I'm fascinated and a little aggravated at how my subconscious does not want me to return to this. A couple of weeks ago, my therapist gave me a task. It was small and involved simply thinking about something. But in the ensuing week, each time I would try to remember what she had asked, it was as if someone slammed a very heavy door in my face. I would absolutely be unable to remember what she said. In fact, it became impossible to bring the therapy session to mind. I drew a complete blank.
This not-remembering thing has continued to insert itself. There are times during a session when my Therapist will move to a topic or ask a question that makes me stressed. I know I answer. I remember answering. But within seconds, I can no longer recall what was said by either of us. I'm fighting very hard not to go to the places that make me uncomfortable.
So I'm supposed to return to the assault that happened when I was eight years old. I've been trying all week to do this. Every time I sit down to write, I am overwhelmed by my inner voice. It asks, "Why is this helpful? What is the point of writing this all down again? I think I should understand how this will be healing. And actually, I'd be very interested in hearing, from a therapeutic perspective, what the end goal of this exercise is. Not the end goal of therapy; I know what that is. Just this particular, nasty, little exercise."
It's a distraction technique. I understand this. I'm digging in, resisting taking this next step.
I have difficulty remaining present when I discuss things with my therapist. With anyone. She says I need to remain present. I'm not allowed to go away. But then what? What happens if I'm invested in what I say? Why is it important for me to feel pain again and again?
I know the answer. I do. I'm just not sure I believe enough to do as I'm asked.
That being said, therapy is today, and I have to go to work soon. I have procrastinated this long enough.
I am eight years old. I live in a very tiny, close-knit community. I love it here. I have many friends. Many parts of school are fun and engaging. I don't like my classroom teacher, but I adore my math team teachers. My PE teacher is my best friend's dad. I love to sing. I have an amazing music teacher. He loves to sing, too. He taught us a song in German. Except when I sang it to my mom, she said it wasn't in German, it just had a few German words in it. I think it's in German because my teacher said so. "Mein Hut, der hat drei Ecken..." That seems like German to me.
At home, things seem calmer. My mom is pregnant, but that is often the case. She's often ill and in bed. For the most part, she doesn't interact with me. This is a good thing. I think she likes it here, too, though. She seems to have friends.
There are two men who attend our church. Something is wrong with them. They're not like other men. They live with their mom. They don't talk to people very much. One of them struggles to speak at all. The other one smiles a lot. My mom and dad told me that these men have brains that didn't grow up. They're like children in adult bodies. Some people make fun of them. I need to be kind to them. I don't really think about it a lot. I see the men at church and no other place.
My dad is a youth leader for the young men at church. Sometimes he takes me with him when they have activities. They're nice. When they play games, they let me join them sometimes, but mostly, they just ignore me. Not in a mean way, though. They just like to do things together. Most of the time, when I go with him, I read a book. I love to read. I like mystery books. And ghost stories. And I really love reading folk tales from other countries. There's one about a witch named Baba Yaga. She travels in a mortar and pestle. I don't know what that is. I don't know how to say it out loud, either, but I like the stories. The heroine is Vasilisa and she's smart.
One night, my dad let me go with him to a church basketball game. I don't really like to go to these. They're very loud and echo-y. People yell a lot and there are whistles. And the time clock makes an awful noise when the minutes are up. And it smells weird. But I like to go with my dad. It's fun to be with him without all my sisters around. I don't really understand basketball. But my dad loves it. He played basketball in high school. He's the coach of the young men in our church, so he stands up and yells things to them a lot.
When we had been at the game for a while, I had to go to the bathroom. Our church is kind of old. The bathroom is downstairs. Everything is kind of muddled now. When I think about this, my brain remembers going down the stairs, but the bathroom I remember the incident happening in is actually a bathroom that was in a different church in a different town in a different state. We moved to that different place when I was nine. And even though I know we continued to attend church in that building for a while after the incident happened, I don't remember that. Our church had been building a new church. That's the place I remember going to church next.
When I got to the door of the bathroom, the light was on, but the hallway was dim. Someone was behind me. I turned around to see who was there. It was one of the men who were like children. His name was Brent. I said, "Hi Brent. You're in the wrong..." I was going to tell him where his bathroom was. I thought he might be lost. Before I could finish my sentence, he grabbed me and carried me into the bathroom. I was confused and scared. He shut the door behind us.
He put me down and started messing with my clothes. He lifted up my shirt. I pulled it back down and told him to stop. He was whispering, "I just want to see," over and over again. He pulled down my underwear. While I was trying to pull them back up, he grabbed my shirt and took it off. Now I was angry. He had no right to do this. His hand was near my mouth. I bit it hard. I could taste blood and his skin was salty. He yelled and threw me away from him. I hit my head on the wall.
There's a space here. I don't remember anything. It felt black, like I was in a tunnel. Then I heard him whispering again. At first I didn't understand. Then I heard him saying, "Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay," over and over again. He was holding me, trying to put my clothes back on me. I grabbed them away from him, and dressed as quickly as I could, then I ran to the door. He didn't try to stop me, but he said, "Don't tell your dad! Don't you tell your dad!" as I opened the door. I paused. Suddenly, I felt as angry as I had in my life. I turned and screamed at him, "I'm goin tell my dad! I'm telling him right now!" And then I ran.
I ran all the way to my dad. He was focused on the ball game, but sitting in a chair. I sat in my chair next to him, but slid close. I was shaking and scared. I wasn't angry anymore. I put my arm through my dad's. He kept watching the game. I said, "Daddy..." very quietly. He looked down at me. I said, "Something happened. Brent followed me into the bathroom." I know he asked me if I was okay. I said Brent didn't hurt me. But he did. My head hurt. My person hurt.
My dad stood up, so I did, too. I could tell that he was very angry. He picked me up and set me back down in my chair. He said, "Stay there." And then he left.
I wondered what I had done to make my dad so angry. I was still very scared, but now I was alone. I wondered why I had to sit in a chair. That usually happened when I was being punished. I wasn't sure what I had done to be punished. I wanted to cry, but no crying happened. My body wouldn't stop shaking. I was cold. I don't remember going home. I don't remember anything else.
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