It feels as if I've turned the page, shut the book and begun a complete new chapter in therapy and in my life.
Last night, as I lay in bed pondering, I surmised that there is 1/5th of my life that continues to be shrouded from me, blackouts, and remembrances, that are within me but separated and sequestered into different parts, alters, inner People that I have not had any access to. That's a sizeable chunk.
Case in point, I have no memories of my father ever sexually abusing me, though word is that it occurred weekly from birth till 20. I remember my father only at distance or amongst siblings or family members in the family living room and dining room or at family get-togethers, picnics and parties. I never remember the touch of his skin, what he looked like shirtless or him ever touching me. My mother I easily recall giving her the mandatory hugs and kisses goodnight or before leaving for school in the morning but none of that with dad.
There were three stages to dad. One, was the viewing and knowledge of him from a distance. Two, was when he was physically within a few feet of me. It was a feel and sense of fear and danger. If he touched me, anywhere, arm, face, foot, I instantly "turned" like i turned around within myself exposing my back. I disappeared and ran inside of myself as fast and as far as I could go. You would be amazed at the reaches of one's mind when horror and pain propel you.
My father never touched me, never sexually assaulted me and also, never physically beat me. We are all beaten, all seven siblings shared in the physical discipline of being punished with curtain rod and belt, hand and fist, hairbrush and spatula. It was fairly evenly doled out.
Today, in therapy, I recounted one incident in which my sister was over my mother's knee and being beaten with the brush. There are three awful sounds that emanate from thus: the sound of the "twack" the hit of physical object onto flesh, a cringeworthy sound; another was the cries of my sister as she helplessly tried throwing back her hands to cover her backside to dull the strike of the brush; her vocal cries; then, another unworldly sound as my mother is her anger spewed vile words amongst tears and gritted, gnashing teeth. These three sounds hurt me, assaulted my ears, my brain, my heart, simultaneously. This was not a daily happening, more like three or four times a week on average. More than one child was often singled out for punishment in this way. Like an assembly line, one had to wait their fate.
Protection. This I overheard part of my self, a much younger part of myself recount how she had to always have her guard up and she demonstrated by crossing her arms in front of her face and then place arms aside our head. These positions one had to be ready for at any given moment as parents could strike without warning. We always tried to be prepared, like throwing blankets over ourselves as we curled in a ball to try and stunt and slow the blows that would rein down. It felt like layer upon layer of thin and medium thick cloth that had been thrown one atop the other. As she spoke, I could feel the weight, like of ten or twenty pounds of cloth being thrown or lifted off of me when she who spoke realized she was free and the parents were long away and could not strike her again. I do feel as if a great weight has been lifted off of me. This is true.
I spoke of the awareness that the biggest room in my Internal House is a room filled with all the things unsaid; things that i never had any opportunity to speak aloud or express in any form, thoughts, feelings and events. I could say nothing about so much of my daily experiences. There was no place to write down anything either. So much I had to bottle up and hide inside never even being able to openly contemplate or share. I had no one and no where. My thoughts have value. My feelings were valid even though never acknowledged, even though they never got to see the light of day or the possibility of alighting onto someone else's ear; even though no one heard me, I felt and I was. This is why I go to therapy because 1 person will hear this. What happened to me was real even though it was gross and difficult to stomach and ugly to look at. I Had So Much That I Wanted To Say about what was happening, the evil and the vile and the criminal. Those words have been held inside me, in stasis. Now, Now, it is okay to speak.
There was no privacy and absolutely no dignity in that little house with two adults and seven children. The house were the doors kept getting broke off the hinges and languished for weeks before they were replaced. Doors busted from angry children and parents. Laying on floors, doors are completely useless, I tell you. Bedroom doors were the ones most likely to be broke off but the one bathroom, the one bathroom, when that door got busted, it was the worst. The parents bedroom door was the only one I don't remember getting broke. If it did, they made sure to fix that one up quick.
The bathroom, I shudder, had no privacy. There was only a bathtub. I don't know if it ever was plumbed for a shower or not but no shower was ever taken there. The bathtub faucets needed repair often, and by the plumber called dad. He wasn't very good at it or probably he just planned it this way, but the two faucets had enough wall chipped off around them that if someone wanted to, they could sit in the closet in the bedroom next door and watch someone take a bath. This my dad did. If the light was on in the bedroom, you could see them looking at you of just that the light would flicker in those faucet round areas. If the light was off in that room, then you never knew if they was looking or not. There was no privacy.
My biggest gap whereby I have the least knowledge is when I was 6, 7, 8, and 9. I start having consistent memories at ten years. I'm guessing those missing years were filled with unspeakable, horrible things if it is that blacked out. I have no idea how much an ordinary person remembers about their life and their years spent. All I know for sure is that there are huge chunks of missing me, knowledge about common things of school or home life. One fifth, my best guess. That's a lot of me to be missing. I wonder who I am. Those hidden events are part of me, probably painful and difficult to learn but part of me.
It's safe now. My parents aren't beating, raping, selling or silencing me. I can talk now. I am a real girl. That's what really happened. And sure, they cannot pay for their crimes against me but I sure as hell will write and talk about it and let everyone know the evil mean stuff that they did and did often.
I learned a lot in therapy today.
This is a new chapter.
Dad's People, when I was 3 somehow it was decided or made clear that anyone of me that dad touched was his. Thus there are Dad's People, all sexually and physically abused. Then, there are those untouched, literally, the untouched, and we are Amy's People and she has met the therapist and I am sure therapist has never forgotten such moments. Amy is leader and a force to be reckoned with.
Turn the page
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