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Where do I begin?

   You ever have so much to say, you just stay silent? Those moments when you want to spill all those secrets that hide deep behind locked doors. Those secrets that you shoved so deep in your brain ,you, yourself, even forgot them for a while. Suppressed is probably the more appropriate word.. But none the less.. nothing will be the same ever again once they’re out. So you just sit in silence. Staring off into the distant. Well I’m gonna start to open those doors today. 

   Even during my early childhood I always was big on secrets. Everybody’s go to person when they just needed an ear to listen, knowing that lips would never part and spill forth their words.

   But who was there for me? To ask me “What’s wrong?”. To just listen with a kind heart. When I had secrets to tell. Secrets crawling and hurting to be told.

   Noone.

   Noone was there.

   Not in the way I needed them to be at least. 

   Although, physically there was always someone there. I had a big “family”, and someone was always “there”. A baby crying, little kids whining, big sister’s fighting, cousins coming and going…

   And then there’s me. Just a little girl in this big crazy world around me. 

   How can such a small child be so alone in an environment full of dozens of people? Or maybe the question is why? Why would a little girl surrounded by people feel so alone?

2. Suppressed Rage

   No one tells you those suppressed memories will haunt you.

‚Äč   They will track you down on your happiest day, and make every miniscule speck of sunshine turn dark.

   A small child, of just the age of 5, doesn’t understand sexual assult. And surely doesn’t understand why the things done to her at night in secret, that naturally feel good to us by just human nature, she gets in trouble for when she repeats them by herself in the day.

   I remember a few days when I was five. I know I was five because I remember I got a special electric pet game for my birthday and I was playing with it. 

   We were at “our friends” house again. He wanted to play our usual game of house. But I wanted to play with my game. 

   “But this is more fun” he said. Then he threw my special toy across the room. “Let me show you…”

  He touched me and rubbed. I remember it felt good. I didn’t know why. I didn’t know it was wrong. So I surely didn’t understand the next day, when my Mom found me repeating it on myself, and she screamed, and yelled, and hit me. Over and over. Calling ME, a PERVERT.

    What does that even mean? To a five year old?

   I know what it means today. Obviously. But now it’s too late to matter.

  I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. Why was she punishing me? How could something that feels so good, be bad? 

  Why didn’t she ask me where I learned the behavior? Why the fuck did I get punished? Fuck punished. WHAT THE FUCK DID I GET MY ASS BEAT FOR ?? 

  To this day that troubles my mind. A normal person would question why a small child is touching themselves very inappropriately. Not punish the child.

   But no..that’s not the “family” I had.

   Can you imagine 20 years into the future, sitting at home with your family (kids and husband), having a fine day. Then all of a sudden something triggers this/these memories out of your mind. The rage you feel, starts overwhelming every ounce of your being. Destroying your life again. 

And just remembered… I’m still only 5

   As more and more memories flood your head you go silent. Start twitching and crying. 

   And to still not have a voice that’s able to spill forth these suppressed horrors.

  Some days man….some days…the feel of a blades edge is the only thing that releases and eases the rage that wants to come out.

   

1. My first memories..

 What are your first memories? Think back as far as you can to as far back as you can go. Do you remember being a happy child? Running and playing with other kids and enjoying life, skipping rope, and hopscotch and those fun child activities.

   I have a few memories like that. Those glimpses of pure happiness that you can almost feel when you think about them.

   But I wouldn’t say they are my first memories.

  Those first glimpses of happiness I had stolen from me. Replaced with nightmares that now haunt me. And then enrage me, like throwing water on a grease fire.   

 Suppressed for decades and then one day something triggered them out.

  I was around the age of four. From the details I have placed together. We were at a family friends house. People who were practically concidered family. People who should have been watching their fucking kids. 

  Boys.

   3 of them.

  They don’t really need names right now. But the youngest was my friend. And he was sweet. We would play and eat the craziest things together, like peanut butter on cheese ..hahaha…but this friend didn’t matter. He was just a small child like me. Not like he could/would have stopped them.

   Them being his older brothers. They were average kids I think. We all had played together all the time. Our parents would sit around getting high together (don’t quite know what at that point in time, it’s been different things at all different times in my life) and us kids would play. 

  What do kids play today?

   We use to play jump rope, freeze tag, Legos, house…

   House…that’s the one I now remember the most. I’m sure you all know how to play house. Someone plays mommy, someone plays daddy, you have kids and baby dolls and pretend to cook food and do average household tasks. That’s what I thought at least. That’s how four year olds play house.

   But no..if you want to play the mommy then you have to do things that mommies do. Secret things. Secret things that you can’t tell anyone, because a good Mommy listens to Daddy.

  Really fucked up isn’t it..I’ve never spoke this words to anyone. Still to this day. I just can’t say it. Who would care? Who wants to hear how a young teenage boy made a little girl grab and touch on him. I didn’t want to get in trouble. I was afraid. Afraid of him, afraid of them. 

  Still to this day afraid. That’s why I cower and hide behind a screen. Where 99% chance they will never even know these words were set fire. 

   So I remained silent.

   Never told a soul. 

   How eventually each time we “played together” he got worse and worse in his doings. Going from making me touch him, to him touching me when I asked him why we did this. 

   He said he was going to show me how good it felt. And that’s what he did. He put his hands down there and touched me.

   Four year olds don’t know what it means to be molested. Especially if said four year olds parents don’t care enough to realize it was happening right in front of them.

   On the couch under blankets.

   In bedrooms behind closed doors.

   Living room floors in the dark.

If these are the first memories I can remember..can you imagine how fucked up the rest get.