"Were you hurt as a child?" he asked.
Sure. I fell off my bike, tripped, got kicked in soccer, broke a couple of bones in an unfortunate tug-of-war accident... Yep. I did.
He nodded. "The normal stuff. But did anybody hurt you?"
I guess. We got spanked a lot, for any reason. I often had bruises on my back and bottom.
"So your parents hit you? Was there any other abuse?"
What?!? Oh my God, no. My parents were messed up but they loved me. They'd never do anything like that.
*
Except. Someone did. I remember it now. Not clearly, nothing I can see with my mind's eye. But I remember the smell of sweat. I remember the taste and gagging and I remember feeling guilty. Nice girls don't do things like that. Nice girls don't want that. Nice girls don't. Period. End of story.
Except. Someone did. I remember it now. Not clearly, nothing I can see with my mind's eye. But I remember the smell of sweat. I remember the taste and gagging and I remember feeling guilty. Nice girls don't do things like that. Nice girls don't want that. Nice girls don't. Period. End of story.
I remember feeling like a not-nice girl. My stomach is a knotted wad of grief just thinking about it; grief and guilt and disgust and rage. I'm not a nice girl. I deserve this. I should feel guilty. Nobody will love me. They left me with strangers because they knew I was not a good girl when I was born.
I hate that I feel inadequate, that I take every opportunity to judge myself by a ridiculously unfair standard. I hate that I remember being abused. I hate that I can't remember who it was. I hate second-guessing myself and thinking that maybe it wasn't real if I don't know who hurt me.
It's terrifying, this flash of a memory, because it's so very real, but mostly because I know there is more.
