You wonder what you’re for, on such occasions; and you realise your utility is reduced. And it’s unhappy to have a reduced utility, especially when you know it’s untrue.
And no one likes a dead martyr. But what no one really wants is a living martyr: no one wants a certain persistence of vision – in this case, my persistence of vision; my utter refusal to give up on perceiving the utter injustice of what happened to me in those days – to persistently remind, to encroach in on their pleasantly held mindful peaces of unholy remembrance: all those family members who lived half-truths for all this time: all that blood money paid to assuage hurting consciences (hurting then; now safely buried – unless the martyr continues persistently to proceed with the digging-up, of course!): and all the wriggling squiggling attempts to track and email and forum in private space of nuclear and extended capacity the so very many lies told to me – and to selves – to sustain the rank cruelty of a burningly fuelled familial conflagration.
Across seas and continents the stupidity has continued its idiotic march: and that is why I wonder why once more. And in the absence of any other possible Sherlockian explanation, I can only conclude my many branches of family are afraid of what I have seen of them, of what I have suffered by them, and of what I know – in my profoundest soul and heart – they have been capable of; they are capable of; they will – still – choose to be capable of in the future.
Family as blood, I disown yous.
Family as choice, I embrace yous.
And in this way, and only this way, can I now move forward. In this way, I finally am free. In this way, I become that island in the streams of ugly flotsam that have hurt and pained and damaged me so. And in this way, maybe one day, some good woman shall care to join me, free of her flotsam and pain and rain – and ready to adventure the next.
And then my journey shall be done.
And then a martyr, neither living nor dead, shall attest my humanity, my entity and my integrity.