I hate that someone who was there through the shittiest time in my life will call me up to tell me how one of the people who helped make that time shitty is having such a wonderful life and isn’t it a grand coincidence how one of their friend’s wife knows that person’s spouse, especially when that person is a relative.
It makes me feel crazy.
Did said relative not notice how bad things were?
Or were things really not that bad?
That’s the thing that eats at me, whether I misinterpreted everything. Maybe the standing outside my house for hours was normal things boys do. Maybe the constant hair stroking and pulling and the tickling and poking, even as I begged him not to were really just harmless pranks. Maybe him holding me and crushing his weight against me was just his way of letting me know he liked me. Maybe I did just overreact to everything and so we can just talk about the folks who continued to give him access to me like they’re normal people whose happiness should please me.
I don’t know.
Every day I am grateful that the recalcitrant brother took a baseball bat to his car, if only because it’s proof that someone else also thought the whole thing was fucking disturbing and out of hand.