I have a confession to make. When I was in day care at the age of 3 or 4 I was molested. 

10 or 15 years ago I had a memory resurface, a memory of when I was molested at a daycare center. I never really told anyone about it at the time.  Not anyone, not friends, not family, not my spouse. No one.  But the memory surfaced, and I had to deal with it.  I saw a counselor. I wrote about it, I tried to relive it to make the memory REAL.

And I got through it.

Last week, after a decade of not thinking about it, I went through the town where this occurred, the town I grew up in.  I ran past the house where this terrible thing happened. I knew it was coming.  I knew that I was going to pass by this place, but I didn’t say  anything to my friends.  I wanted to see what my reaction would be.

and….

There was none.  I wasn’t upset at seeing the house.

I accept the fact that the molestation that happened was by a singular person—and I may even accept that the person didn’t mean it as being harmful.

But the house was, is, someone else’s at this point.  They believe it holds any kin to the person who molested me—and I hold nothing harmful against them.

There are many challenges still left in my life, and while I have gotten passed the large portion of this one, I don’t believe I’m done with it completely yet–and that’s okay.