The People Behind My Eyes

I have a strong opinion about survival and living as someone who has lived what you and I have been through…hell, what too many have been through. As you’ve written, living isn’t enough. We grieve each day for what was taken. We struggle to understand the world around us from a haze and we fight with everything we’ve got to feel our fantasized idea of normal. When we don’t see ourselves as normal we feel like a failure.

I seem to have a selective memory of my past which bothers me too. I don’t remember things according to how old I was or what year it was. I remember what school I went to and what house I lived in. That’s how I narrow down time frames. But when it comes to what I looked like or specifics, things that made me an individual my memory is either blank or fuzzy.

Why can’t I remember how old I was but in vivid detail I can tell you what the room looked like when I was being hurt? When I think about myself as a child I see myself as an adult. You know why? Because I really wasn’t given the chance to be a child. I was tossed into an adult role early on. I spoke as an adult. I lived an advanced life so why on earth would I ever see myself as a child? I was a slave, a punching bag, a toy and a host of other things but a child’s role was not something I played.

I told a friend of mine that I’m allergic to kids. I was joking but I do have a physical reaction when I’m around children. I like kids but I’m sad inside, sometimes not until I go home by myself but sometimes it’s in their presence. My heart rate increases, I’m nervous, afraid for myself and of them. I’m afraid I’ll remember what it felt like to be their age and remember the fear and pain of that age. I toss all that aside and pretend I’m okay. I go about the day with them as if nothing at all is wrong, as if I don’t itch with sadness and swell with grief. I can’t breathe. I wonder who is hurting them. I wonder if they’re faking life like I did. I wonder if they can tell I’m afraid.

You said it is ingrained in you to think you’re a horrible person. That was an early life lesson too. We learned we were worth nothing if our family said so. We learned we were too smart to be so stupid. Everything we learned about ourselves was based on what they as adults told us. Here we are adults now and though we can’t remember who we were back then we can still hear who they said we were. It is a complexity that baffles the brightest minds.

J of A

When Was I A Child? - Monday, November 17, 2008-9:49AM EST