Domesticviolence

I thought I was mostly disconnected with my childhood trauma. It’s all felt like some factual set of events with no emotional attachment. I know I lived it- I remember it well, but it’s felt as insignificant as other random memories, like the day I got my first bike.

However, recently, between events in the media and aspects of my job, I’ve found myself triggered. I find myself holding my breath or tears forming behind my eyes before I am even cognizant of any memories attached. It’s curious, to *feel* anything about those memories. Scary, to look at my life and see the aftermath of them.

• I remember how he used to buy me milkshakes- I remember when he dragged her by her hair into the bathroom.

• I remember when we all went canoeing on the river- I remember when he broke the door down and dragged her from my bed, punching her in the stomach that night.

• I remember when he would play guitar- I remember how he’d choke her just enough to never leave visible marks.

• I remember how much I loved my kitten- I remember how I choked it once because he choked what he loved too. I remember how he fed my kitten to his dog.

• I remember when he would call her beautiful- I remember when he would make her feel ugly and small.

• I remember hearing them have sex- but I think I also heard him rape her.

• I remember when he talked about marriage- I remember when we had to run away because he took us out of state and away from everyone we knew.

• I remember when he set everything we owned on fire- I remember the relief of being homeless, living with my aunt… no bed, no clothes, but no screams in the night.

• I remember when we got our own apartment- I remember when he moved back in.

• I remember when they said it would be okay this time- I remember when I put a kitchen knife to my body for the first time at eight years old.

• I remember when we took “family photos”- I remember when I shielded her with my little body after he choked her blue and threw her to the ground.

• I remember how that was the last time- I remember how he broke into our home and I was afraid to sleep alone anymore.

• I remember panicking in my closet when she got angry- I remember abandoning her when I asked to live with my dad.

• I remember loving her- I remember hating myself for what I’d done.

• I remember the years that followed when mom drank away the trauma- I remember the food rotting in her month old dishes.

• I remember years later when it came out that he raped his daughter- I remember waking up with my pants off once and my shirt off once, I remember a dream of being raped. I’ll never know if anything happened…

I look at my life now… my mentally ill and disabled mother who drinks too much and seems so sad when she does. I look at how upset and uncomfortable I am with her habits that I know are a trauma reaction. I look at my education and empathy for domestic violence, and yet I stare into the mirror and forget that I am the face of of it… I used to disassociate when I looked into mirrors. I look at my healthy relationship and remember how I used to assume I’d be beat by men too.
I remember when my therapist made me take a PTSD inventory and I remember when we both realized he used to run with my mothers abuser. I look at it all, with such a neutral gaze…

But sometimes, when I forget that I was that little girl, my body reminds me how I’d hold my breath and cry.