Time Marches On

Why am I so content with just sitting here? Why does my mind constantly go back to the past? I hate reliving everything I have tried to escape. How am I suppose to move forward without running away from the past. I want to defeat the past. I want to actually move forward. I don’t want to keep imagining the worst and having it block my thoughts from anything better.

I have been listening and learning about other individuals lifestyles and how they have grown up. It appears to me that the way in which someone grows up sticks with them forever. That they will always make that their way of life. They will always look upon those times and make sure they are staying true to themselves and their heritage. But when I have no heritage or culture that I can grasp, or that I can tell is apparent in my life then what do I grasp onto? All I have are my memories.

Every time I get to this point I want to break down. I can no longer get to this point. I am so tired of being in this situation. I am so tired of letting something control my life, that has nothing to do with what I am now. It kills me to acknowledge the pain I have held captive inside. I don’t want to try explain why I am so angry. I don’t like to tell anyone. I don’t want to be that girl. The one who lets one event control her life. But its hard to escape when it was multiple events. A way of life. Something I knew was wrong, but didn’t have enough knowledge about. I wanted so much to be informed. I wanted so much to be empowered. I want so much to show someone else that they can have those same feelings if only they shared their experiences. But how can I expect people to open up when I continue to throw dirt over the past in an attempt to bury and hide it.

I have grown to be so independent. And its hard to think that after all this time I was still the victim. I can’t let that leave my soul. I am my own worst enemy. Its not the events as much as the self hatred for what all has happened to the events. Its amazing how much time can and cannot cover up. Its even more amazing how little things like a song, a fragrance, a symbol, the weather anything can spark a memory and cause me to curl up and not want to be seen, or touched. Its so much easier to write these things down, and its so much easier to talk them through in my head. But I hate saying them aloud. I hate replaying anything. I feel like an idiot. I feel like everyone is staring and judging me.

I wish I had memories of my father pushing me in a swing, or teaching me how to two step. I wish sometimes my memory would just be wiped clean so I could start completely over. It would be nice to document the good times so that maybe I could compare these beautiful images to a way of life rather than all of the bad memories.

I remember making mud pies, eating strawberry swirl ice cream sticks from the ice cream truck for only 25 cents, have mud wrestling fights with the girls in the front yard, making an igloo in the backyard, making a whirlpool in the pool, playing with a bouncy ball in the bowling alley with my best friend in a brown skirt and top with a cute little dog on it, i remember making my mom tacky paper and beaded jewelry, and getting my first easel. I remember being scared of the clown across the street and my mom still insisting on her coming to mine and my sisters birthday party, or my mother tricking me saying she forgot my birthday… I remember falling through the cracks of my bunk bed and cracking me head on the floor, or getting my brothers dirty underwear from under his bed and washing them in the toilet. Collectively I can recall about one good memory for every year up until maybe middle school in the house of this man.

I remember not getting to eat dinner because I didn’t do my chores to his standards, I remember accidentally finding his vulgar movies and magazines, I remember getting chairs thrown at me for supporting my sister standing up to him, standing on a step stool to clean the dishes, laundry, and kitchen table. I remember taking showers and not being able close my eyes because i was too scared he would show up to watch and touch me again, I recall threatening to tell my mother. I once needed money to go to frontier city with my friends and the only way I could do it was to allow him to draw a sun on my right breast over my nipple and wear it all night. I can still smell the avon lotion he used, one scent to rub on his body and the other fragrance purely for masturbation. I can still feel the grit on his hands. I could describe his hands and draw them identical to that time. I remember how clean and dark my room was when he entered. I remember hearing the fights he would have with my sister. I remember going to her crying my eyes out scared and ashamed at how defenselessness I felt when he was around. I can still remember the way her room was set up, the glass in the mirror broken. Her hair around her face and the way she comforted me. She is my savior. She took care of me, because in order to save her life we couldn’t tell my mother.

But time marches on…

And if I could bury him then I would!

But instead I guess I will always bury these memories..

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