Doing the journey of traveling back to collect these memories, I can’t help but wonder. Is it worth it? Dredging up all of these painful memories, putting them down on paper for others to read. Is it healthy going back to that dark childhood? Even now, as an adult, I find myself content, even happy. Do I dare risk that to traverse through the shadows to bring up only the ugly?
And for what reasons do I pull up all of these painful moments? Does it help heal me? Perhaps a bit, to tell the big ugly secrets that were always unseen, unknown or ignored. Perhaps I comb through these memories to understand how a child can go through hell, all five levels of abuse, only to come out a mentally well adjusted person.
I know people who seem…crazy, shallow, or with the complete inability to be self aware of themselves. Yet they have normal childhoods, or childhoods that couldn’t hold up a candle to what I went through. I can’t help but wondering…Is it because I am naturally more mentally inclined to take on such anguish, to cope, to deal. Stronger, taking more to break than most. Or is there some points, hidden somewhere in my childhood that made this possible. What it boils down to, is nature vs. nurture., which made it possible for me to not be completely insane. What is it that made me the mature, well balanced, thoughtful, kind, nurturing, and all around amazingly good, ethically and morally?
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Wrong Answer
“Don’t give me that answer, I fucking hate ‘I don’t knows.’” He growled out, and I knew the sign well enough to know that I was very close to that actual point of violence. The seconds seemed to drag painfully long, as the terror ran through my veins like ice. Time was running out, and I knew if I didn’t answer soon It would possibly lead to the exact thing I was trying to avoid…being hit, being hurt. But I didn’t know the answer to the question, and after previous attempts, the response ‘I am not sure’ would not pacify him If
“I-” I whispered, barely letting it slip out, because I didn’t know the answer, “I don’t know.”
The hand came out quickly and sharply, causing me to jump startled as it cracked against my
cheek. I pulled back, biting my lip to keep from crying as I stood there silently, my hand resting against the hot stinging flesh.
No, don’t cry, don’t let those tears fall. Let them swirl in your eyes, making this ugly world look like a kelidoscope of colors, but never cry. Tears and sobs only led to the response of “Do you want a real reason to cry?”
As a child, I learned quickly how to carefully read the emotions, the body language of adults. One had to when their father was Dr. Jeckel and Mr. Hyde. Always had to know when to be quiet. Tense jaw, quiet, stiff shoulders, these were signs to tread carefully, to not draw any attention to yourself. Laughing to hard could be met with punishment. Fighting with your brothers, running through the house, jumping on the floor upstairs, all no-no’s. No on these special days, it was soft treading steps, constantly walking on eggshells. Some children natural walk on the balls of their feet and need to be trained to walk properly, I had trained my self to walk like that to move softly, lighter, to be more quiet. Some times this would only be for a day, sometimes for a week. During these times, the shades were all drawn, the house dark, save our rooms where we were often sent to play with the warning of being quiet. But if that was all, then we were all right, we were being good, being quiet, just as we were suppose to.
My father, pale, watching his racing, the sound of the announcer could be heard echoing up the stairs to us. The very house itself, seemed tense then, everything on edge, as if the very walls themselves held it‘s breath, waiting for an eruption. If memories could sink into the walls of a house, and in a sense, give life, than this house would ooze of dark rotten, decay.
“Daddy is sick and doesn’t feel good, so we have to be quiet,” My mother would tell us in hushed tones, or warn us when we had gotten to loud. This wasn’t anything new to me, in fact, I never knew what it was like to have a healthy father, one who didn’t take medicine, one who didn’t have the stress of supporting a family, medical bills, and the impending sense of death hanging in the air. But as I said, a child doesn’t understand these things.
“I-” I whispered, barely letting it slip out, because I didn’t know the answer, “I don’t know.”
The hand came out quickly and sharply, causing me to jump startled as it cracked against my
cheek. I pulled back, biting my lip to keep from crying as I stood there silently, my hand resting against the hot stinging flesh.
No, don’t cry, don’t let those tears fall. Let them swirl in your eyes, making this ugly world look like a kelidoscope of colors, but never cry. Tears and sobs only led to the response of “Do you want a real reason to cry?”
