There are some dates that are branded into my brain. Seared into the soft tissue, a deep, dark ugly scar.
21 March is one. 18 October 2013 is another.
The first is the man that is my fathers birthday. The second - the day he is eligible for parole. It marks 9 years that he has been in prison. 9 years from when 12 complete strangers believed me and sentenced him to 12 years imprisonment for the abuse he committed against me.
How did that nine years go so fast? Why is the monster still even alive?
Today I finally contacted the victims registrar to change my address details. Something I've been meaning to do for the last six months. Something my mother has reminded me to do numerous times. Something that I kept putting off.
I called the registrar, as grown up Vicky. The woman I spoke to explained the process, but after her telling me the date of his parole hearing, 16 August, 2013, my body went into flight response. When I hung up, little Vicky had arrived. She was biting her nails, holding her breathe, trembling.
I walked out to the lounge room, M looked at me and before I could say anything, asked me what was wrong. Through my tears, I asked him for a cuddle. He came and held me and asked again. I explained what I had just done. He kissed the top of my head, "Let's go an lay down and have a cuddle," he responded.
I curled my body into his embrace and cried. "How has it been 9 years? How is he still alive? He was supposed to die ... I want him to die..."
As I lay there in the safety of his arms, I wrapped my own around that small child within. She is not alone. I am not alone.
Naomi over at Seven Cherubs talks about being a victim, a Survivor, a thriver. Most of the time, I'm thriving. Sometimes, like today, I feel like I am only just surviving. There is a lump in my throat. One that hasn't been there for a very long time.
Fasten your seatbelts ladies and gents. We may hit some turbulence.
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