I will not be cowed

“This- this is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard! It’s incredible, Sarah, that you are going to let it play out this way!”

J was angry. J was angry with me. My husband is so mellow—he rarely gets angry, and I can count the times that he has been angry with me on one hand. It makes it all the worse when he does get angry—those are the times when I remember that he is a foot taller than me, and half a foot taller than an average man. That’s when you realize just how much of the room he can fill up. That night, he was fuming; his eyes were glaring slits and his posture was closed off to me.

I had told him that I was considering giving up the blog.

I had told him I was thinking of giving up the blog because someone I knew had ripped off pictures of my children, and posted them on their Facebook. For people I don’t know to see—my children! They acted as if we have an active relationship, instead of ten years of radio silence, and my refusal for them to subject my children to what I was subjected to.

When I had started the blog, I had thought about the potential consequences—I had even discussed them, at length, with J. We decided that it was worth the risk—I have spent so many years of my life trying to fly under the radar, trying to keep my family safe and away from the factors that harmed me, and subsequently denied part of myself in the process. My husband vowed to support me and protect all of us in any way imaginable.

This was a new start—I was tired of denying myself the chance to write, and the chance to see where it could possibly lead me. Now I was back to the same fear of my childhood; trying to make myself small and keep myself safe. I loved to put myself away in the past—literally envisioning myself as wrapped up and placed on a high shelf, out of the way and out of sight. This was my first concern.

Days later, the infringement on my intellectual property (those are my pictures! I took those! My children! On my blog!) would hit, and I would be shaking with anger instead of with fear.

And then, of course, was the fact that Facebook will not remove the pictures: since they are not pornography or violent, they do not qualify as abuse, and I cannot have them removed on the basis that they are my intellectual property unless I am willing to officially report a copyright infringement—which would include divulging my home address. I’m sure this was the goal in the first place. I could have the pictures of Ant removed from the profile based on the fact that approval was not gained to post pictures of a minor under the age of 13, but K is just screwed—especially since he doesn’t even have a Facebook account (and therefore, cannot file a complaint for himself).

Good job, Facebook! FYI: You might want to take a hard look at that policy.

“What can they do to you? They can’t do anything to you! I have always protected you; kept you and the children safe! The only thing they can do to you is pretend that they have a relationship with you, and your children. Your family already knows that this is false—they know each and every time you miss a holiday or family dinner. And imagine if you blogged about it—if anyone were to try anything then… if anything were to ever happen to us, everyone would know the first place to look!”

J nearly had me in tears—not because I was afraid of him, or his anger, but I knew on one level that he was right, and that I, on another, was right as well.

I have given up half of my family to remove this influence. On most days I know that they likely understand; they may not like my choices, but on some level I am certain that they understand. On other days I wonder if they even remember me.

What pushed me over the edge was what K said, once he entered the room.

He had been drawn by the raising of J’s voice—such a rarity in our house. I am always the one to get excited; I am always the one whose volume rises. J sits back, and watches the world, usually with an amused look on his face.

K had quickly ascertained what was occurring—before he even stepped into the room.

“For what it’s worth, Mom, I think you are making a mistake.”

The look in my child’s eyes, the gravity of his words, the glimpse that I had just witnessed of him as an adult-- of the man he would be in a few more short years—the shock of combined effect hit me directly in the gut.

“I think it’s BS that you would even consider giving it up. I think it’s BS because you would never allow one of us to give up on something that we love for anyone or anything,” my son blurted out, and drew a long breath before placing the final straw, “I think that it’s wrong for you to let anyone do this to you. I think that you should be stronger than you are being right now.”

“It makes me sad, Sarah, because I’m just not sure you will listen to us, and what we think, or what we want for you,” J had the final word, sighed, and then went on to start supper.

That pushed me over the edge.

I’ve taken a few days to consider. I’ve gone back and forth on the matter. I exported my blog, and planned to shut it down. I got all the way to the final button push before backing down. Then I decided to go private with my blog, thinking that the middle ground-- the compromise-- would be the right way to go.

Then I realized that this is not what I want. I am tired of hiding. I am tired of living with the feeling that the other shoe may drop at any given point in time. I am tired of hiding who I am and what I want because other people behave badly. I am not going to be intimidated anymore. I am not going to hide who I am. I am not going to be bullied any longer.

I am going to keep going, and live my life fully, in front of everyone who sees me. Every person in this world should have the right to do the same—and if I choose not to—if I give up the right, then I am doing a disservice to myself and to others.

I will not perpetuate someone else’s bad behavior by altering my own in response to it.