I Remember

They say some things will come and go as time progresses. That we will learn to either cope or let go and forget. I chose to blindly ignore the pain and let it eat at me for years, simply pretending it did not exist. So many therapists have tried to pry these memories from the darkest parts of my brain. To teach me to that maybe this pain is temporary. But, frankly, this is not temporary. This is something that will weigh heavy on me and my heart for a very long time. And I may learn to cope eventually, but for now, this is the best option.

I was six. That’s the first time I remember feeling pain. The way my skin welted up when struck hard by a leather belt with no mercy. I have no memory of what I had apparently done to bring this upon myself. However, by the end, I couldn’t walk because of the pain. The blood stained my favorite stockings, something white vinegar and soap could never restore the innocence on. The only thought I remember crossing my mind at the time was some idea of confusion and betrayal towards my mother. How could she carelessly let a man into our lives that would hurt me for no reason. A man expected to be a stepfather to us. I remember.

I always understood the concept of being punished, reprimanded for wrongdoings. But this was not that. This was a man who did not learn from his own pain, but rather channeled it into children who couldn’t defend themselves.

I was seven when I begged my grandmother not leave us there alone with them. I cried and pulled on her like I had washed up on a deserted island and had lost all touch will reality. Years later, she’d know why, but for now it was just a child who didn’t want her grandma to go home. I remember.

I was eight, the first time he went after my sister. The horrible screams seemed never ending. I tried to stop it, pull her away and take the blame myself. She had done nothing wrong, but be a child, curious of the world. She pulled a book about penguins off a shelf and thumbed through the pages. And that was enough. Enough to send him barreling down the hall in a seemingly drunken rage, angrily chasing a three-year-old. He grabbed her and it was game over. By the time he was done, she had run out of tears and lie on the floor, crying. Defeated. Nothing I could say or do, could ease her pain. I remember wiping the blood away, the way it stained the little tiny wipes. She’d wince with every stroke, a little bit of her purity gone with each one. I remember.

I was nine the first time I begged for a meal. It was Thanksgiving and I hadn’t had food in three days. My mother had a habit of saying “...Later...” and then forgetting. Obviously, it was not a priority of hers to make sure her four children were well fed by the end of the day ... As she sat in her bed and ate Chili’s. My family had driven into town for the holiday, a classic tradition we had all become accustomed to. I went on a walk with my grandmother, she was my favorite. Her heart was kind, but she took no shit in life. She was my best friend, my only friend in a hole of isolation. We walked for miles, never an abnormal thing in my family of star athletes and military heroes. When we finally turned to head home, we passed a small apartment complex and the pain struck. A sharp pain in my side that had become all too familiar by now. Hunger pains. When prompted for an answer as to why I paused and crouched in pain, I came clean and told her the truth. Three days. It had been three days since I had eaten anything and was starving and just wanted a snack or something. Anything to hold me over. It lit a fire her I’d never seen when we reached home, her and my mother spent hours fighting as my siblings and I munched on carrots until the storm passed. I remember.

I was ten when he dragged me away from the Christmas tree because he found the spoon in the sink where I had snuck a spoonful of peanut butter. He had forgotten my grandparents were in the house as he dragged me up the stairs, dislocating my shoulder as I stumbled to get my legs beneath me and keep his pace. When we finally reached my room, he slammed the door as he unleashed his anger. When he finished and had long disappeared, my grandmother came into the room to check on me, she had heard the screams. The bruises had already formed in such short time. A series of bruises along my arm from where he pulled and yanked me and one solid stain on my pale skin, from my mid back to my knees from where he had beat me. Looked almost as if someone had poured dark wine on a light colored blouse, a dark contrast. I remember her arguing with my mom in the next room. Showing her what he had done and telling her it wasn’t okay. That he couldn’t treat us like that, as always though, the silence fell between them. It always came to silence because the bruises could always be covered. I remember.

I was 11 the first time he laid his hands on me in a way that made me squirm uncomfortably. Puberty had come fairly early for me and he felt the need to let me know. Never hesitated to squeeze my shoulders and neck, occasionally letting his hand drift elsewhere. I remember.

I was 12 when I fought back for the first time. I had grown tired and an argument arose because I used to climb out my window at night to sit on the grass, to be outside under the stars, a rare opportunity. He went to slap me and I ducked. He went to hit me, I blocked it. He went to grab me, I ran. This in the end, only made it worse. He caught me by the hair and instantly, all the fight I had was gone. The next day, my window screen was screwed into place. I remember.

I was 13 when my mom left in the middle of the night. She walked in our rooms, tears in her eyes, and told us to behave. And by daybreak, she was gone. We later found out she took off to Connecticut to be with a man she was having an affair with. Abandoning us. One final mess up to prove to us that there was no hope. I remember.

I was 14 when they gave me and my brother to our father. When my mom and stepfather finally decided to call it quits. Officially. I came clean in court. Wrote an affidavit so long that I ran out of allotted pages ... Telling everything I could remember ... Sparing no one who was guilty. My only goal was to save my two younger siblings whose only options were mom or their dad, my stepdad. And neither deserved them. However, my stepdad and his family found any and every way to discredit every honest word I had to say. They told the judge that I was a hormonal teenager, angsty and angry at the world. I remember.

I was 14 when the final ruling went through. When I watched my now ex-stepfather glare and cruelly laugh at me when he left the court room, two young children in tow. When I left, he stopped me and whispered one last thing in my ear, “You always were a shitty mama to them.” One final thing to rip at me and tear me apart on the inside. One final smack down to make it clear he had won. That he would always win. I remember.

I remember ... Everything. It happened, no matter how hard I try to forget it all. It happened. My voice was silenced, but one day, the truth will be heard and he will pay. Life will catch up to him and he’ll get back his wrong doings ten-fold, but until then, this is what I’ve got ... Feeling like somehow this will make it hurt less. Ease the pain ... Because I remember.