She was trembling with , well rage she supposed but somehow it felt different. Never having experienced this before she had no comparisons to make
Once I was precious….
I was held by warm comforting arms gently encircling my head, or was I?
To feel loved, and held: no cradled in arms that are soft and warm and loving. No that was dashed, the earliest memories are of being wrong, in the worng place, being too clumsy, not doing it right, being too loud, being too “smart”,
Always being put back into a box-a template that didn’t fit right.
It made the girl feel uncomfortable, it didn’t mirror who she was, she could do things right.
She got clever when no one was looking, she read books, she crept downstairs and climbed the step ladder perched with her bottom feeling the cold hard ridges of the rungs, there would be a pattern there, that was bad, they would see that and punish her. But again the jangly clangy sick feeling-why was that noticed, why was that bad and the bruises that they caused not?
Bright lights fizzed just out of her line of sight making her feel queasy and slightly off balance like a gyroscope that somehow wobbled to the left. I have something to tell you she whispered her eyes downcast. But the adult was too busy and not focusing on the intensity of the girl who never spoke out of turn or did the wrong thing who never drew attention to herself.
The girl had to speak louder, so that others heard it-they were transfixed and watched as the girl led the adult to the bathrooms.
The girl wanted to show the bruises, waned to explain why she couldn’t go swimming, not because she was stupid or dirty or had germs like the others were saying, spiteful little mouths all screwed up and looking down at the girl.
One had offered her some crisps as the girl never had money or anything other than brown bread with either cheese or vegemite, but had held onto the crisps through the bottom of the packet so that the girl was touching that crisps and couldn’t grasp them- anger like a torrent like smoke enveloped her and burst through her fingers that twisted and crunched the crisps then walking off with buzzing in her ears unable to focus because of the noise.
The adult punished her just as she had been punished after the crisps’ owner had told a variation of what had occurred-another baiting of “Sandy”.
Arriving in England from Australia with a Welsh accent and a name. The name was hard like metal and used like a weapon by the motherperson. There were no soft endearments, just a disdainful curling on the sounds depending on which motherperson was present.
Never disagree with the motherperson, she hates you and twists you and pinches you and uses her words and her nails and looks at you, always looking at you, watching and waiting for that thing that would let her pull her ripcord of anger and hate. The motherperson always had bad smells, the mouth badsmells were so close, she was hovering her face above you, try to be asleep, try just to breath, do not be awake, do not twitch worse when the heisnotyourdad is watching. He smiles like treacle, all thick and sweet yet deadly serious in his eyes. He also watches and trips you up, makes you say the wrong thing, then pounces, his hunger is for what?
The girl is puzzled…………
Memories of being the same age as my daughter