I was brought up in a house of faith. In a modest church, my parents served as clerics. They provided sanctuary for churchgoers.
In my teen years, a man who was older than me would make advances toward me. While I was washing the dishes, he would keep staring at me before following me to my room door.
This made me uneasy for a number of reasons: 1. I was only a teenager; 2. He was married; 3. He attended my parents' church; and, finally, 4. He served as my "godfather."
Oh, and I was in love with his son.
Most of the time, I would shut my room door and ignore him. Other times, I'd phone my childhood best friend and invite her to come over so we could stroll across the street to her house. We resolved to throw pebbles at his bedroom window and flee one day.
After a few more awkward moments in his company, I decided to inform my mother and his wife. They both promised me that they would handle the problem promptly.
There was no change.
He kept making moves at me. I was angry with my mother and his wife since they didn't appear to handle the situation properly. I had the impression that no one had come to my aid.
I became angry and harbored a deep disdain towards older men. I was angry with my father for being home but not being there. He didn't emotionally support me. I was enraged.
I took issues into my own hands out of retaliation because I felt powerless. We made a mixture of eggs, paint, and bleach, then poured it on his car. Even if it wasn't right, this provided some relief. I stood up for myself.
We both hated the guy.
In my thirties, I forgave him for everything.
He did not request it.
I made the decision for my soul.
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