The most difficult task for me as I near the end of this story is to accurately represent Sjors' messages and character during those last months. His messages are disjointed and strange and I do not understand the person, or people, behind them. I feel that it's important to maintain integrity in all reconstructions but this one baffles me. Additionally, because his messages are harsh and cruel, it is emotionally difficult to reread them. I feel that I am assaulted and accused all over again.
I'm grateful for Marie's critical opinion as I write. She always had a greater COP of this part of my life than most people, but this completes the picture. She reads and gives me regular feedback. I'm grateful for her analytical objectivity. It was difficult to fight Sjors' team and she stood in my corner, ready to deconstruct the punches and strategy, every time the bell rang.
Marie is the person who reminds me to not take those ugly messages at face value. I'm grateful for her defense of Sjors because everyone else wishes to assault him for the pain he caused. I have no way of understanding the complex pieces of the puzzle that comprised Sjors' life at the time. I have no idea who had editorial authority over the messages.
My sister Jane called me unexpectedly tonight. We've been trying to build a relationship. The parent-child dynamic we used to have when she was young and fragile became a liability to her as she healed and needed to stretch her wings. Now, we try to become adult friends. I told her about my project and was surprised to hear that she supported it.
"Sometimes, you need to tell the truth regardless of consequences," she said. She would know. The consequences for her truth telling have impacted us all.
"People will be uncomfortable," I said.
Jane said, "When I started work as a nurse, people used to share things with me. They would tell me about how they were afraid of dying. They would tell me about their anger with their bodies. This would make me very uncomfortable. I would always change the topic. Then, one day, I decided: It's okay if I'm uncomfortable. I made peace with it."
"That's really good," I said.
"Well," Jane said. "It's okay if people are uncomfortable by what you write. Just tell the truth."
I rode my Dutch bicycle into Old Town tonight, ate salmon, and then strolled the street, wandering through shops and a local art gallery. I've continued writing at a coffee shop as the darkness deepens outside. Better to be here with strangers than holed up on my own.
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