Part Three: The Memories

The memory I had of my father was horrifying.

In the memory I was standing along a wall of an old place in BC where I used to live. I'd owned a dog there, and a cat named Simon, a name I haven't altered because I don't think saying his name brings harm to anyone. That's as much as I can remember about that home.

So, I stood along the wall with my siblings and my father sat on a couch across from us with his hands folded. He would whisper "Who's next?" and without hesitation, the four of us would struggle to push someone else forward. Trying to, at the same time, grip the wall behind us for any hope of being spared.

There were four of us siblings at the time, and I don't remember if the youngest of us was there but since this happened before I was six, I doubt someone 4 years younger than me would remember anyways. In my memory I let them push me forward so they wouldn't feel any pain, and all I remember thinking is that one day I'd be stronger. One day I would be pushing someone else forward and that I wouldn't be so weak. Then, maybe one day someone else would volunteer for this pain because maybe my siblings would feel bad and spare me. In the end I was angry at them all, but satisfied knowing it was me hurt and not them.

In this particular memory my father hurt me in a way I don't dare explain to the internet. What he did caused a scream of pain, soon followed by a spanking and a scolding for possibly waking my mother who lay sleeping just upstairs. She who was oblivious to what was happening right beneath her. That's all I remember in the memory, but, judging by how everyone acted in my memory, I know that this couldn't've been the only time it had happened. This also must've happened before I was 6 because he and my mother separated around when I had my sixth birthday.

I do acknowledge that memories are constantly changed and altered in our brains but I do believe this memory to be true because I don't believe I currently had the ability to make something like that up. And even, hypothetically, it was all a dream somehow, it still affected me as if it had happened.

I remembered it first fully in a dream, and somehow, when I woke, I knew it was true. I, of course, started to bawl confused and not knowing what to do about my disturbing dream. Coming downstairs to subdue me, my mother was at my side and I told her what happened. She decided to send me back to bed and in the morning I was signed up with a psychiatrist. I would see Selma, another falsified name, around my school hours and I saw her because she was a family abuse specialist. There was no legal justice to be done because my abuser had already passed and no one was threatened any longer by him.

My mum asked if either of my sisters remembered anything but they both said no. My brother was never told about it. Since this happened at the begining of my Grade 10 term in September, no one knew me enough at school to see the change that happened to me. So, everyone treated me like normal.

I was very confused and ashamed, so I found a group of people at school who were very self-centered. That way I could sit with them and never have to talk or explain who I was or what I wanted. It worked well for quite a few months too! Well, until I became jealous of a boy in the group named Max. He was infatuated with a girl and I liked him. I had never liked anyone like the way I liked him... I had actually never liked anyone before I liked him.

I know that I'm still not going into detail about people yet but I promise I will. I just want to upload my full story in little detail first so everything has a general time line. It makes it easier for me to decide what to talk about first.

Anyhow, at this time I thought that, because him cuddling a girl made me jealous, if I cuddled a boy, then Max would become jealous of me. Then Max would leave her and cuddle me the same way he had cuddled her. In retrospect it was childish, and even idiotic of me but, for someone who had no childhood to recall or life lessons to call to memory, I did what I thought I had to do. It's not like I had anyone who could've taught me otherwise or who I could really talk to.

I know I just said I was seeing a specialist, but, you see, I hate psychiatrists, therapists and psychologists. Again, a story for another time.

The decision to manipulate Max was easily one of the biggest mistakes in my entire life but also one of the most difficult lessons I've ever had to learn.