Floods

Trigger Warning!

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.

Pity Spitfire.

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.

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