Old, Forgotten Memories
Just took a midterm in my Calculus class. I feel like I did really well. Unless I'm misjudging myself, I'm sure I'll have a grade somewhere in the 90's.
I've been talking to my sisters a lot lately. For some reason the conversation is always swinging towards the topic of our Dad. It's always a little strange for me to talk about my Dad, because I know that I was abused by him, but I have so few memories of my childhood that it's hard for me to say exactly what happened. Well, my sisters have this same problem, but they seem to remember me being abused more than they remember their own abuse. They're both older than me as well, so they remember more of their own abuse than I remember of mine. See, when I was starting to become a self-aware person, from the ages of 11-13, my Mom had finally gotten her shit together enough to start trying to do something about my Dad, which eventually led to him moving out of the house; so my clearest memories are of my Dad going crazy, but with us fighting back, so it doesn't seem so much like I was abused. I wasn't being victimized. I was being strong, and doing things to make the situation better, and so was everyone else around me.
But when I was younger I was definitely abused, both mentally and physically. No, I don't remember it, but my sisters tell me about things that have happened to me, things that they witnessed. When they tell me about these things, I get a strange feeling, like what they are saying is very familiar, as though I am very well acquainted with what it feels like to have that sort of thing happen one. I’ve tested this phenomenon by telling myself that something happened which I don’t think actually did, like telling myself that I was tortured with knives. Telling myself that this happened never feels right; I always regard this idea dispassionately. But when my sisters say, for example, that I used to get choked a lot, I’m immediately hit with the knowledge of what that feels like, as though it is something that I’ve experienced many times before, even though I can’t remember any specific instances of it. I'm not going to go into too many details, because I imagine it would make people uncomfortable, but the more me and my sisters talk about it, the more I'm aware that I spent most of my childhood being very afraid.
The only scene of abuse I remember is actually relatively benign. I was maybe 12. I was walking through the kitchen to go out the back door, and my father was in there, fixing himself a drink. He said something snotty to me, I said something snotty back to him, and when I turned around to go out the door he kicked me from behind. I rushed out of there, and when I looked back behind me he looked really nervous and scared. All I remember feeling at the time was that I was clever to get out of there so quick. Now, looking back, it's clear to me that my father was becoming less confident in his ability to control me, to do what he wanted to with me. He kicked me, and then watched to see what would happen. From what my Louisianan sister tells me, I was standing up to him more and more during that time. It paid off: he was becoming afraid of me.
So I’m very angry at my Dad; but while I’m angry at him, I’m also very sad for him as well. He was mentally ill. He used to tell us that he could read our minds and that he knew that we wanted to kill him. Actually, I have thought of that once or twice, but not when I was a kid, not when he was still living with us. So I know that his diseased mind was creating a very dark world around him. From his own perspective, he was probably the victim, defending himself as best he could from the evil people around him. I’m not excusing his behavior in any way, but the fact that he was doing all this because he was feeling intense fear, because he thought that it was the only way to protect himself, but that it was in fact all a delusion, just makes the whole situation seem especially tragic.
I’m also very sad for myself. My childhood is gone, because it's too scary for me to remember. My adolescence is gone, because I spent the whole time drugging myself. I never really grew up, never learned the skills it takes to function happily and successfully in this world, so now my adulthood is seeming like a hopeless struggle. I'll never kill myself, because life is much too interesting, and killing oneself is boring, like stopping a novel halfway through. But still, I'm not so happy with my life, and I don't expect too much to come of it.
I've been talking to my sisters a lot lately. For some reason the conversation is always swinging towards the topic of our Dad. It's always a little strange for me to talk about my Dad, because I know that I was abused by him, but I have so few memories of my childhood that it's hard for me to say exactly what happened. Well, my sisters have this same problem, but they seem to remember me being abused more than they remember their own abuse. They're both older than me as well, so they remember more of their own abuse than I remember of mine. See, when I was starting to become a self-aware person, from the ages of 11-13, my Mom had finally gotten her shit together enough to start trying to do something about my Dad, which eventually led to him moving out of the house; so my clearest memories are of my Dad going crazy, but with us fighting back, so it doesn't seem so much like I was abused. I wasn't being victimized. I was being strong, and doing things to make the situation better, and so was everyone else around me.
But when I was younger I was definitely abused, both mentally and physically. No, I don't remember it, but my sisters tell me about things that have happened to me, things that they witnessed. When they tell me about these things, I get a strange feeling, like what they are saying is very familiar, as though I am very well acquainted with what it feels like to have that sort of thing happen one. I’ve tested this phenomenon by telling myself that something happened which I don’t think actually did, like telling myself that I was tortured with knives. Telling myself that this happened never feels right; I always regard this idea dispassionately. But when my sisters say, for example, that I used to get choked a lot, I’m immediately hit with the knowledge of what that feels like, as though it is something that I’ve experienced many times before, even though I can’t remember any specific instances of it. I'm not going to go into too many details, because I imagine it would make people uncomfortable, but the more me and my sisters talk about it, the more I'm aware that I spent most of my childhood being very afraid.
The only scene of abuse I remember is actually relatively benign. I was maybe 12. I was walking through the kitchen to go out the back door, and my father was in there, fixing himself a drink. He said something snotty to me, I said something snotty back to him, and when I turned around to go out the door he kicked me from behind. I rushed out of there, and when I looked back behind me he looked really nervous and scared. All I remember feeling at the time was that I was clever to get out of there so quick. Now, looking back, it's clear to me that my father was becoming less confident in his ability to control me, to do what he wanted to with me. He kicked me, and then watched to see what would happen. From what my Louisianan sister tells me, I was standing up to him more and more during that time. It paid off: he was becoming afraid of me.
So I’m very angry at my Dad; but while I’m angry at him, I’m also very sad for him as well. He was mentally ill. He used to tell us that he could read our minds and that he knew that we wanted to kill him. Actually, I have thought of that once or twice, but not when I was a kid, not when he was still living with us. So I know that his diseased mind was creating a very dark world around him. From his own perspective, he was probably the victim, defending himself as best he could from the evil people around him. I’m not excusing his behavior in any way, but the fact that he was doing all this because he was feeling intense fear, because he thought that it was the only way to protect himself, but that it was in fact all a delusion, just makes the whole situation seem especially tragic.
I’m also very sad for myself. My childhood is gone, because it's too scary for me to remember. My adolescence is gone, because I spent the whole time drugging myself. I never really grew up, never learned the skills it takes to function happily and successfully in this world, so now my adulthood is seeming like a hopeless struggle. I'll never kill myself, because life is much too interesting, and killing oneself is boring, like stopping a novel halfway through. But still, I'm not so happy with my life, and I don't expect too much to come of it.
posted by nearfalse | 11:16 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home