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deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Day I Became a Weirdo
This write deals
with child rape &
molestation.
I was almost 3 yrs old when I was raped by my brother. He was 15, and babysitting me. I remember when my mother went to the grocery store that morning. We'd just had our breakfast. I wanted to go with her. I wanted some Oreo cookies.
She carries me to the living room from the kitchen, me crying, her telling me that I already had a cookie as she sits me down on the couch.
She pointed between my legs, referring to my vagina. It was as if she had just bequeathed me. She said look sissy, here's your cookie; pointing at my private area. Yes, everyone was looking. It was so powerful of a memory, for what happened next.
And then after; my whole life, having to tell people that I don’t like oreo cookies. I'd never tried them. Certainly making myself look like some deranged, non cookie-eating weirdo.
I started crying because I wanted to go with my mother, but instead I stayed home and was served rape & violence down the hall in the bedroom. He airplaned me in there. I didn't think I would live. I remember the struggle as he overpowered me, and my endless screaming. Forever, in having to grow up with this, it was my worst memory. I was about 3 years old with a deep pain that was all new to me. A shame set it. I didn't know the reasons that I was so alone with this.
__________________
In the laundry room, maybe a year later. I was standing there with my brother, watching him clean his leather boots with some brushes and wax polish. He had taken a shoe horn out of a wooden box, and placed it on the washer. I reached up and and got it and I put it down the front of my pants, and started touching my vagina. My mother walked by, looking in at us, and caught me doing it. I threw the horn to the side quickly, and I ran as fast as I could and slid under the bed in the other room. I could hear her screaming at him, saying he was the one that was supposed to be watching me. She was screaming in horror, and I could hear her coming after me. Her stomping shook me petrified, under the bed waiting. Already I couldn't breath, and I knew I was about to be beaten. She bent over scanning under the bed, grabs me and pulls me out, and started switching me. All over my body I felt the stings of her indignation. My mother rarely laid a hand on me. This instance was severe. The memory is all but dilapidated. I was left with a stillness.
She rises from her cursed bed,
With thoughts of violence in her head,
A flash of rage and she sees red.
Without a pause, I turned and fled.
_____________
He was killed when I was six years old. Everything stopped. I wanted it that way.
I wanted it all to die with him. All the silence & the secrets, all the heart pains and memory. All the scars.
My mother & I had the same disease; except she was my mother, and I was 3. But I forgive her everyday, of everything.
Im 54 years old in a few weeks. For the first time in my life, about 5 years ago, I sat down with a glass of milk and oreo cookies. It was a pretty auspicious moment.
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