There are days when my past finds a place in the moment. When the memories cause me discomfort or anxiety, there is nothing I can say or do that seems to change how badly I wish to forget them. An image comes to me; the feelings find a home within today. There are times when I can remember nothing about the past. Although I may be frustrated at the lack of a childhood memory, I tend to believe that the mind has a way of hiding things until you are able to handle them. So ready or not, here they come! I almost feel I am playing "hide-and-go-seek" to some of those very memories I thought I shut the door on. The only way to feel you have lost at this game is to find yourself feeling things you promised yourself you couldn’t feel. To win is simple; you get through it and move on, even if it’s only for that moment. One of those flashes happened to me just the other day while taking a shower. How could a shower seem like such a threat? Of all the places you think you would feel alone, it would be there. But then again, it’s also a location that feels vulnerable. While in the shower letting the hot water run down my face, I noticed the tears flow when I knew the water would drown them. Hearing my heart beat so loudly, it was as if I had mysteriously learned how to listen from the inside out. There was an imaginary level of safety behind the shower doors, not just from anyone or anything that may have difficulty seeing through that cloudy glass window filled with steam but from myself. The memories flow the same way. It’s hard to explain, but as fast as a stream of water they come and then they are gone again. What isn’t gone is the flood of emotion left behind.

I have seen myself as a child crouching underneath the table, thinking that without a sound, I couldn’t be seen. If I didn’t breathe, cry or beg, I would be invisible. It was one of her bad days again. I could tell because she was yelling out my full name and making threats of what she would do when she found me. Suddenly, I found my mind racing. What is it that I did wrong this time? Did I forget to pick up my shoes? Feed my brother? I tired easily just from wondering what it was I had done. Eventually I came to the realization that it could be anything or nothing at all. I could see my own face; I could see the wide eyes of fear and the shaking of my own little legs. I can still feel sick to my stomach for her, myself, the child. While seeing myself again as a child, I thought if only I could tell her "no matter what is about to happen to you, darling, you’re beautiful and it’s not your fault." I would give anything to hold this image in my arms and know that she would feel it, help calm her shaking and tell her that someday she will feel strong even if she can’t believe that now.

With my mother, it was a moment by moment thing; if we were lucky, there would be a stream of total disregard that would leave us to fend for ourselves for many days or months. Anger comes with these memories as I ask myself, where were those who should be caring for us? Saving us? She did find me underneath that table, like she has always found me in one sense or another. But it never did stop me from trying to hide. No matter how much I denied it, I could never really hide from the pain of being told I was "bad" and being hit with anything handy. Not then, sometimes not even now. Being ignored or being beaten, it’s hard to say which of the two seemed to strike me the hardest. The physical pain found its own place somewhere in my mind, the mental pain found a place to hide where it could. My mother would get so angry when she would beat me and I refused to cry out in pain. "Cry, damn you, cry!" I couldn’t cry. There were no tears left; yet I didn’t know how to express that at my young age. Part of me wanted to pretend that she would suffer if there were no tears. She would feel angry with herself for trying over and over to make me cry. Looking back now, I believe it only made her more angry with me. She didn’t like my stubborn side. She wanted me to sob out "please momma, don’t hit me anymore!" "I am so sorry!" Those days were gone. I would just look down at the floor and wait for the next blow, trying to tune out the words and pretend that I was someplace else, anywhere else than where I was at the very moment. Life went on that way forever, it seemed.

I feel now that at that time, everything revolved around her. My brothers and sisters and I learned to watch her moods and her eyes. Something about her eyes told a story. They could turn dark as a storm, fast as lightning. They would be a radar and let everyone in on the status of her mood. It seemed as if everything had a sign and we all learned to watch for them and learn what each one meant. Hands on her hips meant something like this: "warning." If she didn’t get out of bed, take her a cup of coffee, carefully. If she couldn’t find something, find it, fast. She would start blaming us for stealing it, moving it, or even hiding it. My mother had favorites out of the five of us. Except when it came to neglect, we all suffered, unless I did a really good job. If I didn’t do a good job taking care of the others, I was the one to blame. While she laid in bed, I rushed around "fixing" everything. I didn’t know how to be a mother, so when I got blamed for the wrongs, I accepted it. I felt the guilt and believed I needed to be punished. Mother had a set state of mind and gave each of us a label; whenever she would speak of us to anyone she always approached it the same way. When it came to getting hit, two out of us five got it, my youngest brother, the "troublemaker" and me. I was the "selfish" child, who never did anything for her, I "only cared about myself." Finally, as an adult, I realize how little she really knew about me, or cared to know about me, because she still uses the same old label she gave me at such a young age.

We were a little family, my brothers and sisters and I, without her or with her. She would then go into stories of her childhood; we would all have to gather around to hear how lucky we were to have it so good. She would always tell the same ones over and over. I never really knew if the stories were to make us feel guilty or feel sorry for her, or if we were really supposed to think that we didn’t have it so bad. As a young child I don’t remember wanting many things, but I kept looking for a sign of acceptance, to feel loved and valued. It took time to know that I am more than words, I am worth more than anything she ever treated me as, most importantly, I learned to love myself. It can be hard knowing in my heart that she will never hold out her arms to me and take me in them, wrapping me tightly and say to me "I am so sorry, and I love you." That part still seems so unfair. I think about my brothers and sisters and what they lost. I begin to feel guilt sneaking in, I should have done something, said something. They suffered too. When I get caught up in the anger of being what I felt was the "blame" of the family, I know that they too, had their losses. They also lost out on having a mother who took them places, told them good night stories and tucked them into bed. Neglect: sexual, emotional, physical abuse was a part of what we expected the world to be like. Going out into the world we never really understood that it isn’t what everyone knows, what everyone does or feels or sees. And then the questions are bigger and stronger when you know that your life was different. Why did I deserve this? I didn’t deserve it. No one deserves it.

I hope that someday children can feel safe in their own homes. What I really wish for now is to be strong enough to move past the past. Happily, I do take a step every day, not looking so much anymore for the ability to leap, but just to take a step. Understanding that I can make my own memories worth remembering helps to keep me going. What really gives me hope is the love that I have for my own children and the memories we make together. I thank God for giving me the gift of knowing real love and family and being alive today to enjoy it. No matter what happens in this world, never give up trying to change your life. It took me a very long time to come to the realization that I cannot change someone else, it is his or her responsibility. I can only change how I let it affect my life. I can only change myself. I am still working on the issues as they arise, but I have faith that, with every loss I have endured, there has been a blessing to take its place in my life. I only hope that I am wise enough to see them all.