Читать книгу This Is Not the Life I Ordered - Deborah Collins Stephens - Страница 32

“As a child, and into adulthood, I learned to hide my light from others so that no one would hurt me. Perhaps it came from being sexually abused and learning that people can take very special parts of you without your permission. As a result, I developed a fear that someone would take that very special part of me and destroy it. I am Michealene Christini Risley and I became an expert at hide-and-seek.

“I hid my talents because I did not want people to notice and hurt me or take away those gifts. I worked my way through life, getting close to all of the things that I dreamed of—but never having them. In my career, I took jobs that circled around my dreams. I stared longingly from the sidelines, hoping for what seemed so far out of reach. The experience was like having your swimsuit on at the edge of the pool, but never having the courage to jump in. I secretly hoped that someone would grab my hand and help me into the water.

“What I needed most was for someone to tell me that it was okay to want those things—it was okay to dream and be—and that I wasn't a child anymore. My fantasy was always that this person would nurture my talents, while protecting me. My own inner voices were hard to conquer. How dare I hope for things in my life? How dare I dream so large? Friends and family looked at my career and marveled at how happy and successful I was. I was the only one who knew the truth—that I was still standing at the edge of the pool waiting to jump in.

“I gave birth to our first child the same day that my father had a brain tumor removed. Life and death seem always to be intertwined. I didn't know if Dad would make it out of surgery alive, but I had to try to find a way to celebrate the gift of a healthy baby boy. These moments were bittersweet.

“Weeks later, I traveled to visit my father in the hospital and he got to see his eleventh grandson. I studied his face as it lit up with joy at his first glimpse of my son. But as I spent time with him in the ICU, it dawned on me that my dad's life would end soon.

“I stood at the foot of the hospital bed as he turned to me and called out a name—Mary Jane, the name of my childhood friend. I froze, as I had spent years rehearsing this conversation. I had always wanted to confront my father, but somehow I came to believe growing up that, if you told your parents bad things, it would cause their death. It was a difficult belief to hold inside a family full of secrets. Could this possibly be the right moment? Not now, not when he was dying. Yet, he was trying to talk about it. I wanted to run for the nearest exit.

“Standing in the ICU, I felt transported back in time. There was the puke-green tile that framed the mirror on the kitchen wall. I could hear the crackle of the olive oil heating up in the frying pan. Terror engulfed me as I approached my mother, who stood with her hands deep in the sudsy sink and her back to me. She whirled around as I said: ‘Mom, Mary Jane says Dad put his hand down her pants.’”