Sydney herself is not capable of torture. The act of forcing
prolonged inhuman pain on a person. Physically and consciously she is not
capable. Mentally though. I have no doubt that Sydney could torture with
the best of them. Manipulate if she had
to. I don't know if she would like it. This thought is one that plagues the
corners of my mind with indecision and doubt. I hope to God she would not
like it. But almost surely, in some instances, I believe that she couldn't
help herself. I am tortured by Sydney's past and present. By the events
that have shaped them both. I must be a hypocrite of magnificent
proportions. I think of the way I guarded her, like a fierce hawk. What
right did I have to do so? Well, every right. I had a mother's right. It
was not by my choice that I forfeit this right. In actuality, I never did.
Though perhaps if I had I would not have had such the hold on Sydney that I
did . Or do. For it is not only in the past but in the present that
something about me holds her captive.But it is the same for me. Powerfully
and irresistably I am drawn to her. When Sydney began to toddle around our
house, wobbling on her uncertain legs, I began to see every step, corner,
table edge, and incline as my enemy. A strange enemy. I put child gates on
every door and locks on all the cabinets. I picked her foods with such
care. It is almost ridiculous to think that so many of the crimes I have
commited against her, I still feel so guilty for forcing her to eat
broccolli. Her little lips would close determinedly as if they were
cemented. Her father and I would coax her and berate her until we finally
gave up. My little girl was so brave even then. She stood up to older
children and "rescued" people all the time. If someone so much as gave me a
backward glance Sydney would stare them down until I finally had to pick
her up and carry her away. I would hold her hand at the doctor as the
needle would prick her skin. Watching, transfixed as I saw it plunge into
her vein. Pulsing with the blood that made her mine. Now I see the way the
veins stood out against her pale skin and I think of times she has received
"alternate medication" in her adult life. I was tortured many times, but
none of that pain comes close to that which I suffer from knowing that
those pains have been inflicted on my daughter. I can hardly entertain the
thought of how many times she has been brutalized. I saw her scars in
Taipei while she rested unconscious in that cold chair. One of my doctors
looked into her mouth and relayed to me that she had endured rather
unprofessional dental work at least twice. If Sydney has not killed the
bastard already I'll do it myself.
I think of my daughter often. I have nothing but the time to do so. Time is
after all the great leveler. It is a worthy adversary but everyone learns
that time cannot be fought. And it most certainly cannot be waited out.
Things can get better with time. Remedy themselves. Or get worse. That is
why the mind remembers. It is why we replay pivotal images in our lives.
Many that will haunt us until the day that we die. When time will stand
triumphant over us. The defeated ones.
