I found an old diary I kept when I was 10-12 years old. In it were pages filled with my loopy, childish scribbles, describing my dreams and lists of things I wanted, and doodles of my future wedding gowns. But there were also things that I had written that I had absolutely no memory of. Events I had documented, which I could not recall. Things that occurred, but I could not believe. I spent hours thinking to myself, wondering if it really happened. I spent hours actually believing I was insane. And then suddenly, I felt his tight grip around my wrists. I was small again. I was helpless and weak, and no one would believe me. His tongue slithered down my throat, and all I tasted was his cigarettes. I pulled away, and he pulled me by my hair, as his sharp, prickly face brushed away at my innocence.
And then the memories came back up, and one by one they each hit me like a bullet to the head. I’m not crazy. These things happened. And they’ve happened to me.
I was a fantastic liar. I fooled everyone all these years into believing that it was nothing, myself included. I blocked out these events from my memory, as if I merely turned them off like a light switch. How, how did I pull it off?
mkp.
