My parents just gave me some canvases that my long dead grandfather painted. I remember when I was a young child people commented that I got my artistic talent and interest from him, which is asinine as he isn’t really related to me. He just married my grandmother.

I always wanted the paintings because his work always spoke to me. Now, as I sit here looking at them hanging on my walls, I wonder what exactly they say. I like the paintings and the few chalk drawings he did that I have but I hate the man. I look at the canvases, focusing just on the paint and composition and brush strokes and I think, “Good art.” Then, I think of him and want to puke. I begin to cry. What sick person hangs paintings in her home done by the man who molested her when she was eleven?

I tell myself it is time to work through these feelings but I haven’t got any idea what these feelings are. I loved that man; he understood standing in a mountain top field and just looking, without talking, without comment, just feeling the colors and hearing the movement of the leaves on the trees. I wanted to be part of that. I wanted to paint, I wanted to draw.

One day I decided to go to the basement to get wood to heat up the water heater so he could have his bath when he came home that afternoon. I locked myself out. I went to the beer garden where he had his beers after work. Wasn’t I cute, he told his friends, when I explained what had happened. He took me home. We stoked up the fire. He molested me.

I had seen my mother nearly throw him out of his own house when he picked on my younger brother for using only one utensil at dinner. So, I told my mother and she told me not to upset anyone. I never told anyone else. I now sit with my back to walls and watch other people so as not to be taken by surprise. I trust no one, least of all myself.

I look at these paintings and hate him for making my sweet gesture filthy and for stealing another chunk of innocence and making me doubt myself and for adding to my warped feelings about my physical self image.

I hate my mother for sweeping it under the rug and only caring about appearances.

I hate my father for never being there to protect me.

I hate myself most of all for being a target. I continue to hate myself.

While I have come to terms with the situation and I have forgiven my parents and even him, I have not been able to forgive myself. Can I ever, deep down in my core, believe and trust myself again?