The most important thing I've come to realize after spending some time with my repressed memories is that it wasn't my fault. It couldn't have been. Maybe deep down I've always known that, but guilt is a burden that sometimes becomes too easy to accept and carry with you like a constantly present raincloud above your head. What if I had done anything, just anything, differently? What if I had said something, or maybe not said something I shouldn't have said, what if...
Those never ending thoughts are torture for the heart, and for the longest time they threatened to break me in a million little pieces. I carried them with me, deep inside, and never allowed them to penetrate the skinn. I closed myself and drained my body of air, hoping I could suffocate the nagging feelings of guilt and all those unanswered questions. But of course it didn't work.
I know he loved me very much. He was the one who was always there for me, who took me to ballet practice and told me I was good even though I wasn't. He took the time to read me bedtime stories, to help me with my homework and eventually to watch me try on dussins of pairs of shoes during end of season sales when I knew he hated doing just that.
He may have ended up letting me down, but now I know who I want to blame for what happened. It's just so damn hard.