Today I remembered the sound of his laugh. .
It came to me randomly, unwanted and seemingly insignificant.
It brought down my whole day, it didn’t need to, I didn’t want it to but it did.
I remembered his laugh, yet I have blocked so much of him, but that laugh, that was the thing that chose to come up. From the depths of my fresh 31 year old mind when I have been trigger free and in control of my anxiety and my everyday life for weeks now, whole weeks (oh I know look at me go).
Then something like this pops up and takes me down like a flock of women at a Justin Bieber concert, it’s then that I know I must be ready to deal with this now.
So deal with it I shall.
It was a flash in time, a memory.
I’ll set the scene for you:
It was a place called Parlors, where they would all get together, have big parties, drink, do drugs and ride motorbikes. Us kids would adventure through the seemingly endless scrub that was filled with tall trees, animals and make believe. I spent much of my time there pretending I was this lost fairy princess in a huge white and pink puffy dress (with wings of course). I also had countless ponies I trotted around on and tied to any tree I saw fit, and even when I had abandoned the ponies acres away to adventure on by foot, when I demanded them, there they were. I would spend hours pretending that I was searching for this kingdom that housed my fellow fairy princess people (I never fucking found them). But despite my ignorant fairy people not being where I expected, I still adored being there. Parlors was a safe place for me because he never got me there, it was too risky, there were too many people, I got a break and loved the freedom, the knowing that no one was coming to get me that night.
We had just arrived and were standing in a group with some fellow Parlorarians. He laughs and I look up at him silently through my car sickened foggy green eyes, my hair a long blonde waterfall cascading down my back and watch on, in this memory I feel betrayed?
Angry? Mad and confused?
How can he laugh, after what he did to me the night before. After he came in and scared me awake, when I realised he was there my little heart was beating as fast as it would when I could tell he already had his rough fingers on my little body.
How can he laugh when I spend my nights anxiously wondering: “is he coming tonight?” or “is there any point in sleeping if I’ll only be woken up?”… How can he? How dare he?
How dare he…
I was looking on, wondering why he wasn’t telling these people about what he did to me?
Why wasn’t he telling?
Is that why I didn’t tell? Did I even know telling was an option???
Did I take my cues from him?
How did he get such life changing power?
I don’t remember the sound of his voice, I don’t remember him ever speaking directly to me other than that time he told me to touch his penis in the bath, the time I said “No, it’s ok”.
I’ve not a single memory of him telling me, his step daughter to brush her teeth, clean her room, come to dinner, not even to turn the TV off or to even stop fighting with her little brother like I know I so frequently did.
Could it be possible he never spoke to me?
Did he ever tell me not to tell?
How did someone who managed to abuse me for 6 years get away with what he did without telling me not to tell?
It might not seem beneficial to my story, to my life to know why, and maybe it’s not.
But maybe I feel like it will stop the guilt, the blame that I feel when one thing sets me off, when one more day goes down the drain, when one more day is spent in tears or an anxious limbo.
Why didn’t I tell? Does it even matter?
The hardest part of it is if someone came to me now and said: “What would you tell any other survivor?”
I’d have said:
You are not to blame, because you were a child.
So why can’t I tell myself that?