The Rest

Just sitting here in the bedroom, rocking, looking down and seeing that I made the bed wrong. You can see the top sheet from beneath the comforter. And you cannot see the bed skirt. 

I did miter the corners, but you cannot tell. That is something that daddy would beat us for if it was not properly done. 

And he always checked.

My first thought was to talk to Cindy and tell her, "I made the bed wrong." Some small, child-like part of me wanted to hear someone say, "that's okay."

Like being beaten for using too much toilet paper.

Daddy would watch us and make sure that the toilet paper didn't touch the floor as we unrolled it to wipe, in such private moments. But there were never any private moments. We never knew what to expect or when to expect it. 

This morning I stared at some of the flaws in the wall in my bedroom, and was reminded of the many holes and broken furniture in my childhood. Daddy's strong fists; his big arms and his powerful presence. 

I was reminded of always being afraid.

My door is now shut and I sit here alone, knowing nobody knows the secret agony, and there's really nobody I can tell it to because there really are no words with which to describe it. 

None of the beatings or holes in the walls or abandonments or embarrassments mattered, compared to the rest. 

The rest... The rest. How heavy it is, to feel "the rest" and all other things, threaded through time - torturous and painful - to "the rest."

All tied to a man it seems I surrendered my soul to. 

Daddy. 

Pictures and ghosts

Last night-after I discovered I had the photos I thought I did not have anymore-I collected them all and I put them in an envelope. There are not many photos of me as a child. At least, not that I know of. 

But I could not just leave them in an envelope. I went through them and I stared in complete disbelief and bewilderment. Most of them were pictures from my wedding day; I was 16 years old and daddy was there as well as grandma, pop, and others. 

Some pictures are of me and my younger brother when we were small. However, for me, those children never existed. I stared at the little knobby knees and the black strap shoes with the Easter dress and the blue lace-lined socks. For me this was an image of some other girl. She was wearing a dress and she was innocent and appeared to be at least somewhat happy, even though there was no smile on her face.

Cognitively I understand that this photo is of me and that it is a picture of me after my return from Pensacola, Florida. A time when my father molested my brother and I both, together and separately. It was after the time when he threw big black garbage bags full of his stuff - no explanation just angry words and yelling - as we banged on the front window, begging him not to leave us. I wonder why we begged him not to leave us. He hurt us every day. Still we held an unnatural (or, perhaps natural) adoration of him and he was daddy. 

So rather than put the photos back in the hat box that I have reserved for pictures, I put them on the bed next to me. My purpose was the hope that somehow some notion or some feeling might seep from the images into my subconscious mind as I slept. And maybe, perhaps, I might glean some kind of understanding of why I held this man's hand, I let him hold my child, and most troubling is the photo where we are embracing. 

I don't understand what I'm supposed to feel. Sometimes anger bubbles up but it's a fearful feeling and so I gear it towards something else or aim it at someone else, usually myself. 

Anger is a dangerous emotion. However I know it exists within me like a huge black, ball of tar. But this black bar of tar is explosive, so I avoid it. It tastes terrible; it feels terrible; and I don't want anything to do with it nor do I want anything to do with what makes me feel it or brings me closer to it. 

Cognitively I know this is just avoidance and distraction-the way I have lived my entire life. But now here I am, facing places I am afraid to go; Facing places within myself that I am afraid to see.

I slept with the pictures hoping that somehow some kind of energy, memory, something, anything might seep into my brain, into my dreams and give me some kind of insight.

Instead I awoke with a scattered array of childhood photos of a man I adore and adored my whole life. A man who hurt me more than anyone else could ever have.