Witness

I stopped to post this entry. I stopped my very hectic, busy, payroll tax filing life to write this down. I took time away from my wife and new, tiny, miraculous wonderful baby.

I don't want to forget this moment.

Earlier today, someone that I am very close to, though I believe that I sometimes take this relationship for granted, asked me to read a letter that she wrote to her Father. I use the capital letter only for grammatical correctness.

He doesn't deserve the big F. At least not in that way.

There is absolutely not anyone that could misconstrue this man's actions towards his daughters as anything but twisted, gut wrenching, self serving and malicious.

I'm certain that you get the idea without me having to sickly type it out.

She asked me to read her letter to her Father where she would finally tell him how she feels. Purging, cleansing, growing and probably hurting so much, more than I care to even witness.

She wanted me to help her make a succinct, laser point presentation of the pain of what her parent's, both, knowingly chose to do to her and her sisters. To their childeren.

I am still the only party in this relationship to acknowledge that her Mother was complicit.

She wanted her arguments to sound smart. She wanted to be strong and not show any weakness. She wanted me to help her, help her make sense, help her make a strong point, help her to be heard.

I read her letter to her Father, not fully realizing the privilege that this really wonderful human was giving me.

In the end, I told her not to change a thing. There was nothing that should be added or subtracted. It was horrible to hear and beautiful to witness something so cathartic and personal.

I went into it thinking how I could help her and "I would just clean it up" but stick to her point. "She" would show them who Sandra is with big words, dramatic punctuation and and precision skewering.

I learned something and though I can't describe it, I know how it feels.

Sandra not only showed them but she showed me as well. Hopefully I won't read this tomorrow and regret it since this blog isn't private. But fuck it. Who says that I'm afraid to be mushy.