Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Memories are - - -

hound dogging me - it is like- trying to live with a really massive ball (s)and chain(s)- that sometimes threatens to roll over and crush me- if I am not paying attention. Anything can dredge up a vomitous flashback. Complete with the feelings that accompanied the event.

If I purposely overwork in an attempt to so fatigue myself that I will sleep; the chains shred my dreams and I awaken with a flashback. The beast will not be denied.

The worst are not my being beaten up- nor the attempt to kill me, nor the murdered pets-- the worst are the recurring visual images of my children being hurt. Images of the aftermath. Like the Sunday hewhoshallnotbenamed, brought the youngest for the court prescribed visit - with me, the non-offending, protective mother. The older one does not appear. The little one comes through the front door- eyes straight ahead-fixed somewhere-off- far away- like the "thousand yard
'or is it mile- stare that I have seen used to describe some states noted in returning, shell shocked soldiers.She is dirty snow white. She starts straight up the stairs One foot up, then the other foot. As though she is in pain- like a really elderly person willing themselves to go upstairs. She is nine. Not a word. She is mute. She goes straight to the bathroom and silently begins to strip. I look outside. Her molester is still out there. The children have told me that he bought a device- that is marketed to enhance hearing- in other words, a listening device.

She is now in the bathtub. She turns on the HOT water- no mixing. Shocked-(I picture burns) I say- oh sweetheart- you have to mix it. She seems almost desperate to not have me mix the water. She speaks- something like"no no- it has to be just hot and not deep and I have to sit in it."

Sitz bath. I pick up her discarded clothes- to wash later. There is ejaculate in her underpants.
I have no money for gas or food or anything. I phone some neighbours- to see if someone will lend me 20..00 so I can bring my profoundly wounded child to the hospital. Everyone is out. The molester is still outside.

A lot after that is still not clear. I know it must be in there- in the memory banks- but- it hasn't arrived to bite me yet. I know I had a million thoughts- racing- hospital- can't- phone cops? traumatizing for child. Law says must phone social services. What the hell for. They told me straight to my face- "I don't believe you." I have subsequently never phoned to report. No point.The child rapist is still outside. Right on my lawn- not even parked on the asphalt. Virtually on the verandah.

I put the underpants in a Ziplock bag. Later, they are given to the social services. Their answer ? " There is nothing we can do."

It is the look in my child's eyes, that torments me. Even in sleep. Forever. That is one of my- forever memories.

I can't find a Hallmark card for this event.

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