I know I’ve talked about this before. It’s something that I’ll probably be talking about for some time. It’s something that I’ll probably talk about for some time more. Unfortunately it’s something that doesn’t just disappear. As much as I wish it would, it won’t.
I said that at some point I would share the memory that I was working on in therapy… so here it is. It’s not complete. It can’t be because parts of it are missing. I don’t know if I will ever remember it. All I can report on is what I remember.
It’s daytime and need to clean this room. For the life of me I can’t remember how it got this dirty. Maybe it’s because it’s putting two people’s stuff in a space that’s meant for one… who knows. All I know is it needs to be done.
It’s an all hands on deck event. Everyone in the house is helping. Myself, the eldest daughter, the youngest daughter, my mom’s friend we were living with, my mom and my sister.
We start putting clothes in their proper places, in the drawers, in the closet or in the hallway to be washed. As we sort though things I see my name written in white. I know I didn’t do it, but there it is… right in front of me. I also know it’s not my handwriting.
We continue to clean more and more. We can finally see the carpet. My name has been written on a lot of things. I still know it’s not my handwriting… but it’s still there.
We finally find the doll cradle that my godmother made me. It’s covered in my name. At this point my mother’s friend is angry. She’s angry at me. She starts yelling at me, asking me why I did this. I tell her that I didn’t. She keeps insisting that I did. I keep saying that I didn’t do it. I tell her that it’s not even my handwriting.
Then she hits me. The only people in the room are me, my mom and her. She keeps hitting me as I keep saying that I didn’t do it… that it’s not my handwriting. She beats me repeatedly. I cry that I didn’t do it. I appeal to my mom to have her stop hitting me. My mom does nothing. It feels like eternity.
When she’s done, everyone leaves the room. I’m on the floor crying. I keep saying that I didn’t do it, it’s not my handwriting. I’m left there alone. No one to talk to or to listen to me.