This response touches on childhood harm and family silence.
My grandmother gifted me a stuffed bunny for Christmas one year. It wore a red hat and sweater. She said when she saw it she thought of me. When I hugged her, she whispered in my ear, “See his mouth is sewn shut? You can tell him anything and he won’t tell anyone. All your secrets are safe in his big ears. He hears really well but keeps quiet.”
Don’t tell.
I nodded, understanding the unspoken implications I was inheriting.
I kept him up until therapy was near ending. I was in my 30s and could feel how impossible the notion of letting him go was. I didn’t like it. For once, I felt he was part of the mess that brought me into therapy to begin with. I threw him into the dumpster and went home.
Now, I give him proper burial. He wasn’t a part of the secret. He was my grandmother’s way of protecting me. In her day, no one spoke about anything. She did the best she could given the circumstances. Her son was also still growing at fifteen. I didn’t know anything was wrong with how we played. I was only seven.
When my grandmother found us, she tried to protect both he and I, and my rabbit, who I named Abbot, helped.
I did tell him every single thing. He was tear-stained, greyed. I kissed his sewn lips often, thanking him for hearing me. He loved me without condition.
I no longer feel a hole in my chest at how I threw him out in the end. I feel such love that my grandmother saw me and tried her very best to be a protector for me. Even if it was flawed, it still matters. I wouldn’t have survived the rest of it without her.
When I first read about Loki and His mouth being sewn shut, I related deeply.
Mine was as well.
Jasmine on the Grave 