As a child, I learned quickly how to carefully read the emotions, the body language of adults. One had to when their father was Dr. Jeckel and Mr. Hyde. Always had to know when to be quiet. Tense jaw, quiet, stiff shoulders, these were signs to tread carefully, to not draw any attention to yourself. Laughing to hard could be met with punishment. Fighting with your brothers, running through the house, jumping on the floor upstairs, all no-no’s. No on these special days, it was soft treading steps, constantly walking on eggshells. Some children natural walk on the balls of their feet and need to be trained to walk properly, I had trained my self to walk like that to move softly, lighter, to be more quiet. Some times this would only be for a day, sometimes for a week. During these times, the shades were all drawn, the house dark, save our rooms where we were often sent to play with the warning of being quiet. But if that was all, then we were all right, we were being good, being quiet, just as we were suppose to.
My father, pale, watching his racing, the sound of the announcer could be heard echoing up the stairs to us. The very house itself, seemed tense then, everything on edge, as if the very walls themselves held it‘s breath, waiting for an eruption. If memories could sink into the walls of a house, and in a sense, give life, than this house would ooze of dark rotten, decay.
“Daddy is sick and doesn’t feel good, so we have to be quiet,” My mother would tell us in hushed tones, or warn us when we had gotten to loud. This wasn’t anything new to me, in fact, I never knew what it was like to have a healthy father, one who didn’t take medicine, one who didn’t have the stress of supporting a family, medical bills, and the impending sense of death hanging in the air. But as I said, a child doesn’t understand these things.
So it begins.
As I write this, I know there will be those who will be angry with me. They will call me a liar, they will say I am out to do nothing but slander my father’s name with the means to get somewhere. There will be those who doubt me, having known me growing up, and would never believe the hell that was my child hood. But it must be said, before all else, what I write is the truth, word for word, frozen in my brain, no part embellished, fabricated or exaggerated. Only the plain, cold truth. I expect this anger, and I am prepared for it, but it is time the truth was said.
I knew a long time ago, even as a small child, that I was the story keeper, that it would be my job to remember this story. I grew up in a family who seemed to live in a life of pretend and fantasy, never acknowledging, always excusing. It is from them I expect the most backlash, but I am too much my father’s daughter, in all of the right ways, to be silent forever. I am speaking up now, for the three children lost in that ghostly existence of a childhood. I am speaking out now, for the adult in me who wants enough justice, for the words to be read on paper. For it to be impossible to turn a blind eye when it is written out in black and white.
It must also be noted, it is unbelievably hard to write this. In order to bring forth my tale, I must delve into the past, put myself back in that moment. Relive each happy, painful, and emotional moment to be able to give it to you, the reader, in an honest account. To dive into this darkness to pull out these murky memories tends to be an exhaustion of both mind and body, and each time I worry I will be sucked back into it, unable to find my way back
So I invite you on this journey with me, it is dark, it is tangled, it is shockingly true. Maybe after feeling the cold tendrils of the darkness, the light will be all that much more comforting for you.
I knew a long time ago, even as a small child, that I was the story keeper, that it would be my job to remember this story. I grew up in a family who seemed to live in a life of pretend and fantasy, never acknowledging, always excusing. It is from them I expect the most backlash, but I am too much my father’s daughter, in all of the right ways, to be silent forever. I am speaking up now, for the three children lost in that ghostly existence of a childhood. I am speaking out now, for the adult in me who wants enough justice, for the words to be read on paper. For it to be impossible to turn a blind eye when it is written out in black and white.
It must also be noted, it is unbelievably hard to write this. In order to bring forth my tale, I must delve into the past, put myself back in that moment. Relive each happy, painful, and emotional moment to be able to give it to you, the reader, in an honest account. To dive into this darkness to pull out these murky memories tends to be an exhaustion of both mind and body, and each time I worry I will be sucked back into it, unable to find my way back
So I invite you on this journey with me, it is dark, it is tangled, it is shockingly true. Maybe after feeling the cold tendrils of the darkness, the light will be all that much more comforting for you.
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