It’s hard to talk about.
I’ve learned since that when something happens and you don’twantto-can’t-areafraidto talk about it, that is a big red flag for abuse.
Shame is the tool of the abuser. Secrecy and silence.
So when at last I leave and I am out, I carry the message. Don’t speak. Don’t be that guy that hangs on to things to be dramatic.
No one will believe me.
And no one will understand.
Just be glad you’re out. Be glad it’s over.
But then. When every church service means I cry silently without stopping it doesn’t quite feel over.
It must be the songs. The songs I played on that church piano, the only piano I had access to. THe place where I could express myself in pure emotion and leave dangerous words out of it.
I can’t stand in church and hear those same songs I played without tears. Crying might be the wrong word. Because it is a reflexive reaction. It’s barely emotion, and it doesn’t even hurt
It’s just that i have to cry.
What if I went to a church that didn’t look, sound, smell or feel like the one I played the piano in?
I tried that. It worked okay for a while.
Until the leader and the group started to feel the same. No, I will not repent and confess if I miss a Sunday service. As a matter of fact, I think I will miss every Sunday service from here on out.
I can be confidence and fippant after the fact. At the time there were a lot more tears.
But they never knew about the church with that piano. Not really.
I wrote a book about it at last. I pushed past the shame and silence and secrecy.
People may still say I am over dramatic.
And then there will be the people who read the book, and it drops down into their still silent heart like a stone in a lake.
All the way down to the bottom, never to be removed.
Because they will know. They will know that SOMEONE told it. That the secrecy is a broken rule.
A broken lock
and the jail cell can be vacated.
Be that guy. The one that breaks free