Moving Forward and What We Leave Behind

The following is a poetic excerpt written by a survivor of childhood abuse describing her journey of moving forward with her life, the underlying frustration of not being able to take a loved one (in this case her mother) with her, and the complexities involved as to how or where to place blame. 
Printed with permission.

She killed it.  She never came into my life.  I came into hers.  I left her life.  There wasn’t anything built between us.  Our lives surrounded Dad.  I left Dad.  She is still there.  I didn’t leave her, she never came to me.

I left the prison on the island.  I am on the mainland now.  She chooses to stay.  Her prison.  It was never mine.  I left.  I looked behind several times, like Lot’s wife, thinking I saw myself there.  Now, today, I know I am not there.  I have truly left.  I am on a boat.  She is there.  I am here.  She looks at me with her eyes, but not with her soul.  Her soul is her prison.  I cannot stay.  Good-bye.  Thank you for the life you breathed into me, but no thanks for the prison you built for me.  I found the way out.  It was me.  I wave to you, but you don’t wave back.  A glimmer of life is in you, but you stay in prison.  It’s all slow motion.  I don’t look back again.  I see the lush shore, the many fine buildings.  Loved ones wave at me from the shore.  I walk into my life.  The prison is an echo, a dream.  It was a long time ago since I left on the boat.  I’ve known a long time that I won’t remember the prison, but she will.
Good-bye.

Molly