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Torrential Down Poor

We all know better- til we don't.

By C.J. JayePublished 2 years ago 4 min read
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There was never much to take from the child. Things, perhaps; but she placed little value upon them. Dolls did not please her, she scribbled in marker over their pretentiously perfect painted faces. She styled their hair to baldness. They looked better to her this way.

Her mother was too smart to ask questions or hear answers. She raised the girl as if she were 10 going on 30. She wasn’t a bad mother, per se. She did the best she could, the best she knew how.

Problem being, she never learned how to make that child feel mothered. The girl felt her presence, but not her heart. It had been hidden behind many keloid layers of life. The girl knew, this was not her fault. Still it hurt- left her needing- wanting.

She had a father. He was not much more than a fly on the wall. He did not know how to be a father. Most of the time, he was gone. Business trips, they said. The girl did not miss him. Who would miss a fly on the wall?

The mother had boyfriends that the girl was forbidden to speak of. She did make mention accidentally once, and found her mouth filled with a bar of Irish Spring. “Wash your mouth out with soap” was taken quite literally in this family. She did not make the same mistake again.

Birthday celebrations stopped around age nine. Mother said she was too old for it. Birthday parties were for little kids. The girl was angry. Her friends still got to have birthday parties. Why was she too old, at the same age? Mother said, “because you have to be.”

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The girl still received gifts, which piqued little interest or excitement. Her childhood had never been much of a place for children. The stuffed animals and puzzles and clothes were fine. She graciously accepted, sometimes even feigning excitement in the giver’s interest. She learned the benefits of manipulative behavior far too early on. This would hurt her later.

A few years passed, and by age thirteen, the girl was a woman in her mind. She no longer felt she was a child. She bled as a woman bleeds. She looked as a woman looks. She behaved (she misguidedly thought) as a woman should behave.

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girl discovered boys and girls in a different way. They were now interesting…for reasons newly discovered. The girl could not choose between genders, so though it best she be open to both.

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Thirteen. At thirteen, she lost her virginity to two older “friends'' in a threesome. It made her feel nothing. Only momentarily attended to. That was enough apparently, since she continued this risky sexual tirade throughout her teen years, and well into her 20's.

Thirteen. The girl was first introduced to alcohol and drugs. She liked these better than any person. They made her void feel less vast, made her aloneness manageable. She could keep this solace in her pocket, available to her whenever the darkness began to creep in around the edges.

Thirteen. The girl got pregnant.

Thirteen. The girl went to a sterile clinic, and after seeing the innocent, cursed tadpole inside her on the monitor- looked away and signed papers quickly. She did not look back.

Thirteen. Her childhood was washed away in a tide of alcohol and abuse. She didn’t want to “be” anymore. The void yawned widely and it’s pull was so strong.

Thirteen. The girl tried to end her young life. She didn’t see a point to staying, if it would only offer more opportunity for suffering. She’d suffered enough. She was tired already. Tired of bearing burdens most people don’t have to carry in a lifetime.

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Thirteen. Her suicide did not work out as planned. But what ever does? She was left with hesitation marks, alongside sore, red, deeper cuts, made by the part of her that actually meant to die.

Thirteen. No longer a child. Uncleansable in her view. She continued to live, harshly, day by day. As they turned into years, the girl became a young woman. She was determined to learn many hard lessons as well, most of which it’s nothing short of miraculous that she lived through.

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Thirty Seven. I still know that lonely, angry, misguided girl. She lives inside me, where I keep her safe, acknowledged, and loved. She is watched over. She is healing. She is absolved. She is living.

She is me.

trauma
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About the Creator

C.J. Jaye

Queer, neurodivergent poetess (occasional author of short fiction)...creating magical works from her home office (kitchen table) in upstate New York. Certified riding Instructor, horse and dog lover...Thriving despite mental illness.

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