I don’t need this right now.
I really don’t.
I am the survivor of childhood sexual assault.
He was a teenager. I was just out of diapers.
I don’t need the flood of images, scents, sounds, remembered touches, and worse, the knowlege that the adults who were around me didn’t care. I wasn’t the only one of his victims.
From when I was 3 – I remember because I had short, tight curls. Till slightly before I started kindergarten. I remember how it started. I remember how it ended. I didn’t have memories of what he did. I was 5 when it ended – my hair was a lot longer then.
The memories are coming back with a vengeance.
She has to deal with figity, tantruming me, who is having flashes and flashes of memory come back. I don’t even know how she’s able to handle me.
It’s like one of the pictures from the world of Harry Potter. A snapshot of time, where everything inside the snapshot is animated, and only a few seconds of it. It’s me in first person, not third, so I know I haven’t processed the memories. Not yet. Third person, means I can talk about what I am remembering.
Except it isn’t one picture. It’s tons of them, thrown at me all at once. I am trying to sort them. To breathe through the influx. To use the mantra I gave Spitfire. These are spun sugar. Soap bubbles. Memories only. They can’t hurt me.
I don’t even have the words for what happened to me. I have “down there.” that’s it.
I will get through this.
I have Spitfire and others to help me.