I have to spend a long time thinking this through before I get to a place that’s actually satisfying. I mean, hours spread over the course of days.
I was confused, talking to C. What did she really want? She said she would ask her mom if she could live with me next year. (The family will be moving away in December. C wants to attend the local high school here which is a boarding school.) Then she said again she wants to experience boarding life.
Which is okay actually. I think there may have been a momentary since of betrayal—why did she say would ask her mom before? As well as a disappointment and a fear (how will I cope without seeing my sparkle every day?) They are not earth shattering emotions.
But C saw them. She said, in a soft voice, “It’s not like that.” Her voice was soft and I looked straight into her soft, caring eyes. And I lost it at that moment. That’s when I stopped being able to take in everything and I began to split.
She reminded me so much of Ksymcia at that moment, and I missed Ksymcia, and I was aware too of how much I will miss C. She doesn’t look that much like Ksymcia now—she is more solid and less whispy and also more confident and aggressive as a personality. In other moods, C doesn’t remind me of Ksymcia at all. But when she is in a gentle mood, a caring mood, and suddenly our roles are reversed and she is the one looking after me, the resemblance feels unbearable.
What comes out of it for me is that I felt my dad killed Ksymcia because of me—whether it was murder or suicide, I actually don’t know. I think I don’t know now because I didn’t know then. Some of me thinks it was suicide. Some of me thinks it was murder. But the murdering side of me thinks my dad killed her, and it thinks he killed her because I couldn’t satisfy him enough that he behaved. It assumes the apparently humanizing effect that sexually abusing me had on him—his wish for power was temporarily satiated and he stopped behaving like so much of a monster—meant that hurting me was good for him. And I couldn’t do it adequately, so he hurt someone else instead.
She doesn’t grasp that hurting me was more like a prelude to the real thing. Torturing me was just practice. What he really wanted to do was torture and kill someone, instead of torture and pretend to kill someone. I was the dummy doll, not a savior.
And it’s shocking. It’s shocking to see that an understanding of the dynamic is already there in some way inside me. I couldn’t grasp it, but the pieces of it are all there, ready to be put together. My dad sexually abused me, but that’s not the main strand in my life or in his personality. The main strand of everything is that he is a murderer—a murderer and a sadist.