So I recently had a big debate over an abuser, and whether I would choose to see her or not. Let's call her C.
C. was my first abuser. She taught me so much. She taught me how to lie: what to say, how to cover it up. She sat me down in front of a mirror and drilled me over and over and over and over in how to make my facial expressions match my words, how to make my posture, the slant of my eyes, the position of my hands, all match my words perfectly. She taught me how to lie so incredibly effectually, that by the end, I myself wasn't sure when I was lying and when I was telling the truth.
But I knew for sure when I was saying as I had been told. That was made perfectly clear.
C. knew exactly how to put me on her side. How to make me feel it was us against them. Girls against boys. She was keeping me safe. Making sure they didn't hurt me too much. Making sure I knew how to keep everyone happy. If I made them happy I was safer, "right?"
Now she's dead. And although I can acknowledge that she was an awful person, I still miss her. I ache for her. She's the only one who "really" knows me - knows all I went through because she was there. Because she continued to keep one intrusive little finger in my life always - she always knew everything. Now she's gone.
I know I'm not supposed to be sad. I'm supposed to be dancing on her grave, right? But I'm just sad. In her own sick, demented, evil way, she loved me.
I'm not sure what to do now.