And now, the end is near...

and I don't know where to start.

I'm trying to do an impact statement. No, that's not it. I'm trying to get together a mere list of notes to take to the appointment to do the victim impact statement.

An appointment which will also involve me hearing of episodes of abuse that I had forgotten, tucked away in the dark recesses of my mind, locked in a sturdy old box with phone directories and bricks and anvils stacked on top so they can't fall out unexpectedly. Denied, avoided, dismissed. Much like myself, really.

Until now. Because these are episodes, incidents, occurrences that he remembers, that he told of during his questioning and that form part of his statement. Not my statement, because I buried them somewhere inaccessible and couldn't find them to tell when, 30 years later, I eventually got brave enough to tell anything.

Because of the guilty plea I don't have to hear them, but I'm choosing to anyway. This may sound weird, sick even, but those moments, well they're mine and I lived them and deserve to remember them. I've lost so many years to blackout and I want my years back.

I figure there must have been good times in there somewhere so maybe if I get the bad memories acknowledged, let them out of the box, I may find some good ones that got shoved in with them by accident. Or is that my inner silver lining girl talking? Could be. God, that bitch never shuts up, she's always there with the 'at least' this and 'lesson learned' that.

Fuck off, Pollyanna; just, please. Fuck. A. Long. Way. Off.

I have a list to make.

I don't know where to start.