When my father passed away, it was as if my body was attacked. My injury was both mental and physical. As if the mortal threat the assault posed was imminent and real. There I was, bleeding from this deep wound. I am still bleeding; the wound is still fresh. Every mention of the loss of my father, or of the way he abandoned me, reopens the tear in my heart.

You ask, "Why haven't I been able to move on?" If you looked down at a physical wound, which had not healed over time, would you be critical or questioning of your tissue, muscles, blood, etc, for not healing? Of course you would not. You would simply recognize that this wound is deep and needs special loving care and attention.

You question, "Why have I made such little progress given the amount of time?" If you saw this festering sore on your body, would you demand or expect it to heal more quickly when it clearly has not? You would not, but you might take extra measures to protect the fragile scab as it forms, or to clean the torn skin, or to protect it from any further injury.

If you were bleeding profusely from an injury, would you move physically with ease? How could you trust that further injury would not occur? Would you feel safe being around others or would you want to protect yourself from injuries they might cause you?

How can I begin to express the effects his death has had on me when I don't feel comfortable doing so?

If I were physically injured, the one way I could protect myself effectively and clue others into my need for self-protection, would be to tell others about the pain I felt - to talk about my injury.

I know the fact that I have not yet discussed completely how devastating this loss has been to me has kept the devastation current. It has kept the injury fresh.

The gash in my heart has been bleeding all this time. In time, the wound will scab over and finally heal, I will find a safe place to talk over everything in my heart and mind and try to let the healing begin.