Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
My brother in law once told me of his earliest memory. He remembered falling asleep in his father’s arms, laid out on his chest. He could even remember the chair his dad was sitting in and the smell of the room. Safe, secure.
I remember seeing a set of taillights winding down the road away from the caravan I was living in, I remember knowing that it was my mum in that car and that she’d gone. I remember my dad being angry and looking at me as I stood there crying, watching those lights get further and further away. I remember my dad looking at me with disdain and saying, ‘not you too’ and walking away from me. I remember the feeling of fear, the smell and taste of it. I don’t remember how old I was, I’m pretty sure I was standing there in a nappy and singlet. I don’t know what happened after that, mum obviously came back but I don’t remember that. I remember the fear, the fear of being alone and forgotten. Funnily enough that feeling is my go to when the anxiety kicks in.
I was raped. Orally, anally, digitally. Somehow the fact that it was always his hand or mouth and not his penis made this more acceptable for people, like it wasn’t that bad. I remember it started after I got my first period, like that made me fair game somehow? I was 11, it kept happening for 5 more years. I felt more alone and forgotten than ever, I even forgot who I was and what it was to feel. I don’t think I’ve ever got that back.
I actually quite liked the idea of sex…I remember that I started masturbating from a youngish age (is there a normal age??) you can imagine this like for the idea of sex was completely fucked up once the abuse started…this like for sex has entirely informed myself blame for the abuse. Now as an adult it’s still there, permeating my erotic thoughts and turning them toxic. Every ounce of logic and rational thought does not stand a chance against the damaging story I tell myself, the story that was told to me.
The story continues, there’s not a happy ending, nor is it plagued in despair. It’s just a story. It’s just my story.