This is from a conversation with Mother Kevin, the nun in charge of the girls at Our Lady of the Highlands. It is significant because it describes how I felt not just on that day in 1964, but what continues to color my life 54 years later.
“Is something wrong?” She persisted. “You don’t look happy. I never see you smile or laugh. You always look so sad. What’s going on with you? You can talk to me now,” she urged. “I do care about you,” she finished, “and I can see how unhappy you are.”
I could not stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks and felt betrayed by my body. How dare my eyes weep? Her words touched the hurt deep inside of me and the feelings that I did not wish to acknowledge rose to the top. I felt pressed to talk about what I wanted to deny; that I could never escape my painful memories. They colored my existence much as ink dropped into a glass of water permanently changed it. These memories filled my mind during the long hours of silence and turned my dreams into nightmares. Sleep offered no refuge.
I wanted to die, but I could not say that to her. To commit suicide was to commit the unforgivable sin of despair against God, just like Judas after he betrayed Christ. Wanting to die was such a horrible sin that it only proved what an abomination I was before God and humanity. I could never, ever admit this to such a pillar of virtue! I was crying against my will and had to say something, and it had to be honest. I dared to withhold information, but I dared not lie to her.
dottieriley 