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memories of…1974

Looking over this and the pending 1975 post, it felt vague and tentative. I’ve tweaked it abit; joining a few of the posts that surrounded it, into it.

I’ve pondered for a couple of days … wondering why the apprehension with it all … after all, this is a re-post.

When it was first published on May 15, 2015 @ 19:47, there were no real details or backstory as such, as most of those were put in the early post of ‘1973’. But that still doesn’t explain my apprehension to it Now.

A few days ago, I realised the obvious.

This is the countdown to the first sexual assault / memory.

And that in itself is some hard shit to swallow.

I had been trying to remember the good things … and thats pretty hard to do when you’re like, 3 … but I really, really needed to know that there was good stuff in there.

I remember my good Uncle in this timeframe. I remember him being larger than life … funny … loving … and … angry … tortured … wasted. But I loved him. And he used to give me money for scratching his back lol. Seemed like a bargain at the time lol … but its a good memory.

I remember my Grandfather and his Bible stories.

I remember my Nan and her cakes.

I remember the hospital that mother worked at; the smell of ‘clean’ … when hospitals were actually clean and people in them actually cared about the patients / clients … I remember the linoleum floors, shiny and polished … I remember the crisp clean white sheets on the bed.

I loved all of that.

I remember lame ass programmes on TV, that I wasn’t really allowed to watch, but would sit in my room and watch them in the reflection of the lounge windows lol.

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I also remember hiding in big boxes downstairs, knowing that the pedo cunt was around. In those times, whilst I don’t remember any sexual or physical assault, I know now that he would have been grooming me. That he was instilling fear – partially for his own sick pleasure and partially to make me compliant.

Whilst hiding I ‘felt’ trapped – which for someone with no actual words to described that feeling, it felt tight and gripping and felt hard to breath. I would hide in those boxes until the pedo cunt had gone upstairs. I’d remain quiet and hidden. My chest, stomach, head, and shoulders hurt.

I guess this is around about the time I started holding onto my anxiety and fear.

Because:

there was nowhere to put it; no safe place to expel it and know that someone would console me and protect Me.

That is a lot of fucking years to be carrying and holding to the fear that someone os coming to get you … you just don’t know when or how.

I remember being petrified of the dark at this age. I’d hide under the bed if I wasn’t to scared to get off the bed. And I didn’t have fairy lights like I do now ;)

I spent a lot of time by myself. Maybe this is where my solitary love started? Now it’s called Neglect …  but I think for Me, it was my safe place. I remember listening for the ‘bumps in the night’, and when it was too quiet I was positive something was just waiting under the bed to drag Me off and hurt me. 3 is too young to be this scared. But when it is, it needs cuddles. I didn’t get that, not at home anyway.

My Mama says we were ‘transient’ for quite awhile during these years and while I don’t remember living down south, or moving from house to house … I do remember coming back to my Grandparents. They were my loves.

I loved my Mama too. But I knew, even at 3, that she was deeply sad and that her partner was an asshole.

I remember feeling his disdain (but didn’t know the words to express that) for my Mama … and her whiteness. And his disdain for my bastardisation. I didn’t like him.

I remember a dream, that I needed up having most of my life. They only stopped a few years ago actually.

In them, I would look down and notice holes in my leg, or arm, or hand…usually the bottom part of my leg or foot. They were large and open but not bleeding. I could see into them, and the flesh at the top was separated from what was underneath. There was no bone. The holes were sometimes palm size, others are about 30cm – ish. Inside it was always the same; puss. Yellowish, gooey putrid looking stuff. It could’t be cleaned out and it just sat there. I always felt revolting and wanted to shower and scrub it off, and out.

Although my first memory of sexual assault was somewhere between 3 and 4, I’m uncertain if there are things I have forgotten. It’s quite possible, and I’m in no hurry to remember more. Theres enough to try and make peace with now.

But I’m beginning to understand now, why I am the way I am.

I was a scared child. And I had every right on gods green earth, to be scared. There was no real, continuous safe place to be.

The change of narrative that has happened recently though … and even as I type now … is that I fell compassion for that child. Me. She did her best in the face of some deeply fucked up shit.

I’d like to see someone try and do it better.

And from the perspective I admire the fucking shit out of who I was … who I am.

There are no perfect parents. No perfect circumstances. No wishes and fairy dust to come save Us in the midst of deeply disturbing shit.  But we survive. And sometimes we do even more than that. We learn how to grow and develop some extremely savvy strategies to stay alive.

Yes, today, I admire that fuck out of who I became!

xo

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