of unspeakable deeds. But not for the real victims, who carried the pain and the shame and the scars that never healed because the wounds could not be aired, could not be salved, could not be shown in the light of day ... the healing light of acknowledgement and contrition and empathy and sincere (SINCERE) regret -- regret for the harm done to others, not regret of the perpetrators' own torment.

Twenty-five years ago I wrote two letters to my mother, after seeing her for the last time outside the courtroom where a hearing would determine whether certain tape recorded confessions were admissible evidence in the upcoming trial of my father as a pedophile. My mother asked me to tell her what SHE had done to hurt ME -- she was really asking why I didn't see HER as the victim of these proceedings.

My mother never read my letters -- my dad did, and then he shot himself. My brother burned the letters. My mom didn't want to read them. It would have brought the past out of the past, alive and wielding its poisonous talons and daggers, swords and lead pipes, honey-coated words and bitter hateful threats ... not because I recounted those things, but because even a whisper, even an allusion to the unspeakable deeds, woke the memories my mother didn't want to admit were hers, roused the specter of the mother she was vs. the mother she should have been, called into question the decision to house her children with a man she knew was abusing them, and to participate actively in that abuse herself.

Twenty-two years, she hid from me so she could keep her illusion of being the victim. And the illusion that HE was a victim, as well.

Twenty-five years ago, I wrote two powerful, articulate, well-reasoned, no-nonsense letters that called for TRUTH, ACCOUNTABILITY, and HEALING.

I hope that now, 25 years later, the survivors of those unspeakable acts are able to look back on the past, hold their heads high, and for the most part, put the past -- properly aired and acknowledged, properly salved and tenderly attended to, and finally mostly healed -- in the past ... and moved on... into the bright future of their own choosing.