I hate remembering things. It usually happens when I’m waking up. Things just fall into place. When my mother didn’t like how I acted, she’d let Michael know where I lived and what my number was. I lived across the country but near a military base. He visited me when I was pregnant with my daughter. My body never worked with my husband. I spent so. many. years. wondering what was the matter with my body. Vaginally, I was pretty much numb. It turns out, Michael could switch my brain’s connection to my body on and off. It worked when he was raping me, but not when I tried having sex with my husband. I remember wiping my feet off on the concrete in my backyard before going back in with my wet blank. He had me meet him in my backyard. I told him when my husband would be gone. He came back. This time, I let him in. I opened the door to a stranger and he flicked his wrist down while asking me a question and I was forced to open the door to him. He raped me, and then he went after my daughter. It was one thing to rape me, it was quite another to go after my newborn baby, which he did with his fingers. I guess he could see me fighting against his hold on my brain. My mama-bear was even stronger than his threats on my life and all his hours of torturing me since I was a little kid. He could see I was about to crawl out of my head and attack him, so he paused his attack on my baby. He electrocuted me vaginally and threatened my daughter’s life and that he’d make it look like I went crazy and killed her. I “calmed down” and he finished raping her.
I didn’t remember this stuff until a couple years ago. But I always remembered after. My husband was out of town for the week and I was terrified to sleep in my house by myself. A new Harry Potter book had come out that day. I really wanted to read it but my daughter wouldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t figure out why she was so inconsolable for hours. I put her in a carrier and held the book above her little head on my chest and read, jostling her up and down, praying that she’d stop.
When I started remembering, I wanted to die. Throughout her childhood, with this daughter especially, I wondered if something had happened to her. I’d ask my husband or family, “Is this normal? Are you SURE she’s never been sexually abused?” Something didn’t feel right. At the time I remembered, she had been cutting and wanted to die. She’d wondered for years why she hated herself so much. There’s more, but writing about this makes me too tired. At the time I remembered about my daughter, I kept remembering what Michael said, “I don’t like little boys.” Oh, good! I held on to that: he didn’t get my son.
But then I remembered more. He dressed my son as a girl before he sodomized him. He was about three at the time. He was sick throwing up afterward. One morning he woke up, felt all better, and began chattering on about how much fun he had with a recently deceased relative and how my son wanted to write him a letter. We NEVER spoke about this relative, but here, my three year old son was chattering about him like he had actually known him.
At one point, I was made to hold me kids down while they were assaulted. I had to hold my daughter’s mouth closed while she was gang raped under the threat that if her brother woke up from her screams, they’d slit his throat. I was made to do things to my kids. I barely survived those days. And so did my kids. I’m so glad I’m finally remembering, even though it also makes me want to die. My kids have some attachment issues. I wondered what I’d done wrong because I adore them, and so does my husband, so how could they possibly have attachment issues? Now, I understand.