Freewriting Memories – Trigger Warning
1975 – 1980
Being daddy’s girl. Spiders the size of an adult hand. A fight with my best friend Sammy over a potato chip bag. A fever so high, the river scene tapestry on the wall came to life. Pippy Longstocking movies. A long, long single-wide trailer. And then a big double-wide. Snatches of memories come to me as I cower from the man I’ve learned isn’t my daddy after all.
“Shut up or I’ll give you something to cry about!”
I don’t know what I did that made him stop loving me, but it seemed pretty connected to my baby brother coming along. I wanted that baby so badly until I realized what it would cost me. Then I was torn between resenting him and wanting to snuggle him.
Harold Jr. cried a lot, and Harold Sr. aka Buddy, as I heard Mom call him — formerly Daddy — didn’t like when he cried, either. I guess he was torn between love and resentment, too. Dad would scream at him to shut up, shut up, shut up! while slamming the bassinet against the wall. I wasn’t an expert at these kinds of things but I was pretty sure that wasn’t how you got a baby to stop screaming. Much like threatening to give me something to really cry about after a beating never seemed to do the trick.
Mom was gone a lot. Or she wasn’t. I have no idea. She comes to me only in brief moments, usually when she’s sobbing or hiding or screaming back at Buddy. I still have to call him Daddy but behind his back, I now call him Buddy or I don’t call him at all. I just huff and hide, trying to keep my eyebrows calm and my eyes from doing that rolling thing I keep getting in trouble for.
I blink and it’s 1980. Another baby brother. I wanted a sister. Mom tells me I’m lucky to be the only girl, and I am only a few years away from knowing that it definitely is not lucky to be a girl, not in this family or this world. I am caught again between love and hate for this new towheaded baby because Buddy hates me more than ever. He doesn’t even swing between his own love and hate for me now. It’s only hate, only hitting, only screaming how worthless I am, that I’m an ugly, stupid little bitch.
I spend a lot of time tending to the baby boys that have ruined my life, but I love them so and tote them around on my side, changing diapers, cheering for babbles that could be words, and crawling and maybe walking. Little Brother gains on Jr. and passes him up. They call Jr. “retarded.” Then they start saying he’s “slow.” The memory of Buddy slamming that baby against the wall in his bassinet stays with me and I speak up, my eyebrows going high, and Buddy screams that I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. I shut my mouth.
My big brother floats in and out of my memories. He’s present during the ugliest events, sometimes as my savior, sometimes as the one holding my legs during a beating. He’s the most protective person in my life, but he’s also often a little mean. Kind of the opposite of Mom and Buddy, who are mostly mean, and sometimes loving and kind. It’s very confusing.
I get in trouble a lot, usually because I’m not good at getting the dishes clean or keeping the boys quiet. But I mostly get in trouble because I can’t watch my mouth or control my face. I almost always have something to say about the way I’m treated, or my eyebrows betray me when I’m not supposed to be reacting.
My eyebrows still betray me.
December 20, 2021
If you’re just joining me: I’m a survivor of complex trauma and am on my healing journey. I share openly and candidly of my experiences with child abuse, neglect, sexual assault, teen pregnancy (and teen marriage), domestic violence, and all the complicated living that comes with it, alongside the beauty that is life. This whole blog comes with a TRIGGER WARNING. Almost everything I share is pretty much stream of consciousness writing. I am not a doctor or counselor (but I am a trauma informed coach and advocate). What’s with the tiara? Watch This!
