Memory is a funny thing

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Just a quick little warning. I am going to discuss some tough subjects so take care reading

You know, memories are funny things, and I don't mean funny ha-ha. Take mine, as an example. Like most people, I remember very little before I was five years old. There are a few flashes, and that's where things start getting weird. See, what I remember best about those moments is discussions held long after the fact. Its like those conversations have moved into the slots where the memory should be, and become so mixed with any actual memory of the event, that I cannot tell which is which.

The reason why I bring this up is what happened next in my life. After the death of my father, there were some decisions made that frankly, were not the best ones. First, they decided I was too young to attend his funeral. If that wasn't bad enough, we never went to see his grave, so I never felt any closure over his passing. But that was only the mildest symptom of a decision to erase the memory of his existence at all. No photos, no tokens of his life, and exactly two conversations about him took place before I was an adult. The first was a very casual mention that he had died of a brain tumor, and the second was not directed at me, but one I overheard, and that's how I discovered the truth of his suicide. (To say I was ticked at being lied to is to put it mildly)

However the final decision made in connected to my father's death was the worst, and that was the decision to send us to counseling. As was always the case in our lives, due to my brother being two and a half years older than me, my brother went first.

That eventually led to his being put in a insane asylum. One of my few memories of that time that never left me was of my one and only visit to see my brother there, and what happened to me as a result of that visit. It was at Christmastime, and while they had done their best to make it look homey and bright, but as a result of that visit, I had a re-occurring nightmare of being committed myself, and going to the corner of a public room (with others present) and going to the bathroom on the floor, and being praised because at least i hadn't gone where i had been sitting.....

Now this is the really weird part happens. After my brother's return, at some point he told me what had happened to him, both under the care of the doctor, and while a resident of that facility. And it was after our conversation that i really started to have flashes of memory of being abused myself. But I always had a nagging doubt about them. Was I actually remembering abuse, or had I internalized what my brother had gone through?

The result is while I now feel confident that I was indeed raped, I will never be able to "prove" it.

Ah, well.

Comments

Childhood abuse

Dorothy, I feel for your pain. And I hope you will be able to somehow overcome the pain and trauma of your childhood. I am sending what love I can your way. Thank you for sharing this with us.

Jessica