Brave Enough To Be Bliss

And ultimately, those realizations along with everything else I had learned over the past year led me to send this final video to John.

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“The thing to ask is not whether something is ‘ right ’ or ‘ wrong, ’ but how it relates to the way you want to live your life.” Susan David

Three days before finishing writing at Table Rock Lake, I went to bed about 2 a.m. and awoke with a start at 5:06 a.m., knowing who sexually abused me when I was three years old. I didn’t see his face right then, but I felt his weight and while not audibly, I was telling him to get off of me in my mind. I may not have visualized him, but I knew without a doubt who it was. I could feel his skin. And I hated his skin. I felt sad and began to cry, but not hysterically like when I woke the first time remembering having been raped at 17. These were simply slow, rolling tears down my cheeks. It was more confirmation than realization, as I had known somewhere within me there was a chance it was him. There was no blaming my parents or anyone else except him. I was simply sad he had hurt me in that way. Sad he had been such a hurt human himself that he could. Sad that it finally made sense why I had felt so badly about myself even before the rape as a teenager. Sad that I didn’t have the ability at that time or the awareness anytime later to express what had happened to me. Sad that so many other little girls and little boys are hurt similarly and are still in pain like I was. Sad imagining how it must feel to be the human perpetrator who could commit such crimes against other humans. Sad for those of us who get so mixed up about what it is to be loved and cared for when someone we know and love hurts us in these ways. Sad that little people like me grow up to be the hurt, confused, and scared adults that we are, who then pass along pain without even understanding why we do what we do. Sad for everyone involved and sad that, at least to date, people in our world have lived in more fear of sexual abuse and assault than we have lived in love. Sad that we can’t face whatever fears we have personally in order to help those who have been hurt, as well as those who are hurting us, to become the healthiest people we can be and make the world a happier, safer, and less lonely place. But then I remembered, I didn’t have time for this. I didn’t have time to be diverted by this memory. Not right now when I was so close to finishing the book. But I knew I had to do enough to put this memory in a safe place in my brain for a while in order to be able to write like I needed to. So, after laying there in bed for a while, I wrote and sent the following email to myself, believing that would be enough for now. I wanted to be able to remember later what I was feeling right then.

On Saturday, May 18, 2024, 6:33 AM, Ginger Bliss wrote: It was him.

At three years old, I equated him to a pig. His skin, his squeal, he seemed big and round. I wanted that pig of a person who was crushing me to get off.

I wanted to stop breathing. I wanted to stop existing. I wanted to go away where I couldn’t be found, where I couldn’t be hur t.

While I didn’t understand while growing up why I felt this way when I was around him, I knew they were feelings that didn’t seem normal.

His skin was so dry when he would take off his nylon socks, it would crackle. I hated that sound and the thought of it still makes me squirm today.

When I had to endure hearing it as I got older, I wanted to scream the way you want to when you hear nails on a chalkboard. But I had to be quiet, or I would get in trouble. I had to be good. So, I sat there quietly. Wanting to scream. Wanting to run. Wanting to hide. But being stuck there quietly wanting to die so I never had to hear that sound again.

And when we had to take photos, he would put his arm around me, but his hand was always higher than it should have been around my waist.

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