A night with Oprah

Last night, as in so many other nights, I cried myself to sleep.

This time, I blame it on the Oprah show which featured women victims of incest. Three sisters, probably already in their late 30s to early 40s filed charges against their 66 year old father for rape and molestation. It took them almost two decades to gather enough courage to defy family and society pressures and to come out in public and demand justice for a crime that stole their childhood away.

I wanted to turn off the tv midway during the show because it was difficult not to be affected. From what these women shared, they had no vivid recollection of a happy childhood. It doesn’t matter if the molestation happened daily (like what the three sisters endured) or just once, the experience consumed their entire existence. Even Oprah, who has been open about her past experience agrees that she does not have any recollection of a happy childhood because the memory of being abused blurred everything else. The scars are seemingly permanent.

I cried for these women especially for those who suffer in silence. I applaud those who chose to come out, determined to begin the healing process. I admire those who chose to forgive, gradually freeing themselves from the clutches of bitterness and self pity.

Sleep eluded me even an hour after the Oprah show ended. I open a book and start to read. Then, I remembered my father. The tears came again. I thanked God for giving me and my sisters a God-fearing man. I had a beautiful and happy childhood. My growing years as a teenager went as it should. During our innocent and (more) trusting years, we were protected. What a gift.

And oh, the tears-before-falling-asleep ritual is just my only way of expressing how much I miss my father. I didn't need Oprah's help.