My grandma passed away today.

All day long I've been struck by wide arrays of emotion. Sadness, grief, confusion, hurt and anger. I haven't shed any tears for my grandma yet. Although this day marked the passing of her physical form, her mind has been gone for a long time. On the surface, I feel fine. I carried on with my day. It was really no different than any other day. Beneath the surface my feelings, thoughts and emotions are a tangled mess.

I loved my grandma very much. She was kind, quirky, and loving. When I was young, I didn't appreciate her the way I now wish I would have. I think many people can say that about their grandparents. Many people can say that about someone in their life.

My grandma taught me about gardening. I remember one day, specifically, where she was teaching me how to properly pull up weeds. I don't know why that memory has remained, but it has. My grandma loved having her grandchildren around. I'll always remember her infamous deer lawn ornaments. I'll always remember spending hours in her backyard playing on the swing set. I'll always remember my grandma.

I guess that maybe this is my way of finding closure because I can't attend my grandma's funeral. In fact, I haven't been able to see her for years now.

You see, several years ago I confided something in my parents and sister, my immediate family. I told them that when I was a little girl, my uncle molested me. Even the word gives me the creeps.

All my life I thought that weird, detached memory of myself and my uncle was just a bad dream. I was about fifteen before my brain processed things, and I finally understood. This wasn't a bad dream. This wasn't going away. At that point, I decided to tell my immediate family.

It came out jumbled. How do you tell your dad that his brother is a pedophile? How do you put into words this distant, but at the same time painfully vivid experience? I struggled to find the words. I struggled to explain myself. When the words started to come out, I immediately felt so ashamed. Why? I hadn't done anything wrong. I can't explain it. I didn't want my family to look at me differently. I desperately wished that maybe, somehow they could explain away this realization. Maybe it was some strange reoccurring nightmare I had when I was a kid. Maybe this or maybe that. Grasping at straws, begging, pleading and bargaining that somehow this wasn't actually happening.

They had no such explanation.

My parents handled all of this in a way I will never forget and will never stop being grateful for. Instead of questioning me about this experience or peppering me with questions that insinuated I was wrong or making it up, they cried with me. As I'm sitting there accusing my dad's brother of sexually abusing me, my dad did something amazing. He believed me. They believed me. I came to them burdened and afraid, and they offered to help me carry that heavy load. My mom, dad and sister are my rocks. I have never been alone.

It wasn't until later that I learned of the many years of sexual abuse that was and is allowed to continue on that side of my family. As is common in these types of situations; the victims were silenced and the predators were allowed free reign. Family members sweep the abuse under the rug to maintain the status quo. They use Christianity or "forgiveness" or whatever else as a way to justify their behavior. When there really is no excuse for allowing abuse to continue. Nobody wants to make waves. It's inconvenient for them to take a stand and say, "No. You've abused family members. You've lost the privilege of being a part of this family." It feels "unfair" or "harsh." You know what I think is unfair? Being forced to choose between either consistently seeing my abuser at family gatherings and such or deciding to set healthy boundaries and then losing family members for it.

My grandma's passing brings all of this back to my attention. I'm usually able to forget (compartmentalize) all of this crap. I live in a different state. I've pretty much accepted that things are the way are. The whole family was made aware of what happened so that they could protect their children, a "courtesy" my parents were not afforded. These days I only see a few family members from that side of the family. The few family members who are willing to cut ties with a pedophile. Getting a pedophile out of your family would seem like a good thing, don't you think?

So, I won't attend my grandma's funeral. It's my choice, but at the same time, it isn't. Is it unreasonable to not want to be in the same room (or, you know, country) as my abuser?

My immediate family won't be there, but the man who abused his nieces (yep, not just me) gets to be there. My dad won't get to attend his own mother's funeral.

Why am I writing/sharing all of this? I honestly don't even know. Maybe because I want people to know how I feel. Maybe because I want people to know what happened. Maybe because I'm sick of the injustice. Maybe because I need some semblance of closure. Who knows?

So even though I won't be at the funeral I just wanted to say, "I love you, grandma."