My mom had finally asked me what my problem was. I broke down into tears and told her all about my reaccuring depression. When she asked what it was about, I told her it was mainly caused by things she had said to me. She laughed at me and even to this day treats it as a joke. She said it was all stupid and fake and that I need to grow up and stop blaming everyone else. She said nothing bad has ever happened to me. She asked me (of course not expecting an answer) if I had been molested like my aunt was, whose parents knew but allowed the man to visit their home still. I said no. I was lying. My grandfather, my mother’s father, had molested me. Not only do I still see him at least several times a week, I have to act like nothing is wrong and keep this from my family.
I still wonder to this day what would have happened if I had confessed, if things would be better, if they would have changed. . .
