The truth has never been uglier. Our scars. No one is normal, and the more we admit to it, the more sadistic we seem.
Our family has a torch that we like to pass around to one another. I couldn’t see it when my dad held it, and certainly not while my mother possessed it, but once I held it, and I began to see. I carried the torch when I ran away, became a fugitive, and my family knew not what happened to me. I carried that torch proudly, though that’s not the right word for it, no the opposite is more closely the truth. The words I choose matter little. The words I choose mean everything.
While I held the torch, I could see myself, which was incredible and horrifying, and it took me so long to pass it on. I didn’t want to, because once you possess it you can’t see anything past its light, that light that reflects your mistakes for the world to see. And I made the mistake of thinking I was alone. But soon the torch left my hand, and was carried by my sister. And, oh, I saw forgiveness. A forgiveness I didn’t know I possessed, expressed most sincerely by those who bore the torch before myself, a forgiveness and deep love for the one that holds it now. The one my sister passed it off to. The one that holds it now has seen it before, but never truly grasped it. This one’s identity, this one’s scars, I keep hidden, because the torch is blinding the carrier of the forgiveness that comes with this family.
It need only be embraced.