When one begins to journal their paths, do they start in order, or do they just dive in with what comes first, sorting order after. I am in awe of those people that write their autobiography’s, the one’s that detail everything from a young age, leading to a story of someones life, worded like you are with them as they experience that life.
A few weeks ago my mind put me in a place were for an afternoon, it felt like I was some were else, as so much came flooding back, one after another, before returning to a chaotic mess. I sit here now and my mind goes white. I can tell you my earliest memory, the one that’s supposed to be of riding your first bike, or maybe your first steps, a memory of a time of smiles and love. One where you felt at one with the world and life was content. Or so I had always hoped it would be, but life isn’t full of flowers and light.
Growing up in a block of flats, my mother, my brother and my sister and I lived in a small maisonette. I remember it clearly, despite it being 35 yrs ago. One evening I was put to bed, bottom bunk bed, when I needed the bathroom, I would have been around 2.5 yrs of age.
This was the age of potty training, the one where you’re encouraged to use the big girls toilet. I hopped out of bed, waddling off to the bathroom, pulling down my pull up and sitting and using it, quite chuffed with myself. Suddenly my ears pricked up, I heard my mother running down the hall, she grabbed me off the toilet and started screaming at me. I was confused, why wasn’t she happy for me, I had used the toilet, I was a big girl.
I didn’t react, I was shocked and scared as she bent me over, hitting my bottom hard, yelling at me for daring to waste a pull up. I was bad, I was naughty, I had wasted her money as she couldn’t afford more. I grabbed my dummy and my teddy and curled up in bed so scared. I didn’t understand what she was talking about, I was confused over her reaction to something I thought she wanted me to do.
I soon learnt that this was the start of many years of my mother controlling and abusing me, verbally, physically and mentally. Years were I soon learnt I wasn’t really wanted around, but as my brother and sister soon were living else were, she did all she could to keep me, hiding the bruises, hiding behind *friends* lying through her teeth, any thing to save face too friends and officials, even if it meant making her youngest daughters life one of fear.
This is where my path began, welcome to my world of hell
peacefullyerratic.com 