I read Diane Keaton’s response to the allegations from Dylan Farrow towards Woody Allen. She was around Dylan less than a hand-full of times when she was a child and knows what a nasty divorce it was between Allen and Dylan’s mother, Mia Farrow. She believes her friend.
I read the few comments that readers had shared about the response. People want proof that the abuse happened, otherwise let the man be free of it. Her own brother, who lived in the same house, reported not ever seeing anything and therefore nothing ever happened. Mia was a brainwasher and not to be trusted.
I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t there. Only two people know for sure what happened, Woody and Dylan. What I do know is how proficient the brain is at performing mental gymnastics in order to believe what it wants to believe.
For the first 23 years of my life I believed that I had a perfectly happy childhood. Then the memories started to come. And then I had to make sense of the memories. How I had twisted my beliefs and perceptions as a child so I didn’t have to admit the unthinkable. I have spent the last 24 years learning to live with all of the above and finding a new reality to build my life around. It continues to be a daily process of acceptance, love and forgiveness.
A few posts ago I wrote about my mother walking in on my dad raping me and leaving when he told her to go. I have confronted her about the abuse. She has no memory of it. I believe her. She really does not remember it. Her denial runs that deep. Her mind has been able to do the mental gymnastics necessary to protect her as mine did all those years ago. I’ve had to accept that.
For my own reasons, that don’t need to make sense to anyone else but me, I still have contact with my mom. It’s a difficult and complicated relationship, to say the least, but only for me. She really doesn’t get why I don’t visit the family. She comes up with other excuses at which I can now smile. It does me no good to try to convince her that I wasn’t brainwashed by some other source. It does me no good to try to get her to remember. It does me no good to keep bringing it up. I’ve worked through my hope that one day she would finally rescue me. I know she will go to her grave still holding onto her denial. I’ve had to accept that too.
Besides my mom, the only other person who could verify what went on between us took his own denial to his grave 20 years ago. There is no proof. I have nothing and no one to back up my allegations. All I have is over twenty years of journal writing.
It’s a story I believe is important to tell.