The memories are hitting me again.
Flashbacks. So horrible.
I am just sitting here. They are all talking. Someone wants to be head.
Then I get these flashbacks. I say more like I’m bombarded with the information and memories the others are trying to share.
It’s sick, he was talking like a kid, talking so casual, like this was normal.
I felt nothing. I didn’t know who I was. This must have been dissociation.
The things he used to say…
“Let’s go do what mommies and daddies do to show they love each other.”
“it won’t hurt. It just feels like poop going up your butt…”
“Which way do you want it? In the butt or the vagina?”
He made me choose. Can you believe that?
No, I don’t think my parents know what really happened, or how bad it was..
I remember hiding in the attic. He jerked open the door and he found me right away.
Grabbed me by my hair. I screamed. He drug me into the bedroom.
I was 7 years old.
Two other brothers, in between the age of myself and the one hurting me, just sat downstairs. Just watched TV. Unless they were outside the bedroom door and he would hear them. He would chase them, threaten them. I don’t know what happened. I stood there in the room. Shocked. Frozen. Robotic. I awaited for the return of my rapist. After doing whatever he did to ensure fear so they neither come back or tell about it, he returns. He shuts the door.
I remember the door slam startled me.
No way could my parents could have known how he terrified me or them.
Or, surely they’d hate him. They’d know he wasn’t worth protecting.
They say he was a “troubled boy.” They say he “did his time.” My mother said that.
I say, he did no time. He conned you.
He controlled and destroyed me.
The youngest parts of me reveal.
We used to make “mansions” and “houses” for the cats out of piles of cardboard boxes.
I was small enough or it was big enough to fit me in one.
My half brother spent twenty minutes looking for me.
He finally found me.
Opened the little door and saw my feet.
He grabbed me by the ankles and drug me out.
I was 7 years old.
He was 15.
This was not the first time.
These two times within days of each other.
This was the last year before I finally had to tell.
I was 8 years old when I told.
I was beginning to realize I needed to fight this.
I just didn’t know how yet.
I remember when I told, but not what happened after.
I don’t know what I told you, mother. Maybe you didn’t know it all?
No. You knew. You know. And you pretended it could be okay.
You told me to keep his secret. I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone.
You told me to protect him.
You told me to protect my “brother.”
You told me to forgive my “brother.”
“Brother” is a lie.
You told me to protect my RAPIST.
You told me to forgive my RAPIST.
You told me to go on living like it never happened.
You told me to forget about it.
You call yourself my mother.
We are all screaming for “Mother.”
You are not there for us…
(Enters in Eva Marie)
“I will care for you, small ones. I will keep you safe, my dears. There is no sorrow here. I hear you, I see your tears. Let me show you I love you. Let us all see love doesn’t hurt.”
(enters the children)
*SNAP* I’m back in reality. I survived the flashback.
I started writing as it was hitting me before I was lost to it completely. Typing can help keep me grounded.
This is how we heal ourselves. One of many techniques. You have to utilize many and all of whatever you can learn. It’s a tricky business, dissociation.
I seem to have this gift. At a very young age, I first learned to control my nightmares and turn them into dreams. Then I learned of visualization. Then, we discovered guided meditation. We did this all on our own. We found each other on our own. We needed more information to know what we really were. It took some time, but we finally got it. Someone listened.
I found my way back. I fight through the flashbacks. It hurts. It hurts so much i don’t even like myself. I don’t value myself. Not for a very long time after this happens. I want to destroy myself. I don’t think I can correct my negative behavior, such as negatively thinking I cannot correct my behavior. Maybe I am a monster…..But not by choice.
Tell me, are you afraid? Imagine how afraid I was….
…I am afraid still. I just don’t know it yet. The others, they know….
Integration is painful.
Yet, I have no choice. I can’t stop this now.
They say I’m strong. I’ve VERY strong, they say.
Ha, we will see.
Am I a monster? Is this going to be the death of me?
I feel like it already happened, my life is over.
Am I a zombie back from the dead?