You expect this to be slightly bitter, I suppose. I am, admittedly, a woman betrayed. I am a wife, a mother, a friend. Betrayed. Could I have written a word during the madness of that time, instead of now, when the ugliness is not real to anyone anymore, its presence of seething resentment not felt in real-time. I did try writing, oh those notes were from a madwoman. Fearful, caged, and always confused.
You see, the idea of betrayal goes against the brilliance of our brain’s structure. Our brain does not recognize betrayal, our gut does. Our brain works to find solutions, not more problems. The whirls brilliantly, spinning possibilities of such minor proportion as to assuage our gut. It is exhausting for our brain to discover, to even fathom, to conjecture that another human being whom you trust with your life, your.
Imagine looking into the eyes of a newborn baby and ever believing that the soul of what you cherished, hated you enough to want to destroy you. To want to see you suffer daily, hourly, wanting to see you cower in fear, to shake, and to beg on your hands and your knees to please where this new hell came from.
Reading my notes from that time is like witnessing a caged animal, smelling her fear, it takes me back to a place you can only live through once. Because you will never give your trust away, ever again.
Do I sound bitter? I hope not. You would not believe me if I titled this novella, Grateful For Betrayal, or even Grateful For The Horror, and Grateful For The Hell. I mean, that is still a possibility, if you like those titles better, we can always revisit.
After the years of nightmares, waking up with a scream stuck in my throat, a scream of warning always to the unknown, invisible player who took part, I can think back now. Do not edit me, I know that I write loosely, do not edit the tone. I have edited enough of the screaming mad woman, she sadly was never bitter.
There was no time. There was too much ugliness to be petty. Do you remember Bryan, when I screamed and whimpered in your arms the night my mom died? She died of a heart attack. You knew the ugly ugly truth. You knew I had been in the backyard every day fearful that you were recording my conversations, reading my texts, I called her shaking in the fucking backyard I will never forget my angel mother was so afraid for me, and you kept lying. That is betrayal.
