a eulogy, from his victim
This is a eulogy I wrote, off the top of my head and from the bottom of my heart, for the grandfather that sexually abused me who passed just this Friday. I left it as unpolished and honest as I could, because I didn't want it to be impersonal. I didn't write it as a comfort for Poppy or those who are missing him, but as something I felt I owed him.
I'd love to hear your opinions on this, as I may read this at his funeral on Tuesday (if I have the balls to).
On Friday, the eleventh of June, two thousand-ten, a man passed away. On the eleventh of June, a father, grandfather, great-grandfather, brother, and friend was found dead.
On the eleventh of June, the one person I constantly blamed for my life falling apart had went to bed, only to never wake up to see the sun rise just one more time.
Poppy, as many of us had called him, had made many mistakes in his lifetime. He'd ruined confidences, burned down bridges, and divided loved ones. He was the one man I always shamelessly pointed a finger towards whenever I was at my lowest--I felt uncomfortable when my father hugged me? It was his fault. I had to eat just one more bite, even when I wasn't even hungry, because I thought it would make me feel happier? His fault. My family fell apart right before my very eyes? His fault. I had no qualms blaming just one man for many things, many times over.
But Poppy was only a man, and all men will stumble and tend towards error from time to time. He apologized for his wrongs, and while forgiveness might have been incomplete at best, he did what he could to repent. That was all he could have done, and I admired his courage, his acceptance with the limits of his honest apologies. He never demanded compassion; he took his punishments, the consequences of his actions, in stride and did what he could to move on.
My time with Poppy hadn't been all negative-- I'd had better times with my grandfather, too. He had an amusingly sarcastic (though sometimes close-minded) wit, and while he wasn't book-smart--as he was always quick to point out to me--I can honestly say that Poppy was resourceful, making do with what he had and not wasting--never going to excess. He had had a stubborn sort of pride I respected. I admired his skills in the kitchen, and I'm thankful that I've gleaned a recipe or two from him while he was still with us. And while he didn't understand comparisons or metaphors, he never stopped telling me how great I was at writing; he'd always encouraged me to stick to what I loved doing, to never give up.
My remembrance of Poppy will always poke through my mind, cracking the frosted windows of ignorance when I'm at my most vulnerable. If I ever smell Old Spice while walking down the street, I'll think of him. Whenever I take a bite of sugary-sweet pineapple upside-down cake, I'll think of him. Whenever the masochistic need to feel completely worthless, to come as close to hate as I dare to arrives, I'll probably always think of him.
I'm sorry for my honesty, but I'm not looking to gild and sugar-coat his memory--I refuse to. I'd like to think Poppy would have appreciated that, since he was always so blunt and to-the-point himself.
You know, Poppy had asked me for my forgiveness, in what seems like lifetimes ago, in a letter written in his blocky scrawl. But whenever I went to write him a response, I always drew up a blank; my hand would freeze, poised over blank paper, and I could never offer that I forgive you his letter practically begged for. Even now, I'm hesitant to say I've found my peace with Poppy. I don't think I'll ever completely forgive him for what he did to me--for what he did to my family, but I appreciated the steps he took to fixing his mistakes. While the bridges he'd rebuilt between his friends and his loved ones might have been shaky at their foundations, those bridges were still there, built up once more.
Maybe I'll be able to find peace with Poppy and with myself when life finds me older and wiser, when I've made more mistakes of my own that I'll have to ask forgiveness for. Maybe I won't. Either way, I still don't deny Poppy eternal happiness in Heaven: I hope he's found God with His Hand outstretched, and I hope Grammy took him home, home to the family we've all been lucky to have been graced with that have found serenity and unending happiness with God as well.
Rest in peace, Poppy.
ETA: I just wanted to say I wound up reading this at the funeral, as many of you suggested, and I have to give you all a humongous thank you for the push/confidence. It was nerve-wracking at first, but I got comfortable enough to slow down and even make eye contact with some of my relatives in the audience! It was a big, scarily exhilarating thing I did, and I have to say that I'm beyond glad I read it. I feel more at peace with myself and my grandfather now.
