trauma does not exist part 8

it is night when he comes. he always did wait for me there. as I sink into the softness, a few shards of memory, banished to the four corners of my mind, slice their way through me. I am tired of Remembering. but what I want doesn’t matter.

I wake up. I call them. im crying. it’s the middle of the night. I tell them what I remember. I tell them of the hunching shadow, the sweaty pawing, how cold my childbody was. they should remember that I screamed that night, that because I screamed he ran away. im still proud of this. you see, I saved myself at least that once.

she doesn’t want to hear any of this. why are you calling. it’s late. why are you saying these things. she cries. this is upsetting news, after all. 

she passes him the phone. unburdens herself of me. she was always good at that.

I say it all again but to him this time.

I wonder still: in that moment how did I compel them to disclose what they had kept hidden all my life.

it’s not so much an admission as a statement of fact. They Saw. They Knew. And They Did Nothing.

this isn’t some vast conspiracy, he reprimands. he was always good at putting me in my place when I needed it most.

of course not, I think, something like this, well, that would be unforgiveable. I get mean. it would require more cunning than they are capable of. and so I spare them. I am generous, I am merciful.

that’s when the final realization comes: I was nothing. I was less than nothing. I was worth less than nothing.

now we’ve finally gotten to the heart of the matter, and now he will be helpful because it is late and we all need some sleep.

Place everything you remember in a box, he says. imagine a closet. Put the box in the back shelf and close the door. You see, he is sharing with me their secret to Forgetting.

I hang up.