I can’t remember that one movie but I remember every other time (cause there are a lot of times)

Movie theaters. Popcorn. Soda. Loud speakers setting up the soundscapes. The corny pop music they’d play with the advertising logos before the movie trailers. Milk duds. Sticky floors.

My mom.

A theater.

A day I’ll never forget.

A movie I can’t remember.

One day I forgot the name of the movie we saw.

This is important because I literally always remember every single time I’ve been in a theater and the movie I saw. Who I was with. When it happened. Why.

My mom took us to the movie theater a lot. I mean..

A lot.

I saw Titanic (1997)when it came out. I was seven years old. It was just my mom and I who saw it. I pretended to be Rose we left the theater. It was raining outside. I lifted my arms up into the sky. I wanted to be her—-and I thought of Jack.

I saw Team America World Police(2004) when it came out. My mom took us. You might think this was a tad inappropriate. Oh well. I was over it. I had been watching South Park WAY before that movie. I liked it. It was funny. I still like South Park too.

My mom took me out of school to see A.I. Artificial Intelligence in the theater. This was in 2001 when it came out. This movie had broken me—and I was inconsolable for twenty minutes outside the theater parking lot. The ending was terribly painful for me.

We saw almost every movie that came out—-my mom loved —-no, bordered on obsessed on going to the theater. Almost as much as swimming. And I loved it too. We went to the theater once or twice a week. It was something I very much enjoyed. I love the cinematic experience as a whole. It’s cathartic and a release of my pain—-but also a way for me to feel things I hide inside in a safe way. In a dark room full of people. That felt safe and lonely yet it also felt like a shared experience.

2001 is the big theater event.

No, it is not a new Marvel or DC movie.

It is my theater event.

And I’m showing it to you. Raw. Unabashed. Unedited. For you to judge.

What will you rate it?

What will my pain mean on the scale of humanity’s canvas of grief——that is not what I’m here to say. I can only be me. I can say my truth. I can’t wait for someone to tell it. I can’t stop it from being my truth even if you might scoff or laugh or leave or run from me.

I always tell everyone all the time—-my kids, my children’s father—-oh, I remember seeing that in the theater. It is used for a great many different film.

And I do. I do remember the exact time, and who I was with—-and usually how it went.

Maybe I say this so much—-and I only just started thinking about this, because I’m trying to remember about what truly happened that day at the movie theater with my two younger twin sisters and my mom.

My mom and I were always good. We usually never had problems. I misbehaved a lot, but we usually got along. My parents were (and are) good parents. But, that day, she cracked.

We had left the movie theater after the movie was through. As we were driving home, I got into a fight with one of my sisters. Over a hairbrush. I was eleven years old and hairbrushes were very important.

And it was over who could use it, I think.

I don’t remember exact details. And I don’t remember the name of the movie.

And then, I got mad and hit my sister. I didn’t think I did it too hard(or that I’d be punished as my mom never punished us). She cried—-and my mom said, very clearly, “You’re going to get it when we get home.”

I’m going to leave a side note here—-not one time, even as she said that— or what followed after—-did I ever blame my sister. She was innocent and had nothing to do with anything—-I was a child who got into trouble a lot and had sass. In the end, this was a situation bigger than my sisters and I—and our little arguments and fights. And before this, my mom never hit us. Or after. She was a decent mother—-going through financial strain and a problematic marriage with my father who was an alcoholic.

I keep stopping and starting to finish writing my story. I feel like it’s causing my anxiety to rise. But—-maybe it’ll help one person out there. Maybe not. But… here it is.

So, let’s get to the meat of this cinema memory lapse.

We got home.

I went in my room downstairs near the basement. My parents never issued corporal punishment on us, so when my mom said she was going to spank me, I laughed.

She tried to spank me with a ruler, but I wasn’t taking it seriously. So she used the ruler to hit my nose. My nose started bleeding a lot. All over my carpet.

To be fair, my nose bled a lot and easily.

But, that didn’t hurt. Really, it didn’t.

What did hurt was that she laughed and said mockingly, “You’re bleeding now, huh?!”

I covered my nose, and went to the hall and into the basement. Blood trailed along my tracks.

And then I think—-I think I remember the first thing she hit me with in the basement was the same ruler as before.

That was fine. I could handle it. But, she told me clearly she’d be back with something else.

I waited. For some reason, I don’t think I completely registered what was happening yet. I felt like I was just playing along with her—-and I had no idea how serious she was. She brought back the hairbrush. I recognized it immediately. I said so clearly, “Wait? That’s the hairbrush…”

And I said to her that my sister could just have it. I didn’t care anymore. I was done arguing over it.

But, that wasn’t good enough. She hit me over and over again and again with the hairbrush until I was bleeding on my head and my arm. The hairbrush was broken on the ground next to the car.

Then, it’s hazy. I remember her saying, “I’m going to get something else now. I’ll be back.”

I swear that I remember her saying something about a knife—but my memory was very foggy after that.

But I do know this—-I wasn’t going to find out. I ran. I opened the garage door, and I ran.

She yelled, “Run, that’s good! Get out of here!”

And it was bright and sunny and beautiful outside. I ran, sobbing and crying down the inclined street, and went all the way down to the end. I sat down and tried to relax.

My dad was driving home. He saw me covered in blood. He freaked out and stopped his truck. He thought I got hurt by the broken glass he saw nearby my feet.

Then, he saw police at our house. A neighbor saw me running down the street with blood and called the police.

My mom was arrested. The police took pictures of everything. Of me. My room. My bruises and cuts. She took everything out of my closets and my drawers.

Almost as if she were finally getting rid of all signs of my existence in her life.

We couldn’t talk or see each other for six months through court order. My sisters and I stayed with my dad at our house. I went through a crippling depression because of the loss of my mom. I wasn’t mad at her. But I was silently afraid of her—-still revering her as my main role model other than my dad.

I found a small hobby to try and help my depression with photography and my dad got me a really nice camera at Creve Coeur Camera with the help of my Aunt. I met my mom at Suson Park in St. Louis with my dad(even though we weren’t supposed to). I took a lot of pictures. Somehow those pictures were never developed and my camera was lost.

My home ghost movie of stills were lost and so was the movie I had enjoyed with my sisters and mom that day. That hobby was never meant to last. Only my love of cinema—and my deep and undying love of the written word and how I never wanted to stop being a writer—-kept me going and made me feel secure and at peace. It kept me knowing who I was. My dad helped me keep this in my heart—-and so has my mom, too.

I love the idea of going to cinema very much to this day—-that event didn’t deter me. And I have much more fond memories of the theater than bad ones. I still want to go and I still go with my family. And friends(pre-COVID). I still want to sit in the dark surrounded by strangers. Somehow, when the credits end, and my heart sinks, and I wipe my tears—-I don’t feel as lonely as I walk out to see that familiar sunlit sky.