So thank you, you guys. ♥
I'd love to hear your opinions on this, as I may read this at his funeral on Tuesday (if I have the balls to).
On Friday, the eleventh of June, two thousand-ten, a man passed away. On the eleventh of June, a father, grandfather, great-grandfather, brother, and friend was found dead.
On the eleventh of June, the one person I constantly blamed for my life falling apart had went to bed, only to never wake up to see the sun rise just one more time.
Poppy, as many of us had called him, had made many mistakes in his lifetime. He'd ruined confidences, burned down bridges, and divided loved ones. He was the one man I always shamelessly pointed a finger towards whenever I was at my lowest--I felt uncomfortable when my father hugged me? It was his fault. I had to eat just one more bite, even when I wasn't even hungry, because I thought it would make me feel happier? His fault. My family fell apart right before my very eyes? His fault. I had no qualms blaming just one man for many things, many times over.
But Poppy was only a man, and all men will stumble and tend towards error from time to time. He apologized for his wrongs, and while forgiveness might have been incomplete at best, he did what he could to repent. That was all he could have done, and I admired his courage, his acceptance with the limits of his honest apologies. He never demanded compassion; he took his punishments, the consequences of his actions, in stride and did what he could to move on.
My time with Poppy hadn't been all negative-- I'd had better times with my grandfather, too. He had an amusingly sarcastic (though sometimes close-minded) wit, and while he wasn't book-smart--as he was always quick to point out to me--I can honestly say that Poppy was resourceful, making do with what he had and not wasting--never going to excess. He had had a stubborn sort of pride I respected. I admired his skills in the kitchen, and I'm thankful that I've gleaned a recipe or two from him while he was still with us. And while he didn't understand comparisons or metaphors, he never stopped telling me how great I was at writing; he'd always encouraged me to stick to what I loved doing, to never give up.
My remembrance of Poppy will always poke through my mind, cracking the frosted windows of ignorance when I'm at my most vulnerable. If I ever smell Old Spice while walking down the street, I'll think of him. Whenever I take a bite of sugary-sweet pineapple upside-down cake, I'll think of him. Whenever the masochistic need to feel completely worthless, to come as close to hate as I dare to arrives, I'll probably always think of him.
I'm sorry for my honesty, but I'm not looking to gild and sugar-coat his memory--I refuse to. I'd like to think Poppy would have appreciated that, since he was always so blunt and to-the-point himself.
You know, Poppy had asked me for my forgiveness, in what seems like lifetimes ago, in a letter written in his blocky scrawl. But whenever I went to write him a response, I always drew up a blank; my hand would freeze, poised over blank paper, and I could never offer that I forgive you his letter practically begged for. Even now, I'm hesitant to say I've found my peace with Poppy. I don't think I'll ever completely forgive him for what he did to me--for what he did to my family, but I appreciated the steps he took to fixing his mistakes. While the bridges he'd rebuilt between his friends and his loved ones might have been shaky at their foundations, those bridges were still there, built up once more.
Maybe I'll be able to find peace with Poppy and with myself when life finds me older and wiser, when I've made more mistakes of my own that I'll have to ask forgiveness for. Maybe I won't. Either way, I still don't deny Poppy eternal happiness in Heaven: I hope he's found God with His Hand outstretched, and I hope Grammy took him home, home to the family we've all been lucky to have been graced with that have found serenity and unending happiness with God as well.
Rest in peace, Poppy.
ETA: I just wanted to say I wound up reading this at the funeral, as many of you suggested, and I have to give you all a humongous thank you for the push/confidence. It was nerve-wracking at first, but I got comfortable enough to slow down and even make eye contact with some of my relatives in the audience! It was a big, scarily exhilarating thing I did, and I have to say that I'm beyond glad I read it. I feel more at peace with myself and my grandfather now.
So thank you, you guys. ♥