This post deals with child abuse and might be triggering for some readers.
What does one do when faced with the prospect that their entire life has been built off fiction?
For me, it transformed me into a warrior.
Each day, I battle with this thought. What memories are real? What parts of my life are cover-ups for the truth behind my father’s eyes?
Watch: Women and Violence - The Hidden Numbers. Post continues below.
These are questions I believe I will continue to ask for the remainder of my life, but searching for the answers has helped me build a layer of armour I so desperately needed.
My father was an amazing man. He was my hero; a lovable clown, wordsmith, movie buff, chocoholic, animal lover. I idolised him.
We were connected by so many passions. A love for film and photography, a natural ability with comedy.
Together we explored the world, discovered new cuisines, absorbed new cultures. We entertained the masses with our comedic efforts, admired the arts, and explored poetry.
He was my teacher, my mentor.
The man I know today is not my father. He wears his skin, but his soul is not of the man I once knew.
Coming to terms with his misdeeds was something I never thought I would be able to conquer. How does someone justify that this person they loved with all their being was so bent, so broken, and always was?
For me I had to let go of that person I knew. He was dead. With this mindset I was able to rebuild myself piece by piece, slowly, until I could stand tall and face the world again.
I began small, reaching out to those who had suffered at his hand and letting them know I was on their side.