Not knowing where to start, I suppose I’ll start at the beginning.
Strangely enough, my very first memory in life is looking at the brick basement walls of a church. I reach out towards the wall, stretching the tips of my fingers forward. The surface of the wall is smooth from a visibly thick coat of paint doing its best to cover the chips of pigment that had broken and fallen away in the years before. If I try hard enough, I can even feel the coolness of the bricks beneath my fingertips.
I wonder what color had been eternalized under the sterile top coat of stark white that I was staring at. Something pale I’m sure, something palatable. With swift and solid force, a woman’s hand meets my backside and I hear myself cry out as I’m snapped back to the sensation of hot tears burning my cheeks. The bricks immediately fade from view as I clench my eyes shut and allow fear and pain to rush back into my body.
How long has this been going on?
When it eventually ends, the woman reluctantly brings me back into an open room located at the end of the basement hallway. I can tell that she is tired. I am now standing in a nursery. It is big and bright, with a large window on the far side wall. I run towards the window, press my hands against the pane, and cry out for my mom.
I do not feel safe here.
My mother is tall and thin, with long dirty blonde hair that ran the entire length of her back. Her hair is as it always is, in a ponytail secured at the nape of her neck. She was a simple woman in terms of her looks. She never wore make up or nice clothes. She never carried a purse and never once pierced her ears. I see her in the lawn at the side of the church through the large window. There is a volleyball court filled with sand, and my mom is near the back of the sandpit. I pound on the glass. Why is she out there? Why am I in here? What is this place? Choking on my breath, and gasping for air, I pound harder but she does not seem to hear me. A boney arm draped in tissue paper skin grabs me around the waist and I am yanked back into the cold, sterile hallway. How long this goes on, I can’t tell you. But this is my first experience inside the walls of a church. And my very first memory in life. It’s odd now to think that so much internalized trauma has been caused by being spanked throughout my adolescence. Something that seemed so “normal” and almost routine back in the day has caused me to question so much about my life…and my worth as a child.
Later that evening I am walking at the edge of a wood line with my mom. As the grass meets the row of trees alongside me, I see something in the grass. I lower my hand, still soft and pudgy with inverted knuckles, down towards the grass and pick it up. It is a pale yellow phone, smooth to the touch with the faint lingering scent of a newborn baby. There was something so innocent and comforting about its presence—much like a calming wave of sleep that washes over you after a hard cry. As I turned it over in my hand I could hear the gentle rattling of the tiny plastic balls against the inside of the small rounded handle. Suddenly, I felt safe. My mother was here now and this insignificant pale yellow phone was the calm following a violent storm.
With so much of my childhood still covered by this shroud of darkness and confusion, sometimes I have to question whether my memories are real or a dream. When I eventually get older and have the courage to ask questions, my suspicions and memories are confirmed. I was subjected to abuse repeatedly that day…without any contention or interjection from the very person that was supposed to protect me most.
She knew. She did nothing.
I was begging my mom to save me and she allowed me to be beaten for it. Little did I know then just how much of a recurring theme that would be throughout my childhood.
I lived the majority of life blindly believing my mom was the hero of many of my stories, including this one. She’s always been alarmingly good at manipulating the narrative…until now. Follow along next week as I uncover part two.
(It only gets more uncomfortable from here, folks